I once cursed the night sky,

Angry that its starlit radiance

Was nothing but the ghosts

Of stars long extinguished.

How could I believe that true vibrancy

Still existed in the world

When this revered source of light

Was a grand illusion?

Now, I realize that lightness

Does not solely belong to the stars

Nor does it belong to the present.

It belongs to moments,

It sparkles in the water of a flower vase beside my bed—a present to myself.

It blazes in my friends’ tears as they fight their minds to reclaim their lives.

It shines in the quiet moments of life when Earth takes a moment to breathe.

It softly illuminates my mind as I recall cherished memories past.

And perhaps one day, as I meet my reflection’s gaze,

I will even see it twinkling

In the shadows of my own eyes.

So now, I thank the stars.

For they taught me

That lightness shines brightest

When I choose to believe in it.

The wind is loud today.

I lounge on a neutral-toned couch and absentmindedly watch the storm through a glass door at the rear of my one-room apartment. The overcast sky colors my room with an array of desaturated shades. I twirl a strand of long, dark hair around my index finger, frowning at the collection of split ends. I’m in desperate need of a trim. A girl needs to keep up her appearance, or so they say. I return my attention to the outdoors.

Tree branches bend at unnatural angles, and I can’t help but imagine the flailing twigs as human body parts—dismembered arms dancing in the wind, a human neck pulled taut by an unseen force, one moment away from tearing…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I turn my head idly, eyes unfocused. The front door is located behind me. I sigh. That’s one downside to living on the first floor, I’m always the initial stop for door-to-door advertisers. For a moment, I consider pretending I’m not home. However, as the wind gives a mighty roar, I decide to humor the poor fellow. Working in a storm shows dedication. I respect that.

I walk to the front of my apartment in about three seconds and open the door, not bothering to paint a fake smile on my face. To my dismay, my lack of formalities goes unnoticed. No one is there. I crane my neck out the entryway, looking left, then right. Nothing. I shrug and close the door. Perhaps, I imagined it.

I turn around, contemplating what I should make for dinner, when I notice it—a towering figure standing outside, just beyond the glass door. It is clothed in black from head to toe, resembling a physical manifestation of a shadow. Its arms point downwards, and the spaces between its arms, legs, and fingers are all splayed in 45 degree angles. It is completely motionless, which is impressive considering the aggressive winds. I cock my head in curiosity.

“Interesting,” I note aloud.

I remain still for a moment and then sprint towards the dark figure. I smile wickedly, trying to gauge its reaction. It remains frozen.

“Interesting,” I repeat.

Up close, I can now see that the figure is not alive. It’s a mannequin with sandbags securing its feet. As if on cue, I hear my front door open. Oops, I forgot to lock it.

I turn around nonchalantly, just in time to see a serious-eyed man charging towards me. He has a knife at my throat in seconds.

“You’re dead, bit—,” he chokes on his last word. The syllables dribble from his mouth like the blood now pouring from his chest. His eyes grow round as he notices the knife protruding from his body, my hand securely on the hilt. I always keep a concealed weapon up my sleeve.

“Nice try, honey,” I purr in a sugar-coated tone, effortlessly disarming him, “I’ll give you some points for creativity though. Loved the theatrics! The mannequin was a nice touch.”

Disbelief and terror highlight his gaping features until I twist the knife deeper. Then, death finally collects the light in his eyes. I push the heavy body to the floor in mild annoyance. Another perfectly good sweater marred by bloodstains. I meticulously clean my knife’s blade and roll up my left sleeve. Grinning, I carve a diagonal dash across four healed tick marks on my upper arm.

“Guess that makes…” I pause, counting the groupings of five, “Twenty. I wonder who’s going to show up next.”

They have been trying to kill me for years now. I don’t mind though. It’s fun, like a game.

I sigh and collapse on the couch once more, observing the tortured trees shuddering behind the ever-watching mannequin. I guess I’ll have to move again.

I shift my attention to my hands and analyze the deep red hue, warmth, iron-tinged aroma, and stickiness of the man’s blood. My eyes widen in realization, and I gasp, straightening my back.

“That’s it. I’ll have spaghetti for dinner!”

I love the sun, but sometimes, I yearn for a rainy day.

I desire a day without expectations, where darkened clouds obscure the endless potential of blue skies. I want to lose myself in the rain’s siren song. I want storms to shriek so loudly that they drown out the sharp-tongued tormentor in my head, hissing, “Don’t waste the day.” I want thunder to scare away my guilt and lightning to trap me indoors. I don’t want to see the sun’s sparkling rays highlighting all the things I could and should be doing. Instead, I want raindrops to paint my cheeks, telling me it's okay to release the tears I hide on clear days.

However, I am no stranger to myself,

Rain or shine, I know I’d act just the same.

I only cry on the subway.

On the subway, I am neither here nor there, temporarily untethered from the happenings of life. I am the journey, not the destination. I am both moving and stagnant.

In this limbo, my silent tears go unnoticed. They exist solely in the unwritten parts of my story—the inconsequential moments between plot points. During these finite periods of detachment, being vulnerable is a little easier, a little safer. And once I disembark, I leave the moment behind, pretending it never existed at all. I stretch my cheeks with a counterfeit smile and laugh as the departing train takes my tears away.

I try not to stare too long.

I try to ignore the detestation etched into my very being,

Laced into my every breath.

I try to love all that she has given me.

Strong legs for forest walks and unbound dancing,

A kind mouth for tasting new flavors and laughing

Open arms for hugging (my loved ones and myself),

Nimble hands for typing my varied thoughts.

I never thank her though.

No.

How can I find gratitude in what is flawed?

How can I find peace in what is wrong?

All I can offer are apologies.

I wish she was not burdened

With a mind like mine.

I have walked by this house dozens of times. The two-storied home rests beside a small plot of farmland, and today, fresh leaves unfurl from the earth. The house is lovingly adorned with colorful flowers, which flourish in the spring air. Sometimes laundry hangs outside. Sometimes an elderly couple sits at a two-seated table on the front lawn. I wonder what their life is like. Do they enjoy meals together every day, never running out of things to say? Do they lead a quiet life, fulfilled by each other’s company? Are they happy?

I continue down the street and pass a duplex with three kid’s bikes parked out front. Children’s shirts dry in the breeze. Vibrant plastic toys lay forgotten in the parking lot. What is life like for this growing family? Do the parents sleep enough? Do the children dance with imaginary friends and fight with their siblings? Are they happy?

Finally, I reach my own apartment and stare at the curtained window facing the street. Does anyone pass my residence and fantasize about the life within? Does anyone observe my drying laundry and imagine what kind of person wears them? What am I like in their minds? How does my life unfold? Am I happy?

The wind is mild today,

Kissed by the comings of spring,

And upon waking,

She vows to fabricate the perfect day.

She ventures to her neighborhood park

And settles below a crooked tree

Adorned with freshly-born leaves.

She shifts her features to reflect perfect contentment,

Instilling wonder in her eyes as

She listens to symphonies

Of pigeon-coos and foliage-whispers.

She upturns her lips in elegant intrigue

And gazes at the blue sky,

Encouraging her unbound hair

To dance purposefully with the breeze.

It is a perfect day.

And that night,

As she lies in bed,

Waiting for the day’s staged fulfillment

To guide her to sleep,

She is disappointed to find

That she cannot deceive her mind after all.

On a rainy Wednesday, I decide to go for a walk. I grab my umbrella and don my headphones, considering them an essential outdoor accessory. I float through the quiet residential town, barely acknowledging the houses and storefronts and fully committing my consciousness to the ebb and flow of my music.

However, in the limbo between one song’s end and another’s beginning, I notice the timid sound of raindrops knocking on the borders of my mind. Intrigued, I remove my headphones and listen.

Children’s unbothered laughter weaves through the droplets. A hurried cyclist rushes past me, and the gentle whoosh of her bike tires enters the chorus. An elderly man trudges by, and my brows furrow at the squelching of his rain-sodden shoes. I cannot help but smile as my own breath joins the afternoon’s symphony.

Upon returning home, the song does not end. Instead, it shifts to a cozy melody, interlaced with whistling teapots, rooftop-tappings, and soothing silence. I close my eyes and invite the moment’s dynamic composition into my heart. With a content sigh, I realize, I should listen to the day’s song more often.

She follows the forest’s path,

Addicted to its

Winding presence

And

Tempted by its

Maze of untold stories.

At her feet,

Grass and wildflowers

Cradle her every step,

Propelling her forward

In innocent persuasion.

She greedily basks in the dreamlike world,

Embracing the reality as her own.

However,

She cannot escape the lingering unease

That she

Herself

Crafted the enchanting trail,

And that,

Rather than a magical journey of self-exploration,

It is simply a glorified route of diversion.

Today she woke with a

Hollow chest and

Hazy mind.

The internal fog

Settled upon her irises,

Tainting the day

With shades of gray

Her thoughts sat imprisoned

Behind porous walls

Where only the words

With the sharpest claws

Could penetrate the cracks

She met the persistent jabs

With tired acknowledgement,

Regrettably submissive

To their pitiless intolerance

She tried to combat the pervasive hollowness

With empty stimuli,

Buy only seemed to amplify

Her mind’s spiteful side.

Defeated and trapped

Behind her own opaque mask,

She realized that sometimes

All she can do

Is wait for the storm to pass.

(And that’s okay)