This is not a slippery slope but an uphill battle.

No matter how high I climb, you are further,

And I am always running but I can never catch up.

I know everything about you.

I know I see more colors than you, more than you can imagine

I think this is how it will always be: too much.

I have something to tell you.

Like a flower, I both bloom and wilt in your presence

Over these months I’ve learned that you are the rain:

Voluminous amounts of you can hurt me,

Even when you’re gone.

You can only reach forward far enough,

Only close enough so I feel out of reach, beyond help,

Under this facade that I have created.

This is not an uphill battle but a slippery slope.

We are stuck within a loop, a continuous circle

Reaching the top only to slide back down again.

I miss everything about you.

Even when you’re right next to me, I still feel your distance.

I think this is how it will always be: never enough.

I don't think I could

Ever be the hero, in any book

That was ever written about me. 

I wonder if I could even be granted

The role of a sidekick: or if that would be

Too much for me. I won't be saving the day, 

No, not today, not now, not ever. 

To you, I am a main character

But you are the protagonist

And it's your story, and you kindly hand me

The role of the antagonist, tell me I don't 

Play my part well enough. 

I'm supposed to be the villan, 

Supposed to explode every second 

So someone like you can save the world forever:

Even if it is my own book, 

I'm not up for any heroic business, not now, 

Not ever.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

As Science woke up, she yawned. Stretching, her arm hit a vase and it fell, smashing on the ground. She swore under her breath as she stared at the ashes. Hearing the sound, her mother came into the room.

"Is everything all right?" she asked.

"I accidentally knocked over one of my vases. Now this poor person is all over my floor," Science explained, "It's all your fault. You had to name me Science and doom me to a life of getting dead body donations."

This was an argument they had often and her mother didn't feel like having it again, so she silently left the room. Science sighed and looked around at all her vases. She didn't even know where she would have space to put the next one that arrived. Too young (and grossed out) to know how to productively study a body, Science always sent them to get cremated. Not knowing how else to honor them, they were in vases in her room. After cleaning up, Science did what she did every day -studied the human body with countless books and internet searches. She was determined to one day make good use of the bodies.

Eventually a break was needed, so Science took a walk to the park. She sat on a bench and felt sorry for herself. She still felt bad about the broken vase from that morning. Somebody came and sat next to her. A stranger approached her. He seemed around her age, so she wasn't frightened.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Something about the boy made her want to tell all her secrets. Being named Science, the body donations, the vase breaking this morning -she told him everything. Then she made a few more complaints about her name before quieting down.

"You think your name is weird?" the boy asked, "My parents named me GOD."

"They did not!"

"Oh yes they did," he said, pulling out his driver's license, "They're atheists and thought it would be funny."

"Oh my God!"

"Yes my child?" he said and they both laughed.

"I guess that name would suck too," Science admitted.

"No, it's fun. You just have to take advantage of it. I'm sure you could have a lot of fun with the name Science too. For example, if that was my name, I would never do my science homework. You ARE science -isn't that enough? And those bodies you get -sell them to real scientists. You could make a nice profit."

She laughed, "I never thought of doing those things."

Science's friend Amanda walked over.

"Hey, Amanda, I want you to meet my new friend, God."

"Getting religious these days? Is somebody named Science even allowed to believe in God?"

"Not like that. This is God," she turned her head, "Show her your driver's-"

Science cut herself off. She didn't see God anywhere anymore.

"He was right here," Science told her.

"Are you sure you didn't just make him up to comfort yourself?"

God silently chuckled to himself behind some bushes. Hiding suddenly was one of his favorite ways to mess with people. He loved his name. In life, you have to take advantage of the things granted to you. In death, you might as well donate your body to Science.

(this is actually a true story about me)

If you're not familiar, it's something with colors. My name is Angelie, so since the A is red the whole name should be red, except it has two blue E's which should make it blue. The blue and red constantly fight. If my name was blue it would be an oceany blue, and feel cold and wet in my fingertips like water. If it was red, it would be a rough, scratchy red, like the sounds my voice make when I have a cold. My two best friends have green personalities, which is soft and calm and reliable. I like to think my personality is orange, which represents superficiality. My math teacher has the strongest color: a dark, pounding purple which feels like anxiety and pain and confusion. Sometimes when people scream I can almost see a purple or red haze surrounding them. The only thing that doesn't have a color to me is taste. I think all of this has always been inside my head; I thought it was normal. Each letter has a decided color, except U, which is either yellow or gray. It's not even decided. It's how the color feels to me, it's how a texture feels to me, it's how a voice feels. Some voices feel like smooth leather, some like water and some like sandpaper. I can close my eyes and see it. 

I can change my personality

It's painless, don't you fret

I can be anything I want to be

I'm different now, 

New year, new me.

Sometimes I feel like changing the world

Why not? It seems easy enough

Snap my fingers, 

One two three,

Watch the ball drop in NY, 

New year, new me.

Tell me what I'm doing wrong!

There's time for a solution.

This is my only opportunity

To make a resolution

So tell me what you want me to be

I'll change for you, 

New year, new me. 

You say it's not that easy

This is who I am. 

It's wired in my DNA,

I can't change it ever again. 

But oh, I hate this yearning

Don't let me go, I plea

Hold my hand and close your eyes

I'll change for you. New year, new me. 

a.

The end draws closer,

I can feel it.

I am conscience for less and less time

I am forgetting things

I cannot talk much anymore.

The demons are telling me

To come with them.

But I have to hold on 

For my mom. 

She is a broken angel

Amidst the demons.

b.

They are slipping me poison, I know it.

It's the doctors, they're onto me, they're out to get me.

They want me gone. 

They're trying to kill me faster.

I won't take the medicine, 

I squirm and flail

They treat me as an animal

That must be put down.

I tell my mother this

And she tells me they're not doing any harm

But the medicine burns! Oh, it stings!

        Make no mistake: A great many mistake just might make fate turn its face and effectively replace the misplaced electricity. That being the case, a great many mistake can also ace elation out of the kitchenspace and big-break irritation its brand-new position as CEO of your mental condition. Explicitly.

        But listen. 

        For each mistake's an equal-opposite lesson, hence the transfiguration of lead to gold with each life sentence. Figured all the accomplished alchemists actually already know. So. In each life page, the more you wait, the less mistakes you play, the smaller your hand grows, and, ergo, the more your page weighs, augmenting odds the story stagnates. Go.