bathe me in midnight ink and drag me down to the depths

pressure crushing my cranial cavity twisting me inside out

oxygen screams within my lungs its hollow cries go unheard

by your shrunken corpse among the fishes coral and bone

ecosystems inside your ribcage a world you’ll never know

filling the void in your chest where your heart once was

and i’m tugging on the tether one two three four five

but there’s no one bringing me up so i lay here

forgotten amongst the waves and shells and rubble

warped wreckage metal scraps propellers and a single sunken shoe

bathe me in midnight ink and drag me down to the depths

crown me in a ring of anemone

and hereafter i will lie with nothing but

a curious cuttlefish to stir my settled bones

He was burying his second body that day when his phone vibrated.

“Ruben, we found her, the one who saw you with Jake. My client has locked her in your room,” said the same old voice and the line went dead.

Ruben smiled to himself and dusted off his ragged pants. He roused from his knees and started heading back home. Blimey, it's not something you would call a home. It was just an old building in the hilltop. Opening the door, he found a twelve your old girl with short blonde hair sitting with her hands and mouth tied up. Yes, he knew looking at her will stop him from killing, so without hesitating he took his gun and closed his eyes. But before he could shoot, he heard something.  

“God, please save him, please...” she was praying. Why should she do that? Nobody has done this to him before. Putting down his gun, he cut the ropes that held her hands.

“Run,” he said and turned back but she came hugging him. 

“Daddy!” she cried and held him tight. She then showed him the locket she was wearing in her neck. It had the picture of him with Eva. Surprised, he looked at her. She had her mother’s eyes. Those beautiful black eyes.

“Emi, my darling! You - you are still alive!” he cried and kissed her. 

“I missed you too, daddy,” she smiled and wiped away his tears. Holding hands together they walked through the busy streets. He was a happy man again. After ten long years, he was seeing his daughter and couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

He was thinking about leaving his job and starting a new life, when suddenly, a bullet hit him. He fell to the ground holding Emi’s hands and a group of twenty policemen circled him. 

“Daisy, my doll, here is your ice-cream!” said a heavy cop with sunglasses, patting the little girl’s head as she squeaked with joy.

“Emi?” asked Ruben as he started to cough up blood. No, it was not Emi, but Daisy. A rat to kill a rogue. She started having her ice-cream and ran away. 

“Ruben, my old mate!” said the cop, removing his glasses. There was a nasty scar in his left eye. In fact, there was no left eye. It was just a deep black hole.

“Tylor!” he said, gritting his teeth. His eyes were burning like lead. 

“Ah, you remember me! Thought I was dead?” he asked, holding his chin.

“You killed Eva! You killed my wife!” he screamed, spitting on the heavy man's face.

“Did I?” he asked and shot him on the left eye.

***

His mobile buzzed while driving the car.

“Tylor?” asked a voice.

“Dr. Joe? Yeah, it’s me. What’s the matter?” he asked, stopping the car.

“Well, I have something to tell you... you have killed the wrong person,” his voice trembled.

“What? Dr. Joe, are you serious?” Tylor gasped.

“Yeah, the person you killed... its - its not Ruben,” he stammered.

“Then who is he?” he shouted.

“It’s a she. It’s Eva.”

You are made of movies

old VHS’s

collecting dust

holding rustic memories.

You are made of movies,

my childhood made up of big screens

and computer screens

flashing colourful kaleidoscope colours

with you by my side.

When I look at you

I see stories

lining your bruised skin

(bearing your heart on your sleeve).

You are made of movies

but the colours have faded

to black and white images

lost in the tides of time.

(you’re no longer the happy father I once knew...)

You are made of movies

but your images have gone blurry

scratched by the hardships

of life.

(I can’t see you anymore...)

You are made of movies

but your VHS tapes are

u

n

w

i

n

d

i

n

g

your puppet strings yanked

as you fall

a p a r t.

(you are coming undone...)

I miss you dad,

I miss you laughing at witty comedies

I miss you crying with me at chick flicks

I miss you watching classics with vibrant eyes

I miss you dammit

you were never supposed to change

you were never supposed to follow along with mom

follow along with society

You were made of movies

only the best qualities portrayed

but I guess

you aren’t my superman

or captain John Miller

you are just a man

in REAL life

broken down

like any other man

(but you could’ve been more...)

I wish

you and me

would have taken on the world

but now

I do it alone

I do it for you

because you made me out of movies

and I will never

never let that go to waste

like the movies that once made you up.

(I am made out of movies so watch me fly).

I don’t have

a sob story

About how chains of

hate held me down

but I sometimes wish I did

so I could

explain away

this hurt

inside of

my fragile brain.

Somehow

I never stop hurting

I never stop running

Yet I don’t run from pain

I run from happiness.

I don’t want to be okay

Because what will I do

if one day I wake up

and nothing’s wrong?

What will I do when I wake up in perfection

and realize that I did nothing to deserve it?

I don't know. I want to know.

but I don't think I ever will.

I think my curse is that

I will never be okay

because I'll never allow my brain

to accept that good things

happen to me.

A dangerous ledge to be on.

A slippery slip of agony

and it only gets worse.

What will I do

when everything is perfect?

i don't know.

Why don't I just accept

what I have?

I guess it's my curse.

I don't have any agony to share.

all I have is perfection.

and I wish that something would go wrong

so I don't sound awful

when I complain about

my broken heart.

Last night, I tossed and turned and cried and wailed, but of course, nobody heard me. It wasn't like I wanted attention or anything, I just wanted to be listened to. It's been going on for a couple weeks, this feeling of incompleteness, I guess, or helplessness. Worthlessness, maybe? It's not entirely boredom, really; I'm just unoccupied. I finish listening to a podcast, I complete a puzzle, and the thing I love doing is over. Now, today, all three of those things happened. I went to find the next option on Spotify, and the playlist was up, the voices that had filled my ears for weeks and months since August, had finally run out of things to say. I scoured the box for the last piece of the puzzle, an ocean blue bit with an air bubble that lodged itself into the slip of space between the yellow fish and the turtle's underbelly. Game over.

This hit me especially hard because I love puzzles. I love that podcast. They made me happy. I sit in bed now and want to cry. But it's a different feeling from last night. I'm terrified of last night.

In my lifetime, I've had so many a lonely day, a melancholy evening, and a I'd-rather-not-get-out-of-bed-right-now morning. I've listed the many ways a person can die. I've thought about my options, and once or twice, I've considered the nuclear option. But I've never pushed the button. I've laid my palm on my throat and pressed my face into pillows but never hard enough. The missile never launches. The blood rushes to my head, ready for the countdown. But the engineer says, "Hang on, the president says stop." And that's all I need to gasp for oxygen again and forget why I ever wanted to stop.

Last night was, to be completely truthful, the closest I've ever come to not waking up the next morning. And I feel awful admitting that, knowing that I'm being ungrateful, wanting to take something that wasn't mine to begin with. I'm being hypocritical because every time someone makes a post like this, admitting their own vulnerablility, I encourage them, say you'll pick yourself back up. How can I say that to someone else when I can't even tell it to myself?

I set dates. I like numbers. I like probability, but most of all, I like certainty. Sure, surprises are fun and all, but I want to know when and where I'll be the next day to prepare my outfit, gear, and whatever else I'll need. So, I give myself deadlines. I say, "Tomorrow, you've got a history test." I make plans to call a loved one the following Tuesday. It makes me remember that if I do leave, I'm missing out on something. I'm missing a chocolate milkshake I promised myself or a marathon of NCIS. I'm missing a warm hug or a kind interaction. I'm missing a Youtuber's upload schedule or a night where the stars are brighter than the headlights, and you can see Venus with the naked eye and my dad loves that kind of night, so I want to be there to see it with him.

That's how I get over the unhappiness. I promise myself that I'll run tomorrow or stretch in the morning. Set an alarm, mark it on a sticky note and tape it to my door.

I think that's why I like puzzles and podcasts. There's something to look forward to. The red coral piece slides into one open patch, I just know it. I wonder what they'll talk about tomorrow. I'll lay awake with a grin and open eyes, silently giggling about the quip that only my ears are privy to in that moment. I dream in puzzles and podcasts. I dream at night. The dream ends, and I wake up. That's certain for now. I love certainty.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare.

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Contemplate taking a piece in case I ever get the chance to clone him. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have the priest take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. Death is not finite. Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. I give him my empty nip. I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. It falls slowly, like powder from a soap box in an old movie. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon.

My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.

my family broke apart before i was even born, the day my mother

discovered she wouldn't be the only one of her anymore; no, tucked

inside her was the creature with the same blood running through their

mutt veins, and an unwritten destiny with a promise of uncertainty.

and so i discovered doomed eternity when i learned that my dad wasn't

my father and the color of my skin signed me up for bullying, i was a

bucket that collected other people's spit; yes, but i didn't like it.

it was a decade of consuming nights that started off crying and ending with

nightmares and lucid dreaming that taught me that uncertainty didn't

always mean happy endings; sometimes, it only meant an ending. perhaps,

if i didn't fall in love with the player on the football, confessing to him all

my secret tragedies or attempted to string together a friendship with my

adopted mother and leaving the one who birthed me behind in a forbidden

history; perhaps, things would've ended differently. but i did. and 'cause of

it, i can't change a damn thing. if only those things were my uncertainties.

so play me like a broken record, only the one where it skips straight toward

the ending, because at least then it'll save you a few undesired miseries; and,

if you ever see me, just run up and start holding my hand, 'cause i promise

you regardless of the moment (even when i'm smiling or in the middle of

kissing a former boyfriend), i promise you i'm still slowly breaking. it's the

uncertainties that kill me.

trust me, i knew someone who lived a life to sixteen just for it to end because

the uncertainties drowned him and the thoughts controlled his life for him;

sometimes i still think about him, and even though i told jesus i needed a

moment away from him, i even still pray for you.

yes, uncertainties collect like coins; i got a jar of them.

I don't remember much of my childhood, though I was told I was happy. I don't remember that feeling. All I remember is the pain.

I vaguely remember my younger self. The middle school me staining her pillow with the tears. Too depressed to continue with life, too cowardly to end it. Laying in bed completely paralyzed by the anguish.

I remember a little more of my high school years. My soul crushed under the weight of expectations. Always doing everything to please the rest of the world. I so desparately want the expectations to be replaced by fulfillment. I can never quite grasp it, no matter how I try.

My wings began to sprout in college. I continue to struggle, though at least I've begun to taste some freedom. I began to find small things that I can call my very own. But there's still a gnawing inside of me. A small voice telling me that there has to be more to life than just trying to survive one more day.

I am finally free of college. Only a few close friends believe I would finish strong enough to see graduation. Now what? I've done everything I'm supposed to do. I'm now done with all my schooling. My whole life is still ahead of me. Maybe now I can find some fulfillment?

I begin to take on a career. Some jobs are just a temporary resume booster. Others I take as a mere form of paying the rent. How is it that in all your years as a student, one ever tells you just how hard it is to keep a roof over your head? The bills are piling up and I have no idea how I can keep up.

I finally begin to build a career. The bills are daunting, but at least there's always food on the table. I am no longer struggling to survive. I can finally begin to find small ways to treat myself. Everything still feels so hollow. When will that feeling go away?

I am finally stable. The bills are being paid. I find a place I can finally call home. A job that will not vanish as quickly as it came. Why is it that I still don't feel happy? This should be enough, it only took me nearly 3 decades to achieve it after all. But it's not. I am not unhappy, merely numb. Stuck in an emotional purgatory.

Maybe I'm just not meant to experience true joy. I've spent a lifetime trying to find some small sliver of happiness. Why can I still find no evidence it exists? Maybe I'm just meant to spend my whole life being numb. Maybe this is as good as my life will get. Forever stuck in this emotional purgatory.

I remember the good times, the times when we were so happy together. We had sleepovers and fun dinners and hilarious game nights; you introduced me to Jane Austen books and BBC miniseries, now among my greatest loves, and we would talk all hours of the night about movies, Michael Landon, MBTI personality types, family ancestry, jewelry, fashion, and guys. You were so intelligent and sophisticated, I used to hang on your every word. You were my role model in college. I don’t know if I’d have gotten through those first few months without you.

I looked up to you so much. I considered you one of my best friends.

Then, that happened. I was shocked. I was so confused. Heck, I’m still confused. But especially then. Granted, I was young and naive, but this would have puzzled even the most sage and experienced of persons. From the very beginning, all the way to the ugly, cold aftermath, I was confused. Even after I realized and admitted my own contributing faults in the situation and tried my best to apologize, explain, make reparations, I still didn’t understand why it had to happen. Why we had to end.

Were you ever truly my friend?

Did you ever consider me a true friend, in the same way I saw you?

Why couldn’t we find some way to smooth our hurts and salvage the most precious bits of our relationship? We had a fighting chance. It should’ve been possible, but I guess it wasn’t enough of a priority to you. Or maybe I wasn’t enough of a priority. Were you relieved to leave me behind, cut me loose like a burdensome weight? Were we only fair-weather friends, keep me close as long as it suited you and let me go as soon as it became inconvenient?

Maybe I could’ve done more...I know I could’ve--should’ve done more to fix things. I’m so deeply sorry.

Do you know, every few months or so, I literally dream about us reconciling and becoming friends again? Even now, after years and years. In fact, I had one a few weeks ago. I dream that we’ve met again in some rosy, delicate, parallel world, our differences dissolved into nothingness, our connection forged strong once again. It’s never the same dream exactly, but it’s always a happy one.

I was heartbroken when you left. That feeling only grew as time went on. I felt...betrayed, in a way. Like a clean shirt that’s been lovingly worn for years, then, without warning, dropped into the gutter to be run over mercilessly by gritty tires. It still hurts to think of the friendship lost between us. The others, too, but you most of all. I wasn’t as close with them, but you and I...I don’t know. I thought what we had would be strong enough to last--no, it never even occurred to me that our friendship would ever crack and shatter. I thought we would be soul sisters forever.

Maybe you never saw me that way, but I did. I valued our friendship so much. Even now, so many years later, I miss you, your family, what we used to have together. What could have been.

The hurt has mostly faded into a nostalgic sadness, but I still miss you.

If I ever saw you again in person, I wouldn’t beg to be your friend again. Too much time has passed, we’ve both changed too much, I’m certain. Our paths have long-since diverged and grown distant.

I think I’d just have one desperate, mind-boggling question for you:

What happened?

I laugh as JJ tells me a joke, he grins, though I hadn’t learned yet to look at the eyes, not the mouth when someone smiles. Eyes can’t lie. I hadn’t notices the small tremble in his lip, or the tears that were unbidden to fall in his eyes. He said he had a doctor’s appointment as he left, and, jokingly, I said, “Don’t let the Doc’s hand slip!” We were in fourth grade, and my humour was dark. I meant don’t let the doctor kill him. As JJ heard that, he froze for a second, then continued walking. I assumed he was scared and I made him more nervous. There was no doctor appointment. I know that now. He never came back.

After school, I went to his house and knocked. His mum opened the door, her eyes crinkling at the edge as she smiled and waved me in. “He’s in his room. Have fun!”

As soon as I walked in, I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t sitting on his bed like usual. I saw something hanging, and thought he just tied his shoes up or something... I was wrong. I looked up and screamed. Now I know it had just happened when I walked in- his face was still flush, red because of the rope cutting off his oxygen. The chair is forgotten, kicked over by his dangling legs. His parents run in, his dad still in his work clothes. His mum... She fell to her knees in front of him, grief clear on her face. His dad ran to get a knife to cut him down, yelling about how he’s still alive, how he needs him to be alive. I was just... Numb. In shock. The crying didn’t start until I had walked out, a good block or two away from his house. One from mine. It didn’t stop until it got dark. My mum never knew what happened to JJ, and she never will. Looking back, I realize how many clues he left, Like a cry for help. I just wasn’t looking. It’s hard to believe when a friend that seems so happy ends up like... ends up bottling all their other emotions until it’s too much...

Please do not bottle it up. Tell someone. Anyone. A parent. A guardian. A teacher. A sibling. A dog. A cat. A pet. Some stranger on social media. Me. A friend. Just...anyone you trust. Sorry for this, but hey, @spurtsofdark said to be vulnerable. Some of my closest friend I just got on here haven’t even heard the whole story... This isn’t the full story either. I may be in for an earful next time I see my friends... Sorry B and B, please don’t yell my ears off when I see ya.... Heh.

P.S, Chack, I said I’d call you Jack because it is similar, I do not connect you and JJ in any way so please don’t mind that. If you are not okay with that name now, I’ll think of another one.