"i make everyone uncomfortable,"

you said

as you stood up

from the heavyweight chair

and announced why you were here with us in group.

you did not make anyone squirm,

but we couldn't say that

unless we raised our hands

and asked for permission,

so we all kept our shaking fingers

in our laps

and let silence spread

like the plague.

your chestnut brown eyes hid behind thick-framed glasses,

but they looked kinder than everyone else's-

reflected hints of hope hung in your pupils.

your words sounded like recovery

and your crooked smile looked like

you were getting there.

at snack time,

we played five rounds of uno together

and you made me laugh

for the first time

since my admission.

you cracked jokes and your knuckles

repeatedly-

so much so that

it almost felt like

we weren't in a hospital,

sitting in plastic chairs

across from each other's

inpatient bracelet.

we'd never spoken before that

and

we never spoke again.

to tell the truth,

i don't think you even knew my name.

you left early the next morning

and you did not say goodbye to me.

considering that we were both just patients passing through,

that was fine.

i guess i didn't impact your life as much as you impacted mine.

He carries plates, he carries bowls

Full of delicacies to every visitor

Platters of sweets big and round

And slides down the winding banister

Of a life full of nasty frowns

Exquisite dishes within reach

Disappear in seconds, emptiness growls

For the food upon which he cannot feast

All his tongue has ever tasted

Is the bitterness of murky air

Not a penny has he wasted

For he has not his fair share

He looks at people who don't look back

Stares at their colorful clothes, flashy phones

While all he's ever adorned is black

No other shade has made itself known

To the poor kid who works for a living

Maybe you didn't hear me right

He slogs all day and all night

To live

To survive

To breath the same air as you and I

To revel in his birth right

The right to existence

Despite it all he barely stays alive

These thoughts swirled through my mind

While I sat down with those better off to dine

Tiny glimpses of real human moments lost in the silent scream of our everyday lives.

A simple string of vowels and consonants that sing louder than a hundred pages of big, useless verbatim.

Bits of clarity in the fog of hypocrisy and facades that spill from every single one of us.

Bits of real humanity that we squander and ignore, passing off as weakness or some sort of fault within us; as if it were evil to be human.

I’m not perfect, or anywhere close.

I’m broken, shattered, and held together by cheap duct tape and Elmer’s glue.

I’m fucked up. I’m a fuck up.

But that’s what all the extraordinary people are.

Broken, lost, and confused.

Savants in the truest sense of the word; who lie to themselves in order to be normal, who throw away who they really are just so they don’t feel so alone.

But you’re not alone. And you aren’t the only one of your kind.

Be proud of being fucked up.

Be proud of bearing burdens that would cripple anyone else, all while faking a smile.

Be proud of thinking more than you think you should, and be proud of the few bits of rapture and fleeting emotions that are left in this sterile world.

You are one of the few who still allow those ethereal moments to exist.

So don’t ever think that you’re any less than you are, just because you’re different.

You.

The ones who feign stupidity to fit into society, who fake the motions on dates just to get laid, who would never tell their friends that they enjoy Lizst more than the most popular sell-out band at the time.

The ones who post song lyrics, poems, and quotes, secretly hoping someone will understand that you have just laid out your soul in front of them, and all you want is someone who has felt the way you feel at that moment.

The ones who listen to the same songs on repeat, because the words numb you with their cold empathy, and will never judge you.

The ones who are cursed to never forget, as much as they want to. Who wear memories as scars, unseen but deeper than any sword could gash.

The ones who leave pieces of their heart in everyone they have ever loved, who are regarded as fuck-ups; when they are the only ones who really know the meaning of love.

The ones who never said a word to anyone, and just sobbed quietly in the saddest sense of the word; as the hammer clicks and the bullet becomes the first and last thing that ever did shit for their pain.

You aren’t alone.

And you aren’t a horrible person, or any sort of evil for being who you are.

Maybe you’re just like me;

fucked up,

flawed,

and broken beyond repair.

But that’s the best thing about you.

So never lose those tiny bits of rapturous insanity.

Remember every single fleeting emotion.

Smile so fucking hard your teeth crack.

Die laughing as the evanescence of each moment burns you alive.

Because they’re your moments.

And even though you you may not realize it, they all matter.

Because if a stained glass window is cracked,

all it means is that it was fucking beautiful enough

to endure for so fucking long.

It existed long enough to be broken.

Because it’s only the beautiful things that break.

I remember the time I first saw you- the time my eyes first landed on your face. The world stopped spinning, so cliché, I know, but there's a reason why stereotypes come about. With you reinforcing their nature, I wondered why I ever doubted them.

We were what you'd call a summer-fling, just an unlikely combination of beings. You had me wrapped around your little finger, just an insolent puppet on a string. But I guess I should thank you, because by the time we were through, you showed me why diseases were named after people- and the planets after gods.

One morning I’m sitting at a table in the library on my laptop, facing a row of Library computers which are open for the public to use. Directly in front of me is a young mother and her toddler; an adorable little girl in a pink and black spotted jacket and jeans with matching pink sneakers. The tiny shoes always get me, and make me feel all motherly/mushy inside I guess, anyroad I digress.

The tot isn’t interested in sitting in the chair beside her mother and so her mother keeps pausing what she’s doing to reel the little girl in. Then, when the mother’s on the phone handling the usual adult affairs, the little girl wanders around my table– and I watch her. I watch her round my table from left, behind me, to right and as she gets to my right side our eyes meet.

She stares blankly, I stare pointedly and watch her pause to turn to face me a little more. I aim my index finger back to her mother and watch her brows arch. She doesn’t move. I nod my head to her and steal an intentional look to her mother, still pointing to her, and then back to the little girl. She looks at her mother as I had– still on the phone and unawares, then to me and my silent insistence.

She bows her head in defeat. With a quiet little sigh, she toddle’s along back toward her mother with a pout.

I catch a lady Librarian gazing at the whole incident from her reference desk, over a computer monitor just low enough for me to catch the bulge of her amused cheeks, and we share a glance before watching the tot complete her short trip back to the chair she was supposed to be sitting in.

The moment made my morning.

|| another-proser ||

I promise it was an accident.

I didn't mean to fall.

Today, promises are pennies spent

They mean close to nothing at all.

Spread eagled in the air,

Crimson stains my hand,

Everything's a fight these days,

In the end it's hard to stand.

There's a reason I fell after all.

It's only partially my fault.

At least I had the courage to stand,

When most others choose to crawl.

I'm sorry my smile wasn't enough.

That my laugh was a little empty.

All I ask is don't call my bluff

Too late, I belong to the sea.

I know I'm drowning.

Before long my struggles will cease.

My head is always pounding.

Let me be at peace.

With the surface far above me,

And the gentle sands below.

There are now things I can see,

That you will never know.

I promise it was an accident.

I didn't mean to fall.

Today, promises are pennies spent.

They mean nothing at all.

driving my little cousin home

my Mother’s Brother’s third child

at six, he’s an engineer in the making

too smart for his own good

well behaved and helpful

if loud and prone to stomping

usually keeping Grammy’s rules

like leaving his toys at her house

so as not to lose them or break them

but as we’re riding down the road

he gets a look on his face

as he rearranges

his suitcase

onto his lap

watching me

as he unzips it

and I knew

even without

seeing

Bumblebee is riding shotgun

his newest toy

a tiny Transformer

he plays too hard with

breaking the joints

out of socket

then working

to put it

back together

nevermind

the beat-up

helicopter

I know

is in his pocket

sitting quiet

and neglected

but still

somehow

his favorite

-M.E.

When Thissa died, we planted an oak tree above her body. She had always loved colors, so we planted a rainbow eucalyptus.

We died also, a few decades after young Thissa died. She had taken her own life by accident, the poor girl. The doctor had subscribed the wrong pills and a few days later, she was still and cold. Thissa was twenty-nine.

(Yes, we did sue the doctor. We won the case.)

The eucalyptus grew, grew, grew for over sixty years under our watchful eyes. We gave it the most loving care ever, as if it was Thissa herself reincarnated.

After we died, the rainbow eucalyptus was still standing strong where Thissa's body lay. It was tall and beautiful, with the most brilliant colors. When we planted it, we said that all the colors represented Thissa's personality.

I believe we were right.

The eucalyptus was mostly a bluish gray color. Thissa's philosophical side, always thinking and writing.

Then there was the shades of orange and yellow. They represented a beautiful spirit, a bouncy girl who never hesitated to wonder at the world.

Shades of green meant a zealous girl who always wanted to know the most of everything. She couldn't be stopped.

Finally, the red and pink. I loved those colors the most out of all of them. Before my death, I'd stop and stare at all the pink and red.

The others thought that red represented how easily Thissa got angry. She was a fiery spirit and no one could ever forget that.

I, alone, knew what the red was really there for.

Love.

She was my betrothed before she died. I believe that Thissa loved me so much, the red and pink came back in the tree we planted for her.

I loved her too.

More than words could ever describe..

But exactly what a rainbow eucalyptus can.