Poppa said I can’t see him. Said I’m too young. So I am under the pagoda at the park, waiting for him away from the house, where Poppa can’t see.
I think it’s because he has a fast car, the real reason that Poppa won’t let me go with him. Daddy had a fast car once. I’ve seen pictures of it in “black and whites” of him and Momma when they were young, when they were my age, in fact, fifteen and sixteen.
I hear the fast car before I see it. It rumbles the pagoda beneath me. I can feel it in my chest, that rumble. It is frightening, and thrilling.
He pulls the car up over the curb, into the grass, pulling it up to the very steps of the pagoda. A hard, tanned arm reaches across to push open the door. “Come on!” He is smiling. It is a wild smile. He is a wild boy. I skitter down the steps and into the passenger seat. I am a wild girl.
The car smells of leather, gasoline and tobacco, of “boy things.” It smells like Poppa. The exhaust is strong. My head grows light until he pulls ever-so-gently off of the curb. and onto the pavement before accelerating onto the highway.
Momma is gone. I have left my little sister at my friend Celia's. I am only hoping that Caroline won’t mention it to Poppa. I have threatened her with death in fact, but she will probably tell anyways, at which point I will kill her, as promised. Caroline is five years old. Momma died when she was born. Caroline is my life, and my world. I won’t “really” kill her.
TJ is doing the 50 MPH speed limit, but the wind whips inside the car so that speaking is difficult. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I yell to him over the roars of engine and wind.
TJ smiles. “I can take you back.”
“No! I don’t want to go back! Say, I thought this car was supposed to be fast?”
TJ doesn’t look over at me this time. These are the exact words he has longed to hear. He pushes the accelerator closer to the floor. The Coupe did what it does. The rough, slower idle smooths out as firing pistons machine gun the car forward. Inertia pushes me back into my seat. I glance nervously at TJ. He is smiling, his eyes on the road, elbows bent, his left hand easy on the steering wheel. A glance at the speedometer shows 85 MPH. TJ looks over at me. I wish he would look at the road, instead. “You good,” he asks?
I give him my most wicked smile.
TJ slams the accelerator to the floor this time. I close my eyes and shout with delight, “WOOOOHOOOOOO!” It is like TJ is Aladdin, and we are on a magic ride. We fly over hills, butterflies tickling nervous stomachs that are never quite sure what is over the next rise. There is danger in the speed, and there is freedom in the danger. For the first time in my life there is no adult to tell me to slow down, no little sister crying beside me, calling my name. With closed eyes, hands gripping the dash, roaring engines and hot winds whirling around me I feel an exhiliration I have never experienced. I want to hold on to this feeling, this euphoria, forever. At this moment I do not even care if the car crashes. I do not care about anything but the thrill of being young, and unafraid. TJ is taking the sharpest turns at incredible speeds. I hold tight to the dash to keep from being thrown into his lap. Finally he lets off the throttle. I sense his body relaxing. His downshifting pushes me to the front of my seat. I remembered the same sensation, the same forgotten disappointment I had felt as a young girl when the carnival ride was winding down, the excitement ending, the ride over.
And there was something else building... an uncertainty. “What was this strange new yearning inside me? Was it the boy I wanted? Or was it his fast car?”
the quantity of motion
After 2 a.m. Dark as only a night can be in the city, flashy and filled with orange street lamps and the sounds of traffic. The inside of the room seems empty at first, the only light coming from an open laptop, the screen coloring the space in electric blue. Bare feet tap low against the cold tiles and then the wooden floor. She’s coming from the kitchen, a glass with amber liquid filled in half. It’s warm, she has no ice and the night is hot. She’s wearing a thin sleeveless shirt and just the underwear. It doesn’t really matter, she’s alone in the flat anyway. She’s almost always is. Sitting down on a low leather sofa, she stares at the lighted screen and the cursor blinks, marking the beginning of an empty page.
No title, no words, but a lot of heavy frustration mixed with numbness. She takes a sip of her drink, it’s bitter and burns the throat, yet she enjoys it that way, just as bitter and unsatisfying as life itself. Another look at the screen, the cursor still blinking, mocking her lousy existence of a low paid writer.
As if she had written anything good this past year. One book on the shelf and that’s it, the money from it long gone. Crappy apartment and a lot of bills to pay. That’s how her life looks now, and that’s why she writes for the newspaper; short articles about pretty much anything, marked with sarcasm and worldly opinions, but people seemed to enjoy it enough that she still could work there. Pretending that this was a just temporary job while she writes something new. All lies to fill the growing void. Always lies and nothing more. Temporary. Such a comforting word in a pointless existence. Another sip, a big one that almost empties the glass. Damn, it was so hot in this dump. The humidity terrorizing to end her soon if she didn’t do anything about it, the air conditioning just moving the heavy and sticky air in circles. Pointless. And speaking about that - she fills the sweat under her shirt, the material clinging to her skin. She moans in exasperation, finishes her drink and heads to the bathroom. Taking off the little clothes she had still on and sinks into the bathtub. It’s filled with cold water, almost to the brim.
It’s not the first time that she has done this tonight or this day for that matter. She sinks her body under the water until she seems to disappear into it. Just a faint shape in the darkness, the cold caressing her skin, soothing her heated thoughts and mind. Her hands hold the side of the tub while her body starts to squirm, lungs starting to beg for oxygen. She fights it at first, not willing to give up all too easy, the pressure in her chest growing, a heavy rock pinning her down, while a burning sensation, threats to make her lungs explode. Her brain is counting the seconds, thoughts blurring. One more moment, just one more. She resurfaces, the water splashing all over the old tile floor. She inhales and gasps for air, painting like crazy, grasping to the feeling of brand new oxygen circulating under her chest and laughs out. It’s a dark laugh but it fills her with pleasure.
The adrenaline rush giving her a kick that she craved so much, something that she needed more and more lately. Her body floats gently while her fingers trace against her thighs, thoughts wandering in all directions. Her skin fills smooth under the water, needy ideas running through her head, frustration of her senses mixed with the frustrations caused by her writing blockade. Another groan escapes her mouth and it’s not the happy one she could look forward to. Slowly she gets up and stumbles out of the bathtub.
Too disturbed to focus on more than one thing at once. She lifts her sweated shirt, throws in the water and then rinses it out, putting it back on, little drops falling on the already wet floor, she slides the black underwear back on and heads to the laptop, touching it gently so it comes back to life.
She stares at it while the sounds of traffic from an opened window irritate her ears, yet she doesn’t close it; too desperate for any air to cool her down, also knowing the sounds made her thoughts run better. Small pokes making her focus more. She runs a hand through her wet hair and knows they’re soaking into the sofa, but not really caring. Her right hand grabs her shoulder while the chin rests on her arm. Think. You know it’s in you, all you have to do is open the right drawer. She looks to the sides and stares at the small stack of vinyl records laying on the floor next to the turntable she bought over 2 years ago.
Standing up, she walks up to the stack and fishes out the one she wants, the one with the faded red cover. The title calling out to her. “Coming Home.” Sounds like a good place to start. She puts the vinyl on and points the needle in the right place. The music starts to flow, and fills her starving mind, vibrating through her aching, needy body. Eyes closed, she sways, moving her hips to the sides, arms lifted, hands moving gently in the air; swaying with her figure, gliding over her curves. Head shaking and a slow fire building up.
Eyes open and she moves to the sofa, stares at the place where the title should be and types momentum, she blinks a couple of times and moans softly. So easy. Her fingers run over the keyboard as if in a trance and she starts to write. Really write, just like she used to all those years back.
Dark as only a night can be in the city, orange streetlamps and the noises of traffic. An almost empty room with vibrations of warm honey-coated music, not as hot as the air but much more soothing to the soul. The words filling the dark room, the singer’s voice bringing back the sounds of home, something long-lost and forgotten.
Oh, I wanna come near and give ya
Every part of me
But there’s blood on my hands
And my lips aren’t clean
In my darkness, I remember
Momma’s words reoccur to me
“Surrender to the good Lord
And he’ll wipe your slate clean”
Take me to your river
I wanna go
Oh, go on
Take me to your river
I wanna know
Tip me in your smooth waters
I go in
As a man with many crimes
Come up for air
As my sins flow down the Jordan...
Leon Bridges - River
Among fallen flowers
of outlived time
behold a lady
flesh upon flesh
heady and fresh
opening her pores
to enfold him therein
of abstract depths
displayed before him
breezing through life
not a care
thistle in air
umbrella of life
tossed to the sky
watch her fly
seagull in flight
woman of night
hanging on stars
perpetrator of lust
freedom of toes
prances own way
lose her, afraid he
slightly south of shady
this spirited lady
Give me her wind
to dance, prayed he
milady, my Katie
a brewing storm
cavorting in darkness
and light churning
inner glow profanely
undulating in sweet water
of tidal life
in savage wind, so racy
of passion gayety
grasping on to her
with slippery fingers
can’t trap her spirit
water through fingers
catching her stardust
taking her body
essence of incense
dispensed to intense
suspense of her presence
robustly wade in
behold his lady.
Our bargain basement
has its price,
and I dare not name it
for what's seeping
in at the corners,
when the lights begin
is that your ghost
down round the neck,
wondering where I'm at
I see you on our pillow,
with eyelashes casting
shadows to your inner life
there's a space, some who,
that your saving inside out
and while you're waiting...
Sleep has you in my grasp
...Goodnight my Darling,
On The Edge Of The World
“If we hadn’t died, do you think he would have said yes?” the dead girl asked the dead boy as they sat on the edge of the world.
He thought carefully about his answer. “Does it matter?” he finally replied, gesturing to where they were, what they looked like.
“I think it does.”
“Because I would have hated it if he had said yes,” the dead girl said.
The dead boy’s dead jaw almost fell into the endless abyss before them. He caught it just in time. The dead boy let the pause between them last a little longer, before he walked into the verbal trap she had set before him.
“Because I’m in love with you,” she answered as if it had been rehearsed. The dead boy wished he had been called to that rehearsal.
“I know,” he said at last, as it was the truth.
For once, the dead boy was glad neither one of them had working hearts. He didn’t think they needed the heartbreak that would follow if he answered the unspoken question dancing in the dead eyes of the dead girl.
When I was 9 I had suicidal thoughts, I thought that my life had no meaning and I thought that my parents hated me. I thought my life was trash. When I 6 I kicked a glass door in an attempt to cut myself, I did. I have suicidal thoughts, MDD, anxiety, and ADHD. When I was younger I climbed on top of the roof I wanted to jump but I couldn’t. I tried to cut myself with knives, I didn’t have the guts. But now I realize that my life is great. I deserve to be alive and I value the things I have beyond belief. So if you’re ever thinking about suicide think again there are people that love you and value you for who you are. Even if you make mistakes that you can’t take away, or rumors that will never leave your heart. Remember my story, What stopped me from killing myself was the fact that my brother had a blood clot and bleeding from his brain. Then I thought about the grief that he would have gone through if you lost his sister from suicide. What if he never got to see me again. Then I cried, I thought about my family going through the grief of most likely losing a brother and then me. But my brother survived that showed me that there are miracles in this world and that God was a real thing. And that miracles can happen and to know what happened to me is just sensational
Till Death Do Us Part
My only hope is that I don’t hear that awful word.
My only wish is that they don’t take him from me, from this world.
I watch the judge looking intently at Antonio, then his lawyer.
My heart is beating so loudly, that I barley hear the judge call a recess.
I leave the courtroom and wait outside for Antonio, trying desperately to find him.
I feel his arms around me before I even realize it’s him.
He gently lets go.
“I told you not to come.″ His deep green eyes flicker away.
“Of course I was gonna come.″
His eyes rise and meet mine.
“Yes?″ I say softly.
“I don’t want you to be there when they...″
His eyes fall back down.
“They aren’t taking you away.″
“Belle, you have to be ready.″
“No, no. I won’t let that happen. I won’t let them take you away.″ I shake my head, furiously.
He takes my hand and kisses it softly.
The hard chairs in the courtroom hurt my back. And my head.
Maybe it’s not the chairs.
The trial goes on.
The prosecutor stands up and points to a picture, which is standing beside the witness stand, of a knife covered in blood.
“Antonio Vasquez killed Meredith Kleif with this weapon.″
Antonio stares blankly at the picture.
“Isn’t that right, Antonio?″ The prosecutor taunts him.
He doesn’t flinch as the prosecutor rips him apart in front of an audience.
My heartbeat is loud in my ears again, ringing is also prominent.
The trial feels agonizingly long.
Eventually, the judge calls for the jury’s verdict.
A short woman stands up and I see her hand shaking as she holds the paper in front of her chest.
My heartbeat accelerates, but I force my ears to listen, until all I hear is her shaky voice, even now, unsure of what she is saying.
“For the charge of aggravated assault, we, the jury, find the defendant, Antonio Miguel Vaquez,″ She roughly swallows. “guilty.″
My heartbeat speeds up, the ringing comes back.
I don’t hear everything she says.
The ringing subsides.
Her voice is so shaky by now, that it’s barely audible.
“For the charge of murder in the first degree, we, the jury, find the defendant, Antonio Miguel Vasquez,″ Her eyes meet mine, her eyes fill with tears. “guilty.″
The tears are hot against my face.
I drop off of my chair and I’m curled in the aisle, sobbing.
I sit up and scream. “He’s not guilty! He’s innocent! You monsters...you..you’re taking him-″
A security guard picks me up and pulls me out of the room.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t- don’t...don’t..″ My voice falls away and I fall on the floor.
I slam the floor with my fist, until I feel too weak to continue.
“It’s- it’s okay.″ The security guard says hesitantly.
“You’ll take him away.″
“He’s...″ He was about to say that awful word, guilty.
He knows better than that.
“I-I wanna hear his sentence.″
The man nods softly. “You can’t act out like that again.″
I nod, reluctantly.
We walk back into the room, quietly and catch the end of his sentence.
The judge’s voice is rough. “In the state of Arizona, the defendant must be over fourteen years of age to receive the death penalty and the defendant is seventeen years old. In the state of Arizona, the victim of the killer must have been under fifteen years of age or over seventy for the defendant to receive the death penalty. Meredith Kleif was fourteen years old. For the murder in the first degree of Meredith Kleif, Antonio Miguel Vasquez shall be put to death.″
I feet the punch as hard as anything.
I fall to the floor.
I am dimly aware of the security guard behind me.
I scream and sob.
Antonio’s black hair softly falls in front of his face as he turns to look at me.
Pain ripples through his dark green eyes.
He didn’t do this.
My tears fall silently as our eyes are locked.
A security guard pulls him out of the room and his head is ripped away from me.
I push the guard out of the way. Before I leave, I whip around and meet the judge’s eyes.
I want him to see my pain.
I want it to hit him.
I want him to feel guilt.
His eyes soften and he tears his eyes away.
I run out of the room.
I look down the long hall and see Antonio.
I push past everyone and run to him.
I wrap my arms around him and feel the soft fabric of his bulky, black sweater under my wet face as I nuzzle my head into his shoulder.
His hands ruffle through my hair.
The security guard isn’t a good one and only notices me now.
“Hey!!″ He pulls me off.
I bang on the guard’s chest and sob.
“Don’t take him! Don’t! No..no...no″
The guard pushes me away.
“He’s guilty.″ The guard scowls and takes him away.
Antonio’s eyes flicker back to me and I see the torment in his eyes and I know he sees it in mine too.
Seven months later
Antonio received one of the shortest periods of time on the death row in history.
A mere seven months later, it is now that day. That torturous, agonizing, horrible day that no one should ever have to experience.
I walk into the room, dressed in black.
Antonio is already sitting in the other room, across the glass.
He lost all of his family the year before and had been living alone ever since.
Prison is a different type of alone. It’s the alone that means no one wants to go near you, because they fear you. They see you as a monster, which he isn’t.
He looks up gently when he sees me enter.
His eyes are tormented with pain when we lock eyes.
Tears flow steadily from me.
He watches me and tears form in his eyes.
His face is already red, he must have been crying steadily for days and who wouldn’t be?
He was falsely accused and now he is dying for it.
He would never do that. He would never kill.
The tears fall and I watch as a tear hits his hand.
His hand crumples under the pressure of the wet drop, the visible sign of hurt.
His lips twitch. He tries to contain his tears, but his head falls into his hands and he weeps.
We weep together. Separated, but together.
I gaze in horror as they strap him to the bed. Those horrible monsters.
A woman dressed like a surgeon reaches for a large needle.
She injects him with morphine and a sedative.
She reaches for a smaller needle, but with a sharper point.
My body shakes.
The pain is uncontrollable, much too hard to explain, to put into words.
She pushes it into his skin roughly, with no empathy for a fellow human, for a child.
My heart beats heavily.
My throat burns.
My stomach turns.
I feel sick.
Antonio’s body starts to shake.
He starts to fight against the buckles holding him down.
Five minutes and thirty nine seconds.
That’s how long I had to watch that.
Antonio’s dark, deep set, green eyes struggle to reach me.
He tries to mouth something but his lips are twitching crazily and he’s almost gone.
His eyes carry love, pain, tears, but no hatred. No hatred for the people who plunged needles into his skin.
My head hurts, it’s a pounding pain.
My hand reaches to the glass and rests softly.
His eyelids start to close and he tries to lift his hand to mine.
His efforts cease and his hand falls, along with his eyelids.
His lungs give way.
His brain goes numb.
I bang on the glass.
“Antonio!! No! No!!” My screams echo through the room. “Come back! Don’t leave me!″
My hand slids down the glass as I fall softly to the hard, cold floor.
The prosecutor is in there with me.
His eyes are stained with a guilt that I know will never leave him.
My body shakes and my breathing is rugged.
I struggle to find breath at all.
Hours later, they wheel his coffin out of the building and I run to it.
I place my hands on the coffin and they shake steadily.
“Arabella means ‘yielding to prayer’. I ask God that you may rest now. You’ll be happier in Heaven, with the rest of your family. I’ll see you there one day, my love.″ My voice cracks and falls away.
The coffin carriers look at me with deep sympathy.
The only thing I feel when I hear his name, Antonio, is pain.
And years later, when they convict someone else for the murder of Meredith Kleif, it hurts all the same.
Yeah I’m falling. My stomach flipping back and forth between dropping out and being stone. It’s not like I imagined either. I guess I didn’t really think about the fall. I didn’t think about how there’s actually space between the jump and the hit. I didn’t think I’d have time to think.
But I do.
For the longest time, I couldn’t stand the idea of being the one that everyone looked back upon and said “Yeah it’s always the ones you least expect…”. I couldn’t stand the idea of the only memory of me being the worst memory of me. But in the end, I guess it was those ideas that pushed me to do it. “You don’t know me” “How dare you disrespect my memory.” “I AM SO MUCH BETTER THAN WHAT YOU SEE.”
It’s exhausting to continuously lie to yourself. Or worse, to think, truly think, the lies are truth, only to have the rug ripped out from under your feet again. I wasn’t any different. I was just like all the others, and now, my mind was being slowly turned from never, to maybe, to please.
The air is sharp and dark as it rips through my lungs. “Take it in girl take it in”. It’s like how when you aren’t hungry anymore but you know you aren’t going to eat for a while so you just keep eating. It hurts but it’s the last so who cares right?
“@carrie_Fip mentioned you in a tweet!” I remember the little beep in the night pulling me partially out of sleep. It wasn’t quite the intensity of the tone I had set for a text, but just enough to rouse me from REM. Just enough to make me flutter my eyes, turn over, flip a button to silence my notifications, and roll back onto my shoulder. Little did I know I was rolling away from the biggest problem I had ever faced.
If I hadn’t turned it off, I would have heard the next beep. “@shelbster1123 retweeted a tweet you were mentioned in!” And the next “ A tweet you were mentioned in was retweeted!” and the next, and the next, and the next. I would have heard 147 retweets, and 233 replies. I probably would have even noticed before I went to school too had not the silencing of the notifications also silenced my alarm. I woke up with about 10 minutes until school started and ripped through my morning routine in a frenzy without so much as a glance at my phone. No, my first hint that something was wrong happened as I was walking into school. It was Danny Udaben. He looked at me, looked me up and down, and smirked.
“That’s weird” I thought, but I didn’t think much of it. I was sprinting to class.
But the looks continued. Everywhere I looked, I felt like some guy had just been checking me out or laughing at me. It got heavier and heavier. I saw Carrie and Shelb look at me but I didn’t care. Ever since Sam and I broke up his two little groupies had been all over me with their eyes every other day. It was stupid. It was so , forgive the cliché, so high school. Little did I know, this time was different. This time they had delivered the killing blow.
The second hint came from Sam actually.
The first text in 3 months.
“You know what.”
He was always doing this when we were dating. Starting with some cryptic message and then just getting stupid. It might seem fun, ladies, but after awhile it’s annoying, and rude, and I was just done.
“Ok Sam. I’ll see you later.”
No it wasn’t the looks or the texts that finally showed me what I had been missing. It was my own face.
It was my face alright, but it certainly wasn’t my body. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t even get into that position if I tried. But, lo and behold, there I was, staring back at me as I walked into school the next day, plastered to the door in all my glory. And the front door, and the bathroom doors, and the gym doors, and pretty much anywhere a school official wouldn’t see until kids got there. Everywhere I turned I begged the caption: “Do you like me, Sam I am?”
Mortification wreaked in my bones. I was afraid to take it down, as if touching it would somehow prove that I had put it there in the first place. Panic rose in my chest and hot tears stung in my eyes. I couldn’t run away, that would make me guilty, but I couldn’t go in there either, that would mean eye contact with anyone and everyone who had just seen it. So, I chose the only option a girl ever has when she faces humiliation or more humiliation. I ignored it. I played it off like I didn’t see it and just kept on walking. I passed the 3 in the stairwell and I even managed to belittle the 50 that were shoved into my locker. I eased through the interrogation with administration as they figured out that it really wasn’t me that exposed myself to the school, begging for attention from the last boy I dated. I even handled the questions from my Mom with grace and maturity. I think I even laughed. I laughed and smiled and put on my pretty face, convinced the world that they hadn’t hurt me in the slightest. But we can’t lie to ourselves. Not really. The slime those girls had put there would slip and slosh inside me with every waking moment. Over the laugh was the blanket of what they did. That became my demon. Chewing my bones behind my smile.
I didn’t think I would feel the air as it whipped past me.
I also didn’t expect to see much. But right now, as I’m breathing and thinking and falling, I see the first wisps of the sun, reaching its fingers across the sky. It ripples through the water and warms the air. It plays along the beach and trickles into all the dark spots. I’ve never been one to swoon over sunrises. They’re nice but I had never gotten up before dawn just to see one or anything. I had never really seen them as beautiful. But right now,
To be honest, I’m not really sure what set it off but it started in Spanish. It was probably the classic case of one bad assignment followed by a couple accidently missed homeworks followed by the realization of a single bad grade and the conclusion of: “I need a few day’s break.” Then of course those days become a week, and then two, and then by the time you realize you’re in trouble you’ve tanked a test that’s actually important and you realize the “I’ll do it on Monday” thing is not going to get you out of this one. You never worry about being buried unless you’re already in the hole. Yeah, well, I guess I passed out or something during my fall into the hole because by the time I woke up, my report card that used to be vocalized best by the foremost letters of the alphabet had taken a turn to some of their latter counterparts.
No free donuts for me. No-sir-ee, I’m pretty sure if I would have taken my grades to crispy cream after this semester, they would have made me come back there and make the donuts myself. I was failing. I was in totally unmarked territory. But I was fighting. I didn’t want the bad grades. I cared about college. I really really really really did want to pull myself out of that hole. But how could I? How could I possibly go to a tutor and face them? What were they going to think? I had worked with them, on their end, for so long, and now I needed them? What had happened?
I was staying up late, I was getting up early. Sure it felt like I was on a treadmill that just kept getting faster and that each big step forward brought with it another kick in the face, but I was fighting. However, the reason why giving up is so tempting, is because it’s so easy.
I read that when an animal thinks it’s going to die, it panics; but when it knows it’s going to die, it is very very calm.
Right now, I don’t care about Carrie and Shelb. They’re just mean. I don’t care about my grades. They’re just letters, and the school year’s almost over anyway. I care about my Mom as I realize that while the pain in my heart will stop, the pain in hers never will. I think about the sunrise that I’m just now seeing. I have the teenage, indoctrinated impulse to grab my phone and take a picture, to capture the freshness of a new bursting day. But I never will. I think about what the newspapers will say, or worse, won’t say because maybe they’ll never find me. I wonder what that hotline would have told me. That it’s ok. That I’m not alone. That everything they were about to tell me I’d figure out on my own about 2/3 of the way down. They’d probably tell me that it’s not too late and that it’s never too late. They always say that it’s not too late. Only right now,
Despair, to which I have had the fortune of becoming well acquainted. Is it because of what I did to you? No, there is something much bigger at play here. It may be my cosmic destiny, as some would put it, to continuously be let down by love. Be it, at my own hand or the hand of others. Is it some sort of joke? No, I think it is just the yarn I have been given the opportunity to spin. At least my sunny disposition evokes some sort of happiness out of the gloomy situations my heart is continuously put through. May I at least find you again? Probably not...see, since your departure I have found only sarcasm at play in my day to day dealings of love. Situations that implement me as you, but in some sort of sick twisted way I believe this is the payback deemed fit. Due to what I had gone through in our lovely little chapter now held with regret, scorn, hatred, confusion, and complete disarray. Leave it be, as all things that were...will be...and all things had, have been. Point being, here I am at the doorstep of a situation profoundly similar to that which I find myself in quite frequently now a days. I have been blessed with the company of a broken heart once more. A broken heart tailor made to fit oh so perfectly within the vacant spaces of mine. Alas, said broken heart will presumptuously find no comfort in it’s ignorance towards true love or at least be so overcome with pain that it will fail to notice the arms patiently awaiting it’s recognition. It may also completely disregard said open arms, because comfort from anything besides the comfort found in solitude is amiss in this particular moment of recovery. Maybe, said broken heart will never find comfort again! Be that as it may, why in God’s name must I be put through such a laborious task again. I have been doomed to loneliness, because whenever the hopes of company are found they are quickly misplaced in the discovery of another patron amidst the commodity of heartbreak. It seems that I may never find love again, only those who have recently lost love accompany me. Those not willing to embark on a new adventure of love, but those who choose to take the same path as I. The path of loneliness, regret, and pity bestowed upon us by the memory’s of love lost. A sobering yet disorienting blow I have been dealt, as I find what I think is a new beginning..I am suddenly knocked on my butt by the same situation I found myself in the moment I lost you. Love, I think not! Surely a distant cousin of hate though, begotten by the lone mistake I so foolishly made with you. Here I will remain for eternity, stuck in the cosmic loop of “haha you thought it was love ya dummy, turns out to be a reminder of what ya lost stupid”. Endless amounts of my affection given with no return, love thrown to someone who chooses to remain empty handed. Thank god for what some call a “sunny disposition”, because without it..the only realistic option would be death. Once forsaken, a love like ours will take lifetimes before it finds its way back to a shared doorstep. Which makes me wonder why such love doesn’t come with any warning labels or beware signs that make you think twice before being so quick to just blatantly cast it away.
The Other Side of The Other Side
Quashed in reality
Depressed with its brutality
I left its shore
Wanting to explore
What was there on the other side
With health and wealth beside
Along with friends, family and my bride
I marched on with pride
With majestic powers at my feet
Impossible became my defeat
But wait, you have a chance to have pity on my fate
As I'm too late
To get back to reality
Because I'm now a split personality