i.

i wish i felt like

i have a place in your life--

that you want me around and

that i'm not just someone

who's just there,

or who's good for comfort

and not anything else.

(it hurts how many times)

(this has happened before)

ii.

when she comes around, i close

my door--i put heavy things behind

it and i turn out my light,

and i lie quiet in the green darkness

of my room until she leaves.

she pushes at my door, knocks,

calls my name, and she only

leaves me be when my

uncle comes down the hall and

pulls her from my door.

she wanted to give me flowers and

a book--she doesn't remember

that i'm allergic, though. she doesn't

even remember coming by, the

next day. i hate how much

it makes me want to cry.

iii.

my therapist says it will

take time for me to feel comfortable

with you, and to feel like i

can trust you again. she tells me

to be patient. (i'm trying--it's)

(hard.) when we call, i purposefully

fade into the background

like i can somehow

not exist in the space with you,

as if that could help anything

(i don't know what). i wait

and i wait and i wait

and you tell me it'd just be easier if i

existed. i'm hesitant.

(who knows if that's what made you)

(leave in the first place? i think.)

iv.

it makes me sick to my

stomach to think

of her dying, or getting

alzheimer's--not because

she would be 'lost' or 'gone,'

instead i feel sick at the thought

that soon i'll be the only one

who knows what happened

and what we shared. i don't

want to be the only one.

and even now, as i know she's forgotten

so much, like what books i like

and that i'm allergic to flowers,

and when she's even tried to see me,

i don't feel as trapped in the memories

as i know i will when she

dies or truly forgets me. someone

else has to know--has to know that

it happened and that she was

drunk most of the time, that

she made me pancakes and grilled cheese

and ramen and mac and cheese

because i liked them,

and that she drove us places even

when inebriated. someone

has to know that she

frightened and scared me,

that she made me sad and hurt,

that she hated all kids but she liked

me, that she rarely won monopoly to me

but she always played because it was my favorite,

that i cried for three months

when i heard she never wanted to see

my family again, and that i still

took the dvds of the movies we

had planned to watch, and i took

the m&ms, too, and i ate them,

because i wanted her to think of me

when she couldn't find them.

it took three months before she

did remember me,

and even then, she didn't remember

telling us she never wanted to see us

again. i couldn't understand it for

the longest time, but now i

suppose that when you're that drunk,

you might not remember the things you say or do.

even so, i don't want to be

the only one who knows

that happened. i don't want to be alone in those memories. she's

not there, and i don't know if she

ever was. but i don't want to be left

alone, back here in the past.

v.

i'm told i should try to be honest

with you. it's hard.

i just want to fade into nothingness

when you're around, and i don't

know why, but it's hard not to

do that every time.

how do i make myself want

to exist in a space with you,

where i'm as loud and comfortable

as i am with my other friends? i

don't know, but i feel like it might

hurt you if you find out how i am

with them. i want to be comfortable

with you and trust you again, i

really do, but the desire

to be nothing when you're around

is so overwhelming it hurts to breathe.

Slipping my arms under the belt,

Carefully stringing the polyester gently

Across the lap that sat on yours,

The belly that quaked with laugher

As I squirmed away from tickles,

I strapped in your oldest grandkid.

Did you know that if you spray at a fly in the front by his head that he will fall and die because they do not know how to fly backwards?

Wearing tight jeans help you keep your legs and buttocks tight.

Winter is near, we can soon say goodbye to these sweltering nights and summer days.

My body aches

My heart it breaks

and I can’t look ahead, for brighter days

Here and now

Our broken vow

Love long lost

My hearts the cost

Stomach churning

Fever burning

Was it all a lie?

Will I learn why?

or am I destined to lie here to aimlessly cry?

Oh how I would’ve been

How you and I should’ve been

The family that could’ve been

That I shouldn’t think of again.

Betrayed again?

Or is it in my mind?

I fear not

Your feelings were indeed a lie.

“Okay, look. Mark is really, really, sorry he dumped you the way that he did. The thing is, Toby has had a crush on you since forever and Mark decided to step aside and let him take his shot.” Carla asks Gina.

“What?! Are you saying that Mark never loved me!” Gina demands.

“I don’t know if Mark ever loved you or not, but Toby does.” Carla answered.

“Did you know Mark was going to break up with me?” Gina continues.

“Of course I didn’t. If I would have known, I would have given you a heads up.” Carla insists. Gina studies Carla face for several minutes.

“You did know!” Gina decided, “So, the three of you are planning a way to get me to like Toby. Is that why he was your ‘date’ on Saturday.”

“It’s not like that. I only wanted what was best for you and Mark isn’t it.” Carla explained.

“Is that why you were worried about whether I was going to break up with him, because you wanted him to break up with me first!” Gina accused.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Carla shot back.

“You are my best friend” Gina says as she starts crying. Gina felt a strong sense of betrayal. Like when you find out you thought you knew someone, but you really didn’t.

“I am your best friend.” Carla assures, “I would have never let this happen if I didn’t think it was for the best.”

“Get away from me, it’s like I don’t even know you.” Gina declared. Gina was hurt. Her boyfriend whom she loved had dumped her and her best friend was in on it and didn’t tell her. She had to take some time to process everything. Carla had always had her back. If she couldn’t trust Carla, who could she trust?

While Gina’s life was falling apart, Toby was trying to find someone capable of creating a potion to counteract a powerful spell. He tried entering some search terms into Google, but he didn’t get anything back worth mentioning. He knew it wasn’t going to be that easy though. Someone capable of that kind of power wouldn’t want to attract a lot of attention. Toby decided to take a different approach.

Mark decided to check out a meeting of the “Wizards and Warlocks” gaming club. Anyone who would be interested in that type of role-playing game might know something. Mark entered the classroom designated for the meeting and all the activity in the room stopped. You know when something just looks out of place, like it doesn’t belong? That is what Mark looked like. Mark was invading a space reserved for social outcasts and students who had tastes that were to say the least odd.

Everyone was eyeing Mark suspiciously. Mark wasn’t a social outcast. There was some unwritten but understood rule that people like Mark didn’t belong here. The truth was that Mark himself had served as a knight and knew more about wizards and warlocks than anyone else in the room.

The teacher who presided over the class was one of the school’s counselors. He kept his hand on the pulse of the student body and didn’t leave out those deemed invisible by others.

“Can I help you?” The counselor said to Mark as he made his way into the classroom.

“Yeah, I’m interested in learning how to role play.” Mark answered in as disarming a voice as he could muster.

“You’ve come to the right place.” The counselor responded, “The best way to learn is to observe. We’re in the middle of a campaign right now and you’ve come at an exciting point.”

“How does it all work?” Mark asked.

“Well, everyone creates a character that they use to interact with in the game. There is a narrator, which right now is me, who decides what happens based of character decisions.”

“That sounds great, is there magic in the game?” Mark asks.

“There are characters that wield magic.” The counselor admitted.

“It would be cool if magic existed in real life.” Mark offered.

“There is magic all around us.” The counselor responded, “The rays of the sun, the beauty of a flower. The cycle of rainfall and the miracle of birth”

“All those things can be explained by science” Mark answered.

“We understand the processes of nature through the lens of science, but that doesn’t make it any less magical.” The counselor corrected.

“But what about real magic?” Mark asked.

“What do you mean?” The counselor followed up.

“Well, I kind of screwed things up for a friend and this girl he likes now hates him. If Magic existed, I could make her fall back in love with him.” Mark explained.

“Relationships can be difficult,” The counselor agreed, “In fact, that’s the whole reason I have a job. Your friend doesn’t need a shortcut, if he really wants her to like him again, he’s going to have to put in the work.”

“You’re right, of course. I just feel horrible about it, that’s all” Mark replied.

“I get that.” The counselor responded, “You want to be a good friend. I wish I could help but there’s no magic when it comes to relationships that last, only hard work.”

“Thanks anyway.” Mark answered.

Mark stuck around and watched the game unfold. The adventurers had stumbled upon a nest of giant wasps and had to fight for their very lives. There were a lot of dice rolled and action dramatized. One character did die but the rest managed to survive.

After the session was over, Mark left to go home. He wasn’t exactly sorry he came but he didn’t get any information that helped him get Gina’s memories back. As he was leaving the school grounds, he heard someone calling to him. The voice was faint, and he turned to see where it was coming from. It was one of the students.

“You need a love potion?” The student asked.

“You got one?” Mark shot back.

“Maybe.” The student answered.

“Where did you get it?” Mark inquired.

“I know a guy” The student responded.

“I actually need a potion to restore someone’s memory.” Mark confided.

“That’s a little harder but I do know a guy that can do it.” The student said.

“Then let’s do it.” Mark continued.

“It’s gonna cost you.” The student explained.

“That’s not a problem.” Mark assured.

Disclaimer: Whenever you are generalizing roughly half of the world's population, there are going to be exceptions. This is a good thing because if there were no exceptions we would all be doomed.

Men want to spread their seed around to get as many chances as possible to produce offspring. Since men don't get pregnant, they can spread their seed around to a lot of women fairly quickly. This is the reason why men are not picky, being picky would restrict this spreading around process.

Women want the best possible genetic material with which to create offspring. Since women do get pregnant and since being pregnant is time consuming women don't get that many chances to produce children over the course of their life. This is the reason women are picky, they have to make the most of what chances they get.

These two completely logical mating practices kind of screw things up for people. What ends up happening is that most women gravitate toward "a few good men" and gravitate away from the unwashed masses. Men have to work a lot harder to secure mating opportunities than women do and there is that "too many choices" paralyzing people into thinking they can always do better. The only group this is good for is the "few good men". Everyone else is pretty unhappy about the situation.

Society could always try and force people against their nature. We have already tried that and while it worked for a while, nature reasserted itself. The only hope anyone has is finding that "exception" I talked about in my disclaimer. I think that's pretty much the conclusion I've come to. Until then, remember the "4 no's", No sex, No marriage, No dating, and No children!

break eye contact with God

wipe your smile off my face

praise the state of—

capitalism

Denmark

the suit of clubs

replace each o

with an a

anthropomorphize

the internet

kill

its Frankenstein

body

stop counting

the calories

from our third date

change

change the locks

change the fraction

change it back

time myself

counting photons

on their way back

from Pluto

outrage the earthquakes

that bring me

to my knees

curl the earth

under each fingernail

breathe

I always get complimented on my writing. It's not just for the creative pieces or the legal memos that I write day after day. Although I suppose the praise for that never hurts.

No. The compliments are always about the writings I do at my most vulnerable. Beyond the creative mind or even my analytical one.

It's about the writings from my soul. Cliche? Maybe. But it's true.

It'll be the handwritten letters I write in my most contemplative mornings, the rarest of days that I wake up early. Or the late night texts from when I lay down for bed, my cheeks aching from laughing all night with my friends.

It is only then, that I truly write how I feel.

I tell my friends how grateful I am for them to even exist. For them to be in my life. I write of their greatest accomplishments. Especially the ones they never see. How beautiful their souls are or how kind their eyes can be. The compliments flow easy and I somehow never have to write a lie.

And though I write and I write, no one ever seems to write for me.

'Oh, but I'm not good with words like that!'

'You have such a wonderful way with words. Nothing I say could compare!'

It seems that all those in my life are lacking in this particular skill.

Or perhaps I'm not worth writing for.

Regardless, I keep writing. Waiting for the moment in which the words will come together for those I love and maybe someday I too shall receive a letter.

How tight are the cloths bound along my hands?

Are they even tied at all?

I stand on the shore, salty water pooling beneath my feet. The sand gives way. I feel the coolness of a blade on my heel. I panic. Flail.

Fall.

Weeping maiden, trapped.

Am I?

The air only smells of the sea.

Are my captors lying in wait?

Or have they left me to my misery, knowing I would keep myself?

Blinded by the cheap rent and the convenient location, I hadn't noticed the apartment's paper-thin walls when I first moved in. These walls now tell the story of my evenings, bringing parts of lives and sounds I do not belong to.

The laughter of the couple next door started it all, a warm, contagious sound that made me smile despite my own shortcomings. I saw them in my mind's eye—young, in love, making supper in a tiny kitchen that was identical to mine but strangely happier. On the evenings when my own apartment felt too quiet and empty, their laughter was a comfort.

Then there was the elderly man upstairs, his footfall above my head in a steady, reassuring beat. He would walk back and forth for exactly one hour from one end of his apartment to the other every evening at seven. I imagined him, towering and hunched over, lost in thought about the days long past, counting his steps as he went. His regimen became a part of my own, a cue that the day was coming to an end and it was time to unwind.

And there were quiet sobs, too, soft and heartbreaking, from the apartment below me. The woman who wept into the night, her sobs a private sorrow, had a name I never knew. I would hope that the tones from my guitar would permeate the floorboards and console her in her sadness as I would play a sweet, wordless lullaby for her on those nights.

These sounds—fragments of lives—became my life's soundtrack, an ever-present reminder of the invisible bonds that bind us all together. I started to sense that we were all connected to this accidental community—not by sight, but by sound, by the shared humanity that pierced the walls.

One evening, the noises ceased. The footsteps, the arguments, the weeping, and the laughing. The absence of sound was more startling than even the loudest cry out as silence descended, heavy and unsettling. I lay awake, breathing heavily in the silence, till I knew what had to be done.

I took up my guitar and began to play. I played a hopeful and healing tune for the couple that lived next door. I played a sentimental and soothing tune for the elderly man who lives upstairs. I performed a song of solace and fortitude for the woman beneath me. I performed for myself, seeking a sense of unity and inclusion.

Their sounds, entwined in the symphony of existence, convey a story about our lives as well as theirs. And while I was playing, I pictured them listening in the calm of the night, each in their own apartment, a quiet acknowledgement of our common journey—a community united by sound rather than sight—bounded by the walls dividing us and the lives that, in some strange way, bind us together.