it takes over a year to decompose myself. my gorgeous decay is interrupted and, when pulled out from the ground by a fleshy hand, i arise groaning. i climb six feet towards the heavens, leaving sparse footprints and claw marks on my dirt path upwards. when i return to green grass and breathing people, i am handed a bouquet. is this an apology? are you guilty? is it gratitude? a thank you? the rose thorns do not puncture the skin on my palms. i do not bleed anymore. the red petals fall through my bony fingers. he loves me not.

I felt everthing changed for me in 2015, when I had a very severe depression, and I have hit the rock bottom, as they say. My worldview shifted; to be honest though, I just had the courage to make a leap towards what my experience has led me and embraced my contradictory nature. It is curious how often the inner events shape us more than the tragedies of our lives, which is the case for me, anyway; the worst moments are the one when suffering arises in you like a gigantic monster surfacing from the bottom of the ocean, a demon whose presence was always unsuspected and repressed.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m a chronic quitter. I went to college thrice, and only finished one degree - the least-useful and most-expensive one. I think I’m marginally better at Jeopardy and would do well on the English section of the SAT, but that’s about it.

I played soccer for a season, tap danced for a year, I went to golf camp, basketball camp, tennis camp, ballet, gymnastics, and that’s not even the full list. I have not been to the gym in multiple years and I wheeze when I run.

I used to paint, tried to learn to knit, went to photography club. I have art supplies clogging up my closet with old textbooks.

Sometimes I read. Rarely, but sometimes. I have started more books than I have finished, much more. I lie to people about having finished The Great Gatsby and 1984. I just couldn’t get into them, but they sound like great stories.

But, I ate a peanut butter sandwich - no jelly, just peanut butter - everyday for 12 years. I like what I like and when I like, I really like. I obsess and repeat.

This is all to say that I don’t read very often, but when I do read, I read hard. I read 200-300 pages a day. When I finish books, I finish them in <48 hours. I don’t only download PDFs of books because I have no money to buy them - despite the amount of time I spend at the bookstore. I like to highlight my books.

It’s color-coded. Orange is for new words that I’ve picked up and want to use - I write those down later somewhere else. Green is something I liked. Yellow is something that I can’t quite make up my mind about. Red is bad - and I usually insert a comment about why I don’t like it and how I would write it differently. Pink - only for fiction, not poetry - has to do with dates and times. Light blue means I cried, dark blue means I sobbed. Purple means I felt my stomach flip at the words on the page. Purple and blue are little delicacies. I want to be these colors.

When I finish a book, I don’t read it once, I read it again…and again and again. Until I can gain no more knowledge or pleasure from a book. Then, I write all my thoughts about it down, read reviews, fanfiction, and watch movie adaptations.

I read American Psycho in two nights and then I sat down in front of the TV with my PDF open and a notebook and pen next to me. I wrote down the similarities and differences, as well as my likes and dislikes. In case you were wondering, the book is better in my opinion - the movie doesn’t fully capture the critique of consumerism. I might write an essay on that.

Recently, I spent two nights reading a fanfiction - yes,I love fanfiction. It was 160k words, 14 chapters, still being updated periodically. I have never cried harder at a single piece of media. I am inconsolable. I audibly sobbed and used up a box of tissues. I envy this writer more than any other. Entire chapters are blue in color.

This is all to say that I am not a frequent reader, but I am an obsessive reader. I do not “like” anything, I love things - unless I don’t. When I love, I love until I cannot love anymore.

I wish I could forget many things.

If you notice, most my posts are self-loathing.

This is not such. This was no fault of my own, and it is not easy to read.

Not easy to digest. Not easy to feel. Or to forgive. I never will.

But I have long forgiven myself.

So I urge you thoughtful reader to step away if you cannot handle a childhood abusive experience. I share it not to seek sympathy, nor to win a challenge- but to honour a little girl with lamb sheets and teddy bear wallpaper.

---

I was not assaulted in person- my skin shone diamond, untouched, but my mouth was taped and hands threaded by heavy rope with the threat of my family.

Now, of course I know someone online did not know me nor was able to find my family.

But a little girl treasures her family more than gold, and was willing to trade her body for the treasure of her loved ones.

I was forced with hands shaking horribly to dissect a shaving razor to use the metal against my soft, supple flesh. And with fingers inked in my own life essence, had to photograph the proof. Had to do far worse to myself than that, all because someone with a blurry photo of a young girl asked if I wanted friends.

What healthy, happy ten year old would have been on a 'Make Friends' app if not.

I will never heal from that. I wish I could. I wish I could forget. But forgetting would be to allow that child to suffer alone. To allow a little girl with bushy hair in her pink pyjamas to share the trauma alone.

So, perhaps this is against the challenge, to say I don't wish I could forget it. But I wish I could stop it. To step in with a warm hand, and lower the iPod onto the fleet of teddy bears and direct that sweet little girl to the pantry for a snack. To show her big brothers the messages. I wish I could comfort her, at the very least. But I cant.

So this is a haunt I shall forever be plagued by, seeking comfort in liquor or drugs like many other poets before me.

As the time flew by, the plastic never ceased to feel broken. Shards scattered across the floor of memories and dictated a false sense of reality. A hope, a promise, and a wish fulfilled with such rare ease as splitting a knife through butter. Yet, there was no satisfaction. No nauseating burst of thrill or clarity of mind for the future. There was only duty and a fog that lifted one foot after the other and tap danced forward in time. Friends reached out with gentle pats and family eagerly tried on their new wares. The only shred of life that heaved through the wall of smoke was a queer panicked feeling of free falling that was purposely displaced with ignorant bliss.

The numbness persisted passed the point of no return. With each beat of a fresh heart came a radiant slash of pain that shook each atom to it's core. Again, again, again. The agony sewed shut the lip's scream for silence. Each pulse a reminder that there was no option of flight, only fight. Hours upon hours elapsed where the months of hope, betrayal, ecstacy, doom, and boredom, which had all been withheld, finally exploded in a moment. The twisting, churning presence of the future emerged, followed by a sudden release. Relief. A burden lifted. The numbness, the absence of life, it all disapated.

Cries; tears of joy shrieked out. The freshness of breath drawn deeply into the lungs felt sweet again. The taste of warm meals superseded the fulfillment for energy once more. Sleep, such precious sleep, could be found in the most precarious of places. The isolation among a million faces faded into one being whose smile created a home. The numbness, the lack of direction or hope or danger evaporated in the sweat of labor. All multiverses intertwined and the birth of the Sun became the center of my universe.

A thick fog envelopes me, hazy and unclear

Lost in a maze, where true despair is near

My tears flow like a river, forming a steady stream,

and heartache whispers like a winter's breeze, silent and unseen

In a world of gray, I have lost my way

And in the starry night, only a little light still stays

My emotions will soon succumb,

every tear making me numb.

But even in the darkness there is a light,

and in hope's embrace, gloom will take flight

For a flicker of hope lights the way,

and will continue to guide me through each new day.

Pulling up to the parking lot, Becca hesitated in opening the door. Glancing at the time, she calculated about one hundred and sixty-eight hours of her time in a home that she no longer belonged in. Sluggishly she got out of the car and took her bags out from the trunk. Walking up the steps she saw old markings made with chalk, from the days she used to be innocent. Such memories no longer remained in her head, she sighed and then gave two loud knocks to the door. She heard footsteps and then a yell, another argument about to break out she figured. Home sweet home, she just couldn't wait to be put in a corner like some kind of homeless man just needing a place to sleep.

Her humble abode had turned into a place she now detests. A middle-aged woman opens the door, with a cigarette in her mouth, her curly hair is all over the place, and she's wearing a stained almost see-through blouse. Becca gives a disgusted look and starts to cough. She walks right in and instantly goes inside her prison room. The walls peeled, and spider webs surrounded all the corners of the ceiling. The bed is stained with spilled coffee and cigarette burns, holes are ripped from the middle, and it's just set on the floor. The old TV meant for the kitchen is now on the floor across the bed. She closes the door behind her and tries to get some rest, although she knows that in this house rest is a word not commonly known.

A loud sound of glass breaking against the wall woke Becca up, she gave a loud sigh as she saw that not even ten minutes had passed by. Plates were already being smashed against walls and floors. The cries of children were starting to grow as she heard swearing after every broken dish crash. It was hard to distinguish what the argument was about since the loudest voice sounded hoarse; she figured it came from the old smoking woman. The swearing continued and not too shortly after Becca heard a soft knock on her door. As she went to open the door, four little children ran inside and hid themselves under the covers. A small smirk appeared on her face, she thought of all the possible ways these children remained so innocent after living in such an evil home. She pitied them, she was free to leave this place whenever she pleased, but Becca knew they were not blessed with the same luck.

She thought of why she even bothered to come back to this place she hated so much, and then as if reading her mind, the children gave her a look she was not used to. They looked at her with admiration and respect. These children were the reason she would always come back, a blessing and a curse she thought. She hated coming home but loved those kids so much she would take the risk anyway. Coming back to reality, the yelling and swearing continued, along with the crashing and banging of things being thrown around. The sound of police sirens would be coming in soon, she thought. To some, this might be shocking and frightening, but to Becca, this was just another typical night involving the old smoking hag and her lover of the week. Looking back at the old clock with the numbers fading and the minute hand slightly bent, she figured it was about three in the morning. The children were fast asleep each holding their comfort toy close to them. Dehydrated Becca listened for any hostile noises coming from the outside, nothing but the static sound of the television was heard. She opened the door; broken glass surrounded the entire living room floor. She winced as a blade of glass cut her foot, she let out a soft swear and pulled out the broken glass.

Once in the kitchen, Becca gagged at the smell of rotten eggs mixed with sour milk and pickle juice spilled on the floor. The ceiling fan looked as if it was about to collapse at any moment, the wallpaper was peeling off as cockroaches made their way across the kitchen. The floor tiles, once white was now piss yellow and covered with old food crumbs, colonies of ants crawling around, and cigarette butts with lipstick markings on them. Flies swarmed back and forth, as Becca made her way to the fridge. It was no surprise to her that inside the fridge was nothing but booze, cheap booze, and an old moldy piece of cheese. She grabbed one of the cans of cheap booze and made her way back to the jail cell. Before she was able to make it to her room, she couldn't help but notice how oddly quiet it was. It was almost unnatural, she decided to have a look around and found the old lady knocked out on the floor with no sign of her lover which Becca found completely normal. She looked at the table and scoffed as she held a barrel tube from a Bic pen that had been used to snort cocaine.

She sat down beside the drugged-out body of the old woman and pushed back the hair from her face. Becca looked at her face and gave a soft laugh as she caressed this woman's head, she remembered how it used to be the other way around. When the old smoking hag was a loving mother, and the lover of the week was the father who loved her. And as quickly as she remembered those things, they faded even quicker,r and reality set back in. This woman was a stranger to her and deserved no compassion, so Becca got up covered the body with a blank,t and locked herself up in her so-called room. Since the children had all fallen asleep on what you could call a bed, she made herself a comfy place to sleep right beside them on the floor. Before her eyes shut, she saw the time was six forty-seven, only one hundred and fifty-six hours to go.

“You Idiot!”

The words, her words, echoed in my head,

constantly,

continuously,

every day for the last six years.

Of all of the ideas she had,

all of the songs she sang,

and all of the blessings she gave,

it was only these words I could not distance myself from.

“You Idiot!”

I should have told her the truth and I should have told her the instant I knew.

I wanted to shield her from the impact it would have on us.

If she knew, it would destroy all she ever worked for.

If she knew I knew, it would destroy her.

She would become a shell of her past.

That person you remember fondly until you remember why you are remembering.

It always ends poorly for such people.

She was now such people.

“You Idiot!”

I hear it.

I see it.

I can even taste it.

Her words resonate and permeate my senses.

Her words drive me toward a resolution, six years too late, but better late than never.

I can’t save her.

That ship has sailed.

I can’t save myself.

I will never be the man she wanted.

Sometimes I believe that ship was never meant to sail.

“You Idiot!”

But I help those that don’t even realize they need my help.

These people I target dangle on the precipice of ruin, only inches from despair.

From their POV, they see only their past, maybe my past.

From my POV, I see their one possible future if they are to have any future.

I am an idiot.

But, for today at least,

I can prevent another from joining my club.

Someone once told me that owls have ancient wisdom behind those big round eyes. If only we could decipher their calls we’d know all the secrets to the universe. I wish they’d communicate this ‘wisdom’ a little quieter because I’m a light sleeper.

It wasn’t a wise decision to go on this trip. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. If I were an owl, I might have known better. I thought I could become someone I’m not for the week. But I’m ‘indoorsy’. Camping is not for me.

I’m standing on the front porch of the log cabin we’re staying in, looking up at the moon, peeking through the trees. I think it’s a waxing crescent, but I’m not sure. I was never an expert on such things.

There’s a creak from behind me and then a soft voice.

I turn around and lock eyes with Lily, who’s wearing my hand-me-down pajamas.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispers.

“Me neither,” I whisper back.

“They’re so noisy.”

“The owls?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re just talking to each other - kinda like us.”

“About what?”

“Ancient wisdom.”

“Can you understand what they’re saying?”

“No. Can you?”

“Yeah.”

When I ask her what they’re talking about she proceeds to hoot like an owl.

I laugh and roll my eyes at her.

“Can I have some?” She asks, pointing to the mug I’m holding.

“I guess,” I say and hand it over.

I know her well enough to know she’ll hate it.

She sips it and makes a face.

“Ew,” she says.

“You say that now, but when I’m asleep and you’re still here with the owls, you’ll wish you had this.”

“It makes you sleepy?”

“It’s supposed to.”

“I’m already sleepy, but I can’t sleep.”

“Same.”

There is a moment of silence before Lily speaks again.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“About what?”

“What the owls are actually saying.”

She whispers, as if not to let the owls know that she’s aware of their secrets.

“Sure.”

We head back into the cabin and lie down in our sleeping bags, huddled close together.

In moments like these, I selfishly wish that I had an older sister, someone like me who I could tell stories to when I was 8. But then again I am grateful to have her all to myself, which might be a little selfish, too.

I feel stupid for being angry when my parents announced I’d be having a sister. I was a melodramatic mess in the months before I met her.

But now, I wouldn’t give her up for a million bucks or all the wisdom in the world.

Lying there in our sleeping bags, Lily starts telling me about the owls. I don’t remember what she said because I fell asleep about five minutes in.

Lily is one of the best storytellers I know, so I know wasn’t boring. Maybe she knew the magic words to make me fall asleep.

I bet that’s what the owls taught her.

Someone once told me that owls have ancient wisdom behind those big round eyes. If only we could decipher their calls we’d know all the secrets to the universe. I wish they’d communicate this ‘wisdom’ a little quieter because I’m a light sleeper.

It wasn’t a wise decision to go on this trip. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. If I were an owl, I might have known better. I thought I could become someone I’m not for the week. But I’m ‘indoorsy’. Camping is not for me.

I’m standing on the front porch of the log cabin we’re staying in, looking up at the moon, peeking through the trees. I think it’s a waxing crescent, but I’m not sure. I was never an expert on such things.

There’s a creak from behind me and then a soft voice.

I turn around and lock eyes with Lily, who’s wearing my hand-me-down pajamas.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispers.

“Me neither,” I whisper back.

“They’re so noisy.”

“The owls?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re just talking to each other - kinda like us.”

“About what?”

“Ancient wisdom.”

“Can you understand what they’re saying?”

“No. Can you?”

“Yeah.”

When I ask her what they’re talking about she proceeds to hoot like an owl.

I laugh and roll my eyes at her.

“Can I have some?” She asks, pointing to the mug I’m holding.

“I guess,” I say and hand it over.

I know her well enough to know she’ll hate it.

She sips it and makes a face.

“Ew,” she says.

“You say that now, but when I’m asleep and you’re still here with the owls, you’ll wish you had this.”

“It makes you sleepy?”

“It’s supposed to.”

“I’m already sleepy, but I can’t sleep.”

“Same.”

There is a moment of silence before Lily speaks again.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?”

“About what?”

“What the owls are actually saying.”

She whispers, as if not to let the owls know that she’s aware of their secrets.

“Sure.”

We head back into the cabin and lie down in our sleeping bags, huddled close together.

In moments like these, I selfishly wish that I had an older sister, someone like me who I could tell stories to when I was 8. But then again I am grateful to have her all to myself, which might be a little selfish, too.

I feel stupid for being angry when my parents announced I’d be having a sister. I was a melodramatic mess in the months before I met her.

But now, I wouldn’t give her up for a million bucks or all the wisdom in the world.

Lying there in our sleeping bags, Lily starts telling me about the owls. I don’t remember what she said because I fell asleep about five minutes in.

Lily is one of the best storytellers I know, so I know wasn’t boring. Maybe she knew the magic words to make me fall asleep.

I bet that’s what the owls taught her.