Let’s not pretend. I can’t do it anymore. I know I shouldn’t be saying this. Believe me, please.

You smiled at me, and I smiled at you. You laughed with me, but I cried by myself. You talked to me first, and I really wish that you hadn’t. From the first moment that I saw you, I knew that I had to stay away. Your dark eyes held a comfort that I hadn’t felt in a long time. There was a familiarity about them that lingered even after I left. And then you spoke—and we talked. I couldn't stop. I couldn't push you away.

I know that I should have.

But how could I? It all felt right—as though every moment of my past had led me to you. All the longing, pain, regret, and heartbreak became nothing. It all combined into the moment we met. It was like you were made to fit into the keyhole of my life. You inspired me to be truthful to myself. You made me question whether the life that I had was the one that was most worth living. I reconsidered what it means to be happy, what it means to love.

There was a time when I thought that love was simple, straightforward. To love one means to feel indifferent about all. But then I met you. I do love her, but I miss you. I was young when I first fell in love. It seemed to me at the time as though a delicate air surrounded me. I didn’t notice anyone else. Only she could capture my attention. My love story with her was beautiful—is beautiful. That doesn’t make our’s any less exceptional. It does make it seemingly impossible.

There is a comfort with her that I have known since my youth. Even as I grow, she stays with me. She is security within a chaotic world. She has been the only thing that I could rely on during the past nine years. And she does make me happy—although, not in the same way that you have made me happy. When I am with you, the chaos surrounding me no longer exists. It’s only us. But I guess that when we are together, we are the chaos.

In some world, we are meant to be with one another. You and I. Me and you. I believe that. But I’m afraid this just can’t be that world. If the last two years had gone the way they were meant to go, if all the pandemonium no longer existed, all signs would’ve pointed to you. If space and time had only been different…

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that this isn’t what you wanted. Being around one another isn’t good for either of us. I can’t give you what you want, and I am only torturing myself by pretending that I can. This thing—this magical, wonderful, beautiful thing—has existed. It has disguised itself as sneaking glances, dimpled conversation, and coincidental meetings. It took place between the two of us. I hope it was all in my head.

But maybe I don't.

I decamped Le Sphinx when curfew broke,

before sun's rays had dawned,

ensoddened by the German blokes

that haunted la maison.

Midst fetid fog of poverty,

I lugged my bones toward home

to pen tales of debauchery

with goss relayed in code.

'Cause high-born whores knew how to read,

but few could also write,

the SOE enlisted me

to help France in her plight.

Young soldiers bragged of strategies

when plied with alcohol;

spilled secrets faster than their seed

as I held them in thrall.

Their leaders then paid half a franc

per sex-enshrouded word,

which netted thrice my nightly bank

for stories thus conferred.

The Nazi presses pumped my vice

throughout the Paris streets,

out to the demarcation line

with unsuspecting speed.

For three long years I undermined

their tyrranous regime;

amassing wealth, I walked the line,

avenging the marquis.

Girl Scout cookies used to be bigger, and there were more in the box.

Grandmothers used to make fudge and cookies, pies that cooled in screenless windows, made-from-scratch biscuits, fry bread, fried everything, with real lard.

The milkman delivered bottles with fresh cream floating on the top. Coagulated goodness for the kids.

Vegetables at McDonalds were burger toppings, not salads.

I don't miss the open racism. I'm glad women can vote. And it's nice we're more or less done with asbestos and small pox and polio. But damn, can we bring back the Thin Mints?

“Something‘s missing. Something‘s wrong.

I used to know where I belong,

but now each day feels like a fight.

Nothing in my life feels right.

My mom tap-dances on my nerves.

My father has this way with words

that makes me feel like I’m a child.

My credit bill is running wild...

And then there’s the environment...

Let’s not start on the President!

My friends are all so self-obsessed,

and my chihuahua is possessed!

My Facebook posts are massive fails,

I’m terrified of vapor trails...

Oh, I just want the world to stop!”

“... Ma’am, this is a coffee shop.”

#therapy #coffee #chihuahua #whatisthepointofthese #challengeoftheweek

Doubled up

full of jam, peanut butter,

apples and bananas,

useful for a moment.

Empty, crumpled, torn,

discarded into the dark,

the abyss,

swallowed.

Months later

a whale washes ashore,

90 pounds of trash

they say.

They say connection is a drug

a buzz that binds the soul anew.

The oxytocin fills his brain

and fuses his heart onto you.

But then connection starts to fail

and desperation makes him fear.

You hide your tears behind the veil

because he always wants you near.

Attachment has become a cell

you’re locked away without a key.

To outside viewers all is well

you’re drowning in your misery.

What once were harsh words now are blows.

You hide your pain behind a wall.

The worst thing is that no one knows

how much you ache, how far you’ll fall.

While he’s afraid he’ll lose his clout,

you are fearing for your life,

but he will never let you out.

You are his victim and his wife.

#fear #attachment #separation #divorce #domesticviolence #connection #violence #lonliness #metoo #addiction #spousalabuse

The first thing that comes to mind? That one’s easy: how much I miss good American breakfast food. I’ve had that item on my mind a lot recently, since in a few days it’ll be seven months since I arrived in Brazil for a study abroad program, and therefore seven days since I’ve been anywhere near a restaurant that serves halfway decent American style breakfast. I haven’t left the country once since arriving, which also means seven months of me constantly wanting bacon instead of the sad granola I eat every day when I wake up. I’ve learned since being here that I can do without most things; I talk to my family and friends all the time, Skype my boyfriend regularly, and have adapted pretty well to the new culture and language. But the one thing that gets me is always the food I miss, especially breakfast food.

I stayed in a hostel recently where the “complimentary breakfast” consisted of a pot of coffee and some plain bread with butter. While hostels aren’t exactly reputable for having the best breakfast, especially if they happen to be free, this one was particularly sad. I sat drinking my standard two cups of black coffee and munching on a piece of bread thinking about what I wouldn’t give to have some of my mom’s waffles, bacon, and eggs around the dining table with my family at that moment.

For a lot of people, there is something about food that transports us through time and connects us to good memories from our past: times making cookies at Grandma’s house, Dad out grilling steak and veggies while you and your sister shuck corn on the cob, that one restaurant where you and you boyfriend went for pancakes at 3am that one time. Sunday mornings when you would get up before everyone else and make waffle batter before burning yourself on hot bacon grease. The meals your host mom would hire a cook to prepare every Sunday and the heat up later in the week. The meals your host sister would make with vegetables with hard to pronounce names and fruits you’ve never seen before. (She’s also a vegetarian, so the meat substitutes are somewhere new territory for you.) All these memories, tied to different moments, smells, and flavors.

The first thing I’m going to do after I get back to the United States is find the nearest IHOP and get myself a giant stack of pancakes and just douse it in maple syrup. It’ll have sides of four pieces of extra crispy bacon, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and ketchup on them (but NOT hot sauce), a few pieces of whole wheat toast with jam, and I’ll steal some French fries from whatever lunch dish my sister gets instead of breakfast. That’s the plan, and I’m sticking to it for now.

I think I’m just thinking about all this stuff because my dinner was the equivalent of a tortilla with cheese and oregano on it and a salad, so I’m pretty hungry right now. I promise there is good food in Brazil, but I also have to admit that I have lost weight since being here. Instead of blaming the weight loss on healthy eating, of the fact that I usually walk two miles a day here, work out a few days a week, regularly surf and hike, I’m going to blame it on a serious lack of bacon in my life.

She is hardly a woman now. Her young eyes gaze upon a screen, focused, unmoving. Her skin illuminated by the bright computer monitor in front of her. The room is dark, and the only noise is her hands clicking on the mouse in desperation.

The screen lights up as she clicks on the testing icon. The first question flashes in black lettering before giving her one minute for an answer.

<< What is your name? >>

She types slowly, << Natalia Peters >>

She had spent a long time picking that name, scrolling through the name list for hours. She ended up picking Natalia on a whim, thinking it sounded pretty. She knew no one of the name, though she didn’t know very many people so far. No one with a name anyway.

The second question is up, << What is your Age? >>

She wants to laugh, it must have been a joke. Or simply a test to make sure the test takers knew exactly what they were doing. Everyone takes the test at the same age.

<< 18 >>

Natalia is eighteen years old and is just being given a name, a name chosen by her which makes it more promising. Before the test she was simply Student 099. She was the 99th person born in her year. Before she was classified as a student at the age of four, she was Child 099. That is how all people are raised here. Everyone’s big day is the test. The system has a way of knowing which are worthy to move on the next stage of the life cycle.

The test and the system were created in the year 0, 146 years ago. It was created by the Association, and the reasons behind this society is success and societal happiness. Natalia never questioned it. As she was raised it was implied that no one should ever, under any circumstance, question the Association.

The third question is up. << What is the highest rated skill on your Student graduation document? >>

<< Problem Solving >> She types, only glancing at the other document.

<< Second highest skill? >>

<< Creativity, Exploration thinking. >>

Natalia remembers yesterday, graduation. 200 students received their document, informing them of all they would need for the Test. It was their personality and knowledge levels listed separately. She knows that it is what the Association uses to determine what Work a person will do and where a person should be placed in the society.

Natalia remembers Teacher 003 as he handed her the results. He was an older man, accustomed to the system and its ways. He gave her the page slowly, as if trying to conserve their last interaction. He looked sad, his lip quivered, and his eyes showed a small sense of fear. He tried to hide it and swallow his guilt. He did something, something so strange for a teacher. He hugged her. It was a sensation Natalia had not felt since she left her early parental units. The warmth of a human embrace was something Natalia never thought she would cherish so much. It brought a smile to her face even though she knew Teacher 003 would receive light punishment for the action. She couldn’t understand why he did that, why he looked that way.

<< Lowest level skill? >>

<< Mathematics >>

<< Do you have a preferred work placement? List only one. >>

She had thought about this a long while too. Her interests seemed to be everywhere but nowhere with pride. She never wanted to be a teacher, or a mathematician, scientist, or doctor. She liked to doodle and learn. She especially enjoyed stories and interacting with others. Alas the work Artist died out long ago and there is only ever three Historians in the society at a time. All three of those positions are currently filled.

She typed the only thing she could think of, << Librarian >>

<< Please list a work assignment that would be displeasing. List only one. >>

This was easy, << Scientist >> sure there are other displeasing work assignments such at peace keeper and waste manager. But she was sure she did not have a chance of receiving those jobs. If she did it would not be the worst.

A set of blue letters flashes across the screen, << This is the last question. Are you prepared? >>

She selected the box what read, yes. She thought that this was another silly question.

The last question appears. She sucks in a nervous breath as she reads, << Should the society undergo changes? If so, please list them. >>

She types shakily, thinking quickly, she only has the minute.

<< We should have more ways to be creative, students should have more free time, we should pick names earlier, we should learn more about the association. >>

The screen goes dark for a couple of seconds. The computer analyses her results. Natalia’s palms go sweaty, all she can hear is the sound of her own hear, pounding rapidly in her ears.

The screen is plain white again. Words appear, words that should not have been possible.

<< Student 099, you have failed. Prepare to be terminated. >>

Her eyes widen and she stands quickly. The chair falls behind her and the lock on the plain steel door clicks shut. Natalia stumbles to the door, pounding her fists down on it. Why did the door lock?

A foggy white mists flows out of the vents, the horrid smell fills her nose.

Natalia can feel her mind fogging, she lets out a cry.

The last thing she hears is a voice over the intercom system. “Termination of Student 099 complete. Goodbye Natalia,”

Six.

A scream and a crash. Something wasn’t right. The pitch was higher than normal, filled with more fear than anger, and the silence that followed was a nightmare in and of itself.

Six.

She held her eyes tight. If she just kept her eyes closed she couldn’t see. If she couldn’t see then nothing would happen. And naturally, if nothing happened then she couldn’t relive it in her sleep later.

Six.

Glass broke. Her delicate fingers curled into small, fretful fists. More screams. And then the crying in her closet. She squeezed her eyes just a bit tighter to hold back the burning salt water before opening them.

Six.

Her tiny irises slowly focused on the gentle light pouring from the shelf over her bed. A miniature castle all softly lit, light streaming through the rose window panes. Her whole room blushing in the night as it watched her dream.

Six.

Her gaze hung in the sparkling castle windows. If she slept in that castle, it would probably be quiet. Like the world had breathed in and would hold it until the morning. She’d fall to sleep to dream with a rose flush covering her and the walls, and wake to the pale yellow of the sun bathing her in daybreak. And as her eyes opened the world would exhale and she’d take in her first morning breaths.

Six.

Volume poured in from the room down the hall and the crying in the closet picked back up. A heavy sigh and dainty footsteps carried her to the small voice.

Six.

She held onto the petite hands and smiled. Her finger drug gently across the bridge of the nose and her mouth shushed and hushed. The tears slowed and the breathing calmed. And as the storm slowly seemed to quell and pass, the tiny faces began to rest.

Six.

Wood split. Screams echoed through their dreams. Booming, foreign voices tearing into the night. And she woke with a start. And she must see what calamity exploded just past her almost closed door.

Six.

Mama?

Six.

And he sat. Tears streaming. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. Glittering puddles of glass strewn across the floor. Clothes hung from the drawers in front of him, tangled around each other from being dug through in haste. The tv box playing static, and the lighting low.

Six.

And all around were the men in black. Bright lights held at their waists. Slow, deep voices dangling in the air where there should be the steady, quiet breathing of sleep.

Six.

Mama?!

Six.

And the tears pinched at her eyes. And her voice hung up somewhere in her throbbing chest.

Six.

Six.

No, baby! Go back to your room! Take your sister back, baby! It’s not safe!

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And with his eyes vacant and staring, he sat. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. And his hand rested on cold metal, held as tightly as a lifeline, pushing deep into his temple.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And that’s when the dreams ceased and the nightmares became unending.