Once upon a field of snow:

White intoxication lit her face

     lanterns leaving patterns

     in the harboring snow

     sorrowful piles of gloom

Alabaster white hands

     blend in incandescent glow

     as booted feet sink

     into powdery quick sand

Lemon yellow winter sun

     echoed on sallow skin

     airborne snowflakes

     of butterfly flutters

Knotted and pleated mounds

     oyster gray clouds

     whipped snow

     in froth of dreams

Sparse windblown tree soldiers

     march to refuge

     snowdrifts plodding

     single file down hills

Howls of sleeting whiteness

     form blankets

     shrouding white hot pain

     veiled gauzy curtains

Fields of crystal diamonds

     adorn her throat

     wind breathing its last

     on vanilla breast hills.

I’ll tell you how I died, but you have to promise not to laugh. I’m serious.

I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Allston, Massachusetts -- I was living alone because my boyfriend, Gary, just left me. I know what you’re picturing: some big, millennial brawl where we threw our IKEA flatware at each other and set fire to each other’s laundry baskets while I screamed, “Who is she?! Who is she?!”

I wish. That feels like an ending worthy of a long-winded relationship.

Instead, I came home from work one day and he was gone.

His stuff was gone too -- no trace of him left to burn except the couch he dragged in from the street corner a month before (the couch with the weird, dark red splotch that could’ve been spilled wine, but was probably blood).

It felt like a game. Like an Easter egg hunt. Like I’d find all his stuff hidden in the dark corner at the back of the closet or in the cabinet under the sink or behind the dumpster in the alley.

He changed his number. Deleted Facebook. His emails bounced.

He must have had his best buddy, Todd, come by, while I was out. Must’ve loaded up Todd’s dingy white pick-up with his X-box and flannel shirts and driven off into the sunset.

They were probably at Todd’s college, cracking open beer bottles with undergrad cleavage, or whatever it is 26-year-old toddler men do.

Anyway, enough about them. They were out of my life. Losers.

I was living alone.

Single for the first time since senior year of college and determined to enjoy it.

I wanted to whip myself into shape, to scrub off those soft layers that piled on from all our nights ordering in. I wanted to sculpt myself into a bullet, bold and sleek and ready to crash through new apartments and beds unharmed.

I made myself a lean, mean shrimp scampi with zucchini noodles.

It was so good, I shoveled it down my throat. I shoveled so much of it down my throat at once that a large chunk of shrimp blocked my airway.

And then I died. On my coffee table. Trying to give myself the Heimlich.

I died on a pile of trashy grocery-store-checkout-line magazines with tips on plumping up my flat butt and faking cheekbones with bronzer.

I died with QVC on in the background on mute; it was comforting -- the bright colors and white smiles, the confidence that buying this cowl/scarf/skirt/leg-warmer would make your sorry life bearable.

I died with a hamper overstuffed with sweaty sports bras, three overdue cable bills, $42,365 in deferred student loan debt, four missed calls from my mother and a perfectly portioned triple-layer chocolate mousse chilling in the fridge (that I would never eat).

I blamed Gary.

The only real benefit to being a ghost (and there are many downsides: you’re always cold, you’re always tired, you’re always hungry but you can’t eat) is that you can pop across any distance just by thinking about where you’re going.

The bad news is -- popping drains your energy. The more energy you store up, the more you can interact with the living world. The less energy you have, the more invisible you are. The best way to store energy is to sit still and charge up.

That’s why the only ghost sightings you hear about are creepy 18th century women in frilly nightgowns – they’re just old homebodies.

First, I wanted to visit my parents and watch my demise bring them together to sob on each other’s shoulders. That’s what divorced parents are supposed to do when their only child dies tragically, right? Put aside their differences and mourn together.

Instead, they were quiet, distant. Maybe shocked, maybe just embarrassed that they put so much effort into raising a daughter who choked to death on an ocean spider. They stood on opposite ends of the church, like different parties at a wedding.

When the funeral was over, and the rest of my stuff was carted out of my apartment, they went their separate ways. They even deleted each other’s names out of their cells, like teenagers.

Dad went back to his girlfriend and mom moved to a retirement community in Florida, even though she hadn’t even hit 60.

By the way, Gary didn’t even bother going to my funeral. Ass.

I popped back to the Allston apartment, because it felt right. When you die somewhere, you have a special connection to it. It feels like a childhood Christmas eve at home-- all cozy and meaningful.

Growing up, before my parents divorced, we didn’t have a fireplace, but we put the Yule Log on our TV and cranked the thermostat up as high as it would go. I’d swaddle myself in scratchy blankets on the sofa and crunch down on supermarket sugar cookies and read flowery Santa Claus origin stories and feel so warm and peaceful.

That’s how that ratty apartment felt to me now. It was a place of rest and restoration. It was powerful.

I spent a few days on my own, relaxing. And then -- a couple moved in.

They were older – must’ve been in their 60’s – too old to be sharing an apartment this cruddy. From what I could tell, they both just left their spouses for each other. And they couldn’t be friggin’ happier about it.

Lydia and Sam. Lydia was edgy, dressed in flowing black clothing, wore obnoxious perfume and painted pictures of naked women. Sam was sensitive and soulful and sang in a bluegrass cover band.

I hated them.

I hated the way they cooked dinner together. I hated the way Sam burned the salmon and Lydia still ate it and pretended it was delicious. I hated the way that burned salmon made my place smell like a fish market for weeks. I hated that my sense of smell was still functional.

I hated the way they danced together without music playing. I hated the way they brushed their teeth together, and clipped their toenails together, and I even hated the way they both went about their own business and looked up every once in a while to blow each other a kiss.

But the worst part was when they were intimate.

I tried to leave as soon as they started undressing, but I was still too weak to pop away. So I stood in the kitchen, as far away as I could get from the bedroom, and tried to drown out their moans and grunts with my own loud thoughts.

Eventually, I mustered my strength and turned on their blender.

Sam came running out of the bedroom, half-naked, wielding an acoustic guitar by its neck like a sword. “Who’s there?” he shouted over the whirring.

Lydia pushed him aside. She headed straight for the kitchen and shut off the blender, no nonsense.

“Must’ve been a power surge or something.”

She looked right at me as she said it. Could she see me?

I decided I wanted them out.

Seeing them together made my blood boil, and I’m not sure I even have blood anymore. Whatever was boiling, it probably wasn’t good for my health.

I thought I knew how to scare them away. But every time I turned on the microwave or shut off the TV, they thought it was faulty wiring. When I smacked down picture frames of their grandchildren, they thought I was a rat.

I thought it might be easier to freak them out at night in their bedroom (I’ve watched a lot of horror movies). So one night, I gently eased open their door and wandered in.

I saw them tangled together on the bed together in a shaft of moonlight. Like something out of a dream. Fast asleep, soft smiles on their faces. Breathing in tandem.

They looked so damn peaceful.

Gary and I never slept like that.

We slept like my parents did the year before they announced their divorce – bookending the bed. I know I’m a sweaty sleeper, but still.

I decided it was finally time to visit Gary.

I felt strong enough.

I found him in another small apartment bedroom – one I didn’t recognize – with a view across the Charles toward Allston. It was quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the occasional breath of a passing car.

Gary was sitting on the side of the bed in an undershirt, nipping at his fingernails. He did that when he was nervous. Bad habit.

I walked toward him, put my hand on his cheek.

I gathered every ounce of energy I had, every bit of affection for him I ever felt, and I made myself appear.

His eyes widened. He didn’t scream.

“Abby?” he asked.

I looked down at him. Really looked at him. I couldn’t say anything, but I tried.

“Abby…”

I held it as long as I could. I wanted it to be real.

And then I faded, I was invisible again.

Gary started crying-- big, ugly sobs.

A lump under the covers beside him stirred.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Todd said, emerging.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around a trembling Gary.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

Gary leaned back into Todd, they pressed their foreheads together. Almost… romantic.

Oh.

“I saw Abby,” Gary said to Todd. “She looked terrible.”

Jesus. Can’t I ever catch a break?

“It’s just a bad dream. It’s gonna be okay.”

Gary looked back over at me, questioning.

I nodded.

He closed his eyes and leaned into Todd. Sank back into bed with him.

I felt my blood turn to flat soda, the hate and anger drain away, and I waited for the light...

No light yet. Guess I might have another lesson to learn.

I tried to pop back home, but I was too weak. So I walked. As I crossed the city, I saw other loners – maybe humans, maybe just their ghosts -- scrolling on their phones for comfort.

I had always known, I think. I should’ve been the first to leave.

The next time I save up some energy, I think I’ll pop down to Florida and visit mom.

("Think Outside the Lines!")

By the time we get to the venue

our department table is filled

so we sit at an empty one

on the edge of the auditorium.

As our coworkers laugh

like the cool kids at school,

we fill up on stale bagels

and coffee that tastes like

charcoal and heartburn

and study the day’s agenda

(holy fuck, the ice breaker

is an hour long!)

and try not to look too desperate,

as seats fill around us. 

Introductions are made, 

the speaker thanks us for the

honor of being there and

…organizations work together to

demonstrate the creativity

and innovation happening in…

two members of the admin team,

late to the party, join us at

the rejects table. We stiffen,

straighten up unconsciously,

hide our game of hangman

and doodles, take copious notes

…only YOU get to define the

parameters of this game…

as the cool table laugh and talk

loudly among themselves

the admin women stir

and mutter to each other,

a storm is brewing

right in front of us,

and I nudge my coworker

…this is about how you present

yourselves to the community…

I could warn my friends, but

I don’t. One of the ladies,

the one with the severe gray bob,

cat-eye glasses, mouth twisted down,

marches over to them

and "whispers" loudly, so that

the entire auditorium can hear:

Y’all are being too loud

and distracting—show

some respect.

The table silences at once

and the speaker continues

as if nothing has happened

…we want to be active versus

passive—we want people 

to come to us…

Last night alone

Here in the dark

Here in this room

I should be cherishing

This moment

Like a fine aged wine

I should be drinking the solitude

Celebrating this ending loneliness

Putting to rest the ghosts of

Yesterday

But you are on my mind

I want to rush to your side

Kissing away the sorrows

Upon your chest

I want you to know

Your hands are no longer

Empty

That someone

Understands more than words

Could convey

Someone understands

Those memories that bind

Our hearts to yesterday

Stealing us away from the present

And clouding our hope

Of tomorrow

The recollections of those

Dark nights so severe

Your whole body

Rocked with heartache

And you wondered if you

Would ever see the dawn

Someone understands and

Celebrates the possibilities of

Tomorrow

Someone sees past the

Darkness

Into the light of the soul

Where love flows

Like the river Xanadu

Last night alone

And yet we never were

(A Living Parable)

Once, in a lonely field of beautiful flowers, there stood a single Mighty Oak.

He was strong.

He was tall.

He was majestic.

The only time he spoke was when the wind blew through his branches and the words became a beautiful song.

The birds would sit upon him, singing along.

With his branches reaching for the sky, he spoke to the Creator of his loneliness and he waited patiently for an answer.

One day, the local farmer planted a Cherry Tree near the Mighty Oak.

She was young.

She was fragile.

She was insecure.

She would twitter away with the birds at the slightest breeze and they responded back in song while eating of her fruit.

The Mighty Oak fell in love with the Cherry Tree, knowing she was a gift from his Creator.

He would speak words of encouragement to the Cherry Tree to help her grow.

He would listen patiently to her knowing she was in the process of maturing.

He quietly showed her how to dig her roots deep into the ground and reach to the Sky in songs of joy.

The Cherry Tree found great comfort in the shadow of the Mighty Oak.

She loved him in return, and learned more of the Creator through him.

For many seasons they grew together in that beautiful field of flowers.

They sang with one another.

They talked about the deep mysteries of life with one another.

Their roots became entwined within one another.

One dark day, a mighty storm came.

The rains poured hard and loosened the ground.

As the winds tore through her branches, the Cherry Tree felt she would be blown away.

But as the storm raged against her, she remained anchored to the earth through the roots of the Mighty Oak.

She realized that after so many years together, they had become like a single tree underneath the ground.

Suddenly, the sky cracked and a light flashed.

The Cherry Tree looked up and saw that her Mighty Oak had been struck by lightning, catching on fire.

So she cried out for someone to save the Mighty Oak.

A downpour arose and put out the fire.

The Cherry Tree let out a sigh of relief, thankf ul for the rain.

As the days went by, the Mighty Oak became more and more silent.

His trunk was scarred from the lightning strike and his leaves began falling to the ground.

The breeze would blow through his branches but he no longer sang.

He just bowed in reverence.

So the Cherry Tree sang to him, and the birds came to rest on his branches.

They sang along with the Cherry Tree and it made the Mighty Oak smile inside.

He tried to speak to the Cherry Tree the best he could, though her sadness made it hard for her to listen.

One clear day, the Mighty Oak whispered to the Cherry Tree telling her to trust the Creator in all things.

He told her she had become a strong and courageous tree through the storm.

The Cherry Tree thanked the Mighty Oak for helping her grow, that she would never forget his love for her and teaching her to understand the Creator better.

Then, the Mighty Oak became silent and the birds flew from his branches as he fell to the ground, forever falling asleep.

The Cherry Tree wept quietly, going deeply inward.

Though sadness filled her heart, she still felt the roots of the Mighty Oak intertwined with hers and knew he would forever be a part of her.

There, in that same lonely field of beautiful flowers, the Cherry Tree stood alone for what felt like forever.

She was taller.

She was stronger.

She was quieter.

She whispered when the wind blew through her branches and her words became a soft song of remembrance.

The birds would sit upon her branches and sing along.

She silently cried out in lonliness to the Creator, and she waited patiently for an answer.

One quiet and sunny day, she saw the local farmer come up the side of the hill.

A song of thankfulness started to rise within her, even though she was uncertain of what the future might hold.

She knew that, whatever the farmer planted, their roots would grow together and she would pass on the message of love embedded within her by the Mighty Oak.

So after getting some tough juice from gorgeous @Soulheart I've decided to share my piece with you. I hope it will give you something. 

Kind Regards 

Montezino

https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B17DqYbs_GamVTdOaUltSFVaQzQ

No Return To Innocence

You tore me up bit by bit,

had a taste of me,

just enough

not to seem too greedy

You licked my face, and removed layers of tiny clothes,

caressing my cheeks with trembling hands

While I...

I hid in the corner and slept away long days,

But you needed my flesh.

So you pushed me out in the cold

so that my bare wounds would burn with guilt and shame

before you with too warm fingers

ripped off frozen pieces of my skin

All while...

You laughed at my infirmities.

You smiled while you shredded my tear ducts to fragments of dust,

sowing together bleeding wounds with empty words,

so that I would not rot.

Frostbitten...

Nearly picked to death,

Did I hold tiny hands over my gender

whispering;

- Not my innocence, do not eat me there.

But people blinded by magnificence will always want more,

so you greedily stuck your quivering fingers towards the forbidden

and filled my mouth with your manhood

so that I would not speak

not ever

again

That's when you stole the light

from my eyes

and replaced them

with reflection

of emptiness.