I've kept a lot of my pride

behind the mirror

Who said it was trick 

or a tactic to hide my fear?

Poison is sweet when drunk

at first taste, but giving too much

is a sorry, sad waste

It's like finding a home for

your tongue to roam

and letting your hands play the game

a scene that always feels the same

He cuts right through me

a knife-blade reflection that follows you after

you sit and listen to his drunken laughter 

and watch the shouts rebound off the molding rafters

It seems to be a moment where time stops for awhile

and shattered bones are masked by a foreign clothes pile

The mattress is too soft for your liking

it caresses you in every way you hate

and it carries your shape 

in the morning light

when the bright-winged bird

jumps out to take flight

The tap runs,

D

r

i

p

so loudly in the silence of the storm.

My glasses lie next to me,

Blurred

And aged.

I have seen and remained blind

                                             (r

                                              o

                                              w

                                              s

                                              e beside me)

And I have let my eyes close

(The soul is often

Shuttered)

To take it in.

(You and

I and

Heshethey are the same,

Struggling,

Dazedistractedrowsing)

I passed out in her kitchen once.

     We were frying chicken in August. I was on my fifth bong hit and the heat and grease from the stove proved to be a lethal combination.

     There was the quick sharpening of my senses right before sound started to fade. When the static rushed my ears like an old TV, I was done.

     I wasn't out long, only a second, maybe, but I woke on the kitchen floor. She wasn't alarmed, or hurrying to my side with a glass of water. She was slapping the floor and laughing. She howled my name like I had just told her a joke that would provide her with years of entertainment.

     It was funny, I think I laughed too and I ate a pretzel, or something similar. Drank some water and continued to cook the chicken. I can’t really remember—probably the bong hits.

     My friend was imperfectly beautiful. Truly untamed and someone who stole a room—whether good or bad—she had everyone's attention. Scandalous, is a word I would kindly use. The type of person who exuded sex. She was never fully clothed. Whether her shirts were too high, or her cropped shorts were unzipped over bikini bottoms. There was always something revealed. She was tall and thin, although not flawlessly proportioned. Her teeth were crooked, but her smile was so infectious, you would never notice. Yellow hair, not platinum, not blonde, but like wheat fields and sun, it was rarely combed, left wild and wavy. Her eyes were blue, with one split in half by a crescent of brown. She smelled of Newports and fruit scented body splash. A smell that will sometimes hit me now and cause an ache of nostalgia for the easier days.

     We spent summers together on a lake in the Adirondacks. It was a teenage utopia—no responsibilities and impossibly endless hours in a day. I was a different person on that lake. If magic is anywhere on this world, it’s there.

     Life was an adventure with someone like Crystal. Back when adventures were cheap.    Driving twenty eight miles for midnight taco bell. Meeting tourists in Lake George village, changing our names and pretending to be foreign.

     No, she wasn't what I would call an everyday friend. But she was a best friend—a special friend. One I had during my malleable years. She gave me a confidence that others hadn't. There was electric life in her, she was undeniably fearless. Possibly the most fearless person I've known to this day.

     Looking back, maybe that was the problem. Fear is what keeps us rooted in place and along the path of morals. We fear the unknown, always questioning, will this ruin my future? We fear repercussions for the mistakes we sometimes unknowingly make. But for those who live without that fear, what is there to keep them in line?

     Outside of the mountains, I was another girl at home. Crystal was another girl at home. Wherever her home was at the time.

     An army brat as a child, she was used to moving. Her family of four was separated throughout the east coast. She lived everywhere, Maine, Maryland, Guam. She was driving to the convenience store, smoking cigarettes and more daring with boys at an age that I still played with my Barbie collection.

     Cocaine, sex, acid, ecstasy—these words were not in my vocabulary. Crystal's friends were girls with push up bras, dyed hair and tattoos. Piercings in places I would never consider. I couldn't help but judge. These were girls I didn't associate with in my real life.

     But Crystal I loved, and Crystal was part of my fake life that was so very real. And when summers together weren't possible due to the end of our teenage years, we always kept in touch. She visited on birthdays, on long holidays. She loved writing letters, adored greeting cards and would mail them often. She liked to leave little notes around for you to find months after she left.

     She would always write, I wish we were teenagers living on the lake again. She would say that those were the best times in her life.

     Maybe it was always in Crystal to be an addict. It’s a demon that lurks inside unexpected places and hides behind bright eyes and smiles. It strikes fast and takes root inside of people's hearts. I'm not sure when life became too difficult for my friend. I can’t remember when those spotted eyes began to darken and sink or when she really lost control. Responsibility came too quickly, she wasn't ready. She hadn't gotten the chance to fix herself yet

     But she was brave, and her twin boys were beautiful, and she loved them fiercely. But this demon cannot be cut down so easily. Love and responsibility should be strong enough, and we all crave a safe life. The stories lie to us and whisper, love is all you need. But those are stories. The reality is that love is not enough to combat this sort of monster.

Percocet cocktails and lines of coke. Vodka and a joint for sleep. He’d left her, she said, took the kids and dropped a bag of clothes in the hospital lobby. She told me she’d signed some papers. The next day she told me the story again. It wasn't the same story.

     She disappeared after that. Her number was disconnected and I continued on with my life. I went to the lake without her. Crystal would come back, she was a rover, but she always came back. And she did. Here and there. Different emails and multiple phone numbers that worked until her card ran out. I always asked where she was, but she rarely responded.

     I would usually hear from her when she went to the mountains, and of course I would go too. Crystal was my special friend who seemed so lost. We needed our magic place. But she was thin, her corn yellow hair was now brunette. The same color I had dyed it when she stayed for my twentieth birthday. I noticed her skin was bad, but she smiled and we hugged and I loved her as always. We ate my mom's manicotti and we laughed.          We remembered the good times. Ghost owls and vintage cemeteries. Ham sandwiches and tubing accidents. Rainy days spent watching Romy and Michelles Highschool Reunion on repeat. She smelled like Newports and body splash when we hugged goodbye.

     She hadn't seen the boys, she told me in a letter. He wouldn't let her. She was in a bad place in the hospital and he took advantage. She said she wasn't in the right state of mind to sign those papers. She said she was doing better, she said she wanted her kids back.

     Another phone number disconnected, another six months missing. She was able to see her kids, she emailed me. She decided to move back to Maryland with her strange, but polite boyfriend. She went to their baseball games, she took them to dinner. She posted their pictures online.

     Another phone number disconnected, another eight months missing. She called finally, she told me she was ashamed. She told me she was sorry. She told me she loved me and wished we could go back and be teenagers again. She said, it was the happiest she’d ever been. Life was easier, she said. But she promised she was doing better. She was working on getting the kids back. She was going to rehab. I told her to never be ashamed to tell me anything, that I loved her and to get better. Then I continued on with my own life.

     Another phone number disconnected, another five months missing. The next time I would see Crystal, would be her mugshot on the internet. Theft at a Walmart in Rockland, NY. The comments lining the bottom of the article were vicious. She was called a crack-whore by people who knew her. A drug addict who couldn't even care for her own children. A scumbag. I remember the sinking disappointment. I remember thinking her mugshot was pretty at least.

     Once she resurfaced again, she was unrecognizable. One of her beautiful blue eyes was larger than the other, her face gaunt and yellow. Her hairline had receded, her hair dark and greasy. She said she was sober, boasted even. But it was obvious that my friend was not going to live much longer. Something I always thought, even when we sat laughing under mountain stars.

     Then she did go to rehab. And something clicked.

     Crystal came back to life, slowly, but it showed in her fuller face. She became almost chunky and the deformity in her eye wasn't as noticeable. She got her beautician license, started to keep a job. She made new friends. She moved into a sober living community in Rockland where she was to remain until 2018 as ordered by the court. She met a guy in her program, and flooded my newsfeed with smiling selfies. That beautiful, imperfect, infectious smile. Her second chance smile.

     Three months, six months, one year. She documented it all. “It works” she described her sobriety as she held the sign next to her recognizable face. She thanked god for the gift she had received.

     She wanted her kids back, and she was determined to get them. She was unafraid to face her mistakes and confront her demons. She never hid her feelings or who she was. Crystal’s soul couldn't allow that. She loved life. She lived life. She was life.

     “16 months” she posted on January 19th, 2016. I said, “proud of you girl,” before I quickly continued whatever it was I was doing. January 20th, 2016, pray for me, she said, this monster wants my life. January 21st, 2016, rejoice, she said, and accept the power of change.

     Crystal died on January 22nd, 2016. She was found face down on the floor with a needle in her arm. She wasn’t alone when she died.

     That bad batch of heroin that was circulated, stole nine other lost souls that week.

     I try not to blame her. I try and blame the demons that wouldn't stop their relentless pursuit to take her. The demons that wouldn't let her rest, for just a moment, so she could fix herself.

     Her obituary card wasn’t laminated, but flimsy from being printed at home. It was unfair. My friend was beautiful, my friend was special, my friend was full of love and electric life.

     My friend was more than just an addict.

She had walked home in the rain that day, clothes and hair sodden, lips blue, and hands shivering within her sweater. Each step she took made her feel as if she were sinking into the earth, and in some ways she was, as her feet fell through mud and muck along her route home. She forgot her umbrella. As she walked, she imagined all her school papers melding together into a pulp of confusion, as words sought refuge in other word's crevices  to make gibberish. She imagined the residue that the paper would leave against the fabric of her bag and started to frown at the idea of scrubbing it off, which was a chore she had already needed to do when she let her pencils loose last week; they left scribble marks, of graphite, in every which way. 

She wandered, even slower, passed the park she used to play in as a child, and watched as children huddled under pavilions to keep dry. This made her smile. All her memories rushed her back to the swing, damp and vandalized, but able and willing to let her body fly off into rainclouds, where, for just a second, the sun would come out to play and she would feel whole again. She opened her eyes, a new person, for she knew the rain was here to cleanse her. Again, she walked by the park, but this time on good terms with her inner child. 

The rain began to lessen. She began to lessen. 

The clothes she wore draped upon her body like a drying rack, making her fit in with the trees, as her limbs and curves were accentuated. She became the trees and the soil. She became the bridge that let sky and earth touch. She became earth. She became an apparition. She was molding into a scene of acceptance and faith. She became what she needed to be. 

Forward, she moved, now closer to her home. She let her hair hang damp on her shoulders with pride and took her sweater off to expose her arms and stomach, something she had been hesitant of doing before. She opened her backpack to confront the mess of papers she knew she had waiting for her. She sculpted each paper into a ball and let it fall into a strangers neglected trashcan. The sweater had then found a home inside the main pocket of her bag. She stopped for a second, for she heard someone call out to her, but from where, she did not know. She stood there, glancing over the street to see if she could find the source of the noise. Nothing. There were birds singing above her head, and there were croaks and calls of frogs at her feet, but no human was in sight. She decided to continue along her path. There were only 3 more blocks left and then she would be in the comforts of her home. Her feet began to grow tired. 

She pondered on about how many times she had taken this path in all her years of attending school. Maybe thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. She was not quite sure, but she knew it had been many times. Many fights with old friends occurred here. Many moments of walking into clouds of infatuation took place along this road. Many remnants of childhood lay here, where people's boxes, filled with old and broken toys, are set up for those who want, or in some cases need them, for free. She had always kept her old toys in her closet. She couldn't part with them. 

Though she had always seen herself as young and naive, she felt old. In fact, she felt like a feeble, old woman sometimes. She would go through life as if she had already experienced it before and would let things come and go without the need to cling onto whatever it is that presented itself to her. People noticed that about her. She was tolerant and of good nature. She understood life beyond line and shape. She saw with eyes that saw before, and knew, and cultivated, each waking hour of her life like it was written out by hands, ancient and healing. 

Home is two more blocks away. The rain becomes a subtle drizzle. She turns the street and notices the vibrancy of the flowers against the grey backdrop. There were roses and lilies and rows of tulips. There were trees budding with life and promises of sweet, fleshy fruit. She could envision tiny hands collecting the fruit for snacks or baked goods. This, she knew, was one of the most exciting parts of the season. As a child, she would stare at the fruit trees and wonder why they took so long to produce fruit. Her mother would take her by the hand and explain to her that nature needs time to make such delicious foods. It wasn't the same as going to the store and buying the fruit. This fruit was better because it was fresh, but also because it grew from our love, and our love is patient and lasting. She would always remember this. 

As she neared halfway down the block, she took her shoes off. The wet friction of her shoes made it harder for her to walk comfortably. She didn't mind walking in puddles with bare feet. In fact, she found it quite refreshing. The water was crystal clear and reflected her face with such a pristine glow that she felt she was looking into the facet of a diamond. It was hard to look away. 

She was now about to turn onto her street. She carried her shoes in her right hand and her bag in the other. The end of her journey was near. Relief washed over her as she read the street name. She smiled at its simplicity; Ivy Street. She crossed the street and headed off onto the sidewalk that would take her to the driveway. As she started to walk, she realized she had dropped her sweater out of her bag when she took it off before crossing. Quickly, she scurried to go grab it, leaving her shoes on the opposite side of the street. She reached it, but before long, she realized she was on the ground and the sweater was 4 feet away, beneath the tire of a car. Her arm was still out, grasping for it, but she couldn't move anymore. She became immobile. Her legs and body were paralyzed, sprawled out in the middle of road and pinned down by debris and car bits. She then realized, she couldn't see a thing. She could still smell and hear and taste, but she couldn't see her sweater anymore. Then she heard her name called out. Adeline. It was spoken forcefully this time.

The rain had stopped, she observed. The sun had come to play.

Prologue

I can still feel the moment when it happened.

The rope we had been holding was becoming hot from being stretched and pulled for too many years.

I wasn't listening to the yammering nonsense he was spewing. I was busy thinking.

I was thinking, I hate you, motherfucker, and I can't wait to skip your funeral.

Then there was a snap.

We both held our ends of the rope, and I could see it in his eyes.

He knew.

He didn't stop talking, of course, but I think I smiled.

That was how it ended.

How it began is a longer story. Sometimes a humorous one, sometimes a disturbing one, and sometimes a sad one.

At the end, you'll probably be questioning what type of person I truly am.

turning 32 in 5 days. it's a thursday this year. wednesdays are always my lucky days... oh well.

most people get hype about their birthdays. that's never been me. i get contemplative. i like to think about who i am today versus who i was when i came into this world, 20 years ago, 13 years ago, 1 year ago, 6 weeks ago, yesterday...

i've been thinking a lot about shoulda, coulda, woulda's...

would Bernie Sanders really have brought world peace or would he had been just another charismatic fat cat in a suit?

should i have smoked that black before yoga class yesterday and said fuck it i'm just gonna continue to be a walking contradiction? smoker yogi. dark light. fire ice. shy bold. here gone. oscillating between all of the two's... that is the gemini way.

would i be a better friend if i didn't learn at a young age that i like being alone with a book under a tree overlooking some water more than anything on this earth? should i continue to revel in solitude like i am my own nation? would you believe me when i say that i love all of my friends even if i don't always see you?

should i keep grinding for the dream when no one but me can see past the trees? when white men with millions tell me it sounds better coming from someone just not like me?

should i have run from his harsh words when his eyes begged me to stay? should i hate him when he says i am the one who got away? should i bless the new fruit of their unhappy bliss? he told me he sees me whenever they kiss.

(karma collects; my girl, she's a bitch...)

should i believe the words any of them are writing or speaking? would allowing love in my life be as simple as breathing? could giving my heart be the Secret, Life's Meaning? when i laid on your chest we heard our souls speaking...

----

imagine my surprise...

but...

it is rare.

it is truth.

it is us.

----

i have no answers to any of the questions.

all i have is more questions.

----

my niece fell asleep in my arms the other day. i looked into her face that is so much like mine and the veil lifted. for the first time i truly understood the purity of that kind of love-the love between a mother and her child. she is not even my child but i now understand what makes a mother be able to move mountains to make sure her child will never feel pain. that realization pierced me to my core and now i long to know that for myself.

do you realize that only a mother knows what it feels like to carry two souls in her body at one time? how are you ever the same once you have felt the gravity of that truth for yourself? it is not a choice i would make lightly. but it is a choice i would lay my life down for once made.

so, should i? could i? would i?

----

my soul has always been old. my mind has always been fluid. my face seems like it will never age. these truths are both gift and curse.

and this year has been the best and worst year of my life.

i've hurt. i've cried. i've hurt others. i've made others cry. I've smiled. i've laughed. i've leaped. i've yelled. i've been brave. i've been a coward. i've won. i've lost.

i've lost. i've lost. i've lost.

but i learned the lessons. i have seen the beauty and the ugliness. i have realized you can't have one without the other. it's about how you shape it and how you let it shape you.

i have grown into my skin. it is dark with no wrinkles and it drinks up the sun. my soul whirls and twirls with a tambourine in the light of the moon.

i now know what my true name is.

it is a four lettered word but that doesn't mean it isn't beautiful.

~on being 32

selah.k_x

When your heart ceases to beat

don't you worry about it 

just use your feet

it's the same idea

I heard you say 

just live, live your life another day

When afternoon comes to kill you

and you've lost your way through the town

don't let, don't let the lights blind you

you'll, you'll get out some other way

Even if life gets harder

Even if the road gets longer

and the past is out to get you

it can't stop you, you've grown stronger

As the bullets fall from office buildings

and the seas have stolen all the sand

there'll be singing and dancing over wartime sound

and all, all our souls go hand in hand

oh, all our souls go hand in hand

all our souls go hand in hand...

Scooping

Sundaes on

Sunny

Sundays with

Sweet

Scents of

Sunflowers

Side by side on our

Sunday

Stroll, there are

Seldom

Shitty

Sunny

Sundays. Wouldn't you

Say?