Defined by the mystery of blackness,

she can’t fill the holes emptied by others.

She wears open wounds as badges,

chewed by countless sharpened teeth.

She folds her body into broken segments,

her thoughts dissipating through marrow,

a passing shadow leaving no traces.

She strolls hand in hand with inner voice

telling her she wasn’t designed or defined

to borrow the wind or charge the air

of someone who she can never be.

Shaped by her past, she must forge

her own passage, seeking new joy

in reunion with unfolding sky of night.

The luxury of doing nothing, 

making no decisions,

drifting unaccountable for any action 

But, instead, the weight of responsibility,

the burden of accomplishing,

is heavy in my arms, carried to safety

Sometimes all a person needs is to reflect, 

sit by the river and let ones mind wander

like the watery current over age old rocks;

wonder who put all this here and why

Nevermind about the time,

forget dates and appointments, 

sleep without a care

I have written poems for people but never publicly. The case for writing a poem usually relies on how deliberate it is compare to an essay. Simply writing can always have a pinch of free flow to it that is far more liberating save for grammatical and social conventions. Poems on the other hand tend to have rules, rules that readers should be able to understand.

I've only ever attempted writing one poem with no rhyme. I hated it. This isn't to say they're bad. Rhymes make poem rules easier because the instructions are simple. A less understood part of rhyming would be the rhythm in a poem, otherwise the rhymes won't work.

I can respect a non-rhyming poem which can masterfully convey its rules to the reader. A poem that does this well tends to make for better art... in my humble opinion.

I must be one of those grey standard faces that Mr. Roethke was talking about in his poem Dolor. However, I'm not in an office building surrounded by coworkers all pushed in at their own desks typing away, sending notices, answering calls. I'm just simply sitting in the dining room with three bucks in my pocket, no modes of transportation, with equally poor yet busy friends and oppressively stuck with a total lack of imagination.

There is a compulsion to write something. Perhaps it'll kill some time before my ride shows up and I head in to work all night wasting away for that extra handful of peanuts next week. 

If this were my house, the clock ticking above the table would go straight in the trash. The homeowner's sister insists on having it there and loading it with a new battery whenever it croaks. I presume she thinks the second hand is actually making the rest of the clock function... but it doesn't. The clock is broken. As the old saying goes "a broken clock is at least right twice a day".

The clock goes no where, but I've been here long enough to watch the shadows of the trees outside, oscillate about their source as the sun drags through the sky. These shadows travel faster than the inert minute and hour hand on the actual clock. If we aged faster, say inside of a day, I'm certain this is what it would feel like. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick... I think I can hear my hair growing.

Please don't remember this

Sitting outside

Alone

School let out hours ago

And you've been waiting

I got here as soon as I could 

Please don't remember this

Heat baking us both

Stuck on the side of the road

Barely working car

Finally done in

Please don't remember this

Rubbing tired eyes

Early,

Early

In the morning

Up at 4 

To catch the bus

Please don't remember this

A can of spaghettios

Split between us

You're hungry

I am too

And this is all I have to offer

Heroin loved me. 

The moment the needle pierced the scrubbed red skin in the crook of my elbow, I knew she was a little weary, but when I pressed down and an explosion of relief and ecstasy shoved me off of the edge of stress and into the loving arms of absolution, it was clear she had grown fond of me.

Staying in bed with her after felt like coming home, and when that glorious feeling eventually fled, my palms began itching for her. I was falling in love, hard and fast.

Life crashed and crumbled after that, sputtering to a grinding halt, but I didn't blame her once. She was there for me through it all, my beautiful white lady. During my lows; during my highs; during the roller coaster of events that at one point might have consumed me. 

Even when I ceased cleaning my arm and the syringe before slipping it into the warmth of my body because it no longer seemed as important, she loved me. Even as I slowly cut all connection with my family members because they didn't approve of her, she loved me. Especially when my teeth began to ache, like they were planning a jailbreak the next time I fell asleep with heroin in my arms, she loved me.

Sure, there were negative aspects that came with it, but I didn't care. She accepted me, she cared for me, she let me know that no matter what happened or who left, her feelings would never change.

Laying on that bed from years before, recreating the world shaking events, I stare at the crusted dirt clinging desperately to under my chipped nails. Vision closing in, breath escaping me in uneven gasps, final fleeting thoughts sweep past consciousness. 

I'm hers, and she's mine.

Isn't it true love when you're willing to die for it?

He kept me alive within the pages of his artwork; splashed with numerous hues. My fingertips became his paintbrushes and I would freeze time just to be his muse. But, as the incessant clockwork had its way, my face soon seemed weary, laced with boredom. He is an artist; he can’t limit himself. Art is borderless but, love isn’t.

That raven-haired, ceramic-skinned assistant, Veronica soon served as an inspiration for the portraits he made. My lips remained sealed; I didn’t want to believe that I wasn’t his muse anymore. He concealed canvases and lied about working overtime; I couldn’t bring myself to utter something because my lips quivered every time he said he loved me but, didn’t mean it.

Hopelessness painted our house instead of vibrant hues on the night when over dinner, instead of halfhearted sweet-nothings, I asked about her. His mouth overflowed with denial but, I saw the guilt creep into his irises. My heart raced as he forcibly admitted the truth. The table was littered with incomplete verses, fully-bloomed falsehoods and a plate of the apple pie he adored.

When sunlight poured through the window, I threw everything that I thought belonged to me into a bag and stared at it, realizing that the past five years of my life have shrunken into a mere bag. With misty eyes, I left him a note, telling him not to look for me because I might not be in places he may expect me to be.

The plate of apple pie remained untouched.

I had a home but, I was lost. Stumbling through the bustling city, I ended up at a bar. Anxious, drunk sport-enthusiasts were hurling words at the television screen. I drowned my sorrows in a glass of vodka punch, letting a few tears escape. Losing track of time, I gulped down the drinks recklessly. I began to feet nothing; neither sadness nor elation. The rainbow streaks of light were abstractly splashed across the room and the bartender’s face swirled in a blur. Amidst a pandemonium, I felt as if I was fading into one of those faceless strangers; I was slowly forgetting who I was. I tapped my phone and texted my husband about how happy I was to be partying at the bar which was my usual haunt. It felt surprisingly good and as the last drop of alcohol slid down my burnt throat, my eyes began to droop low.

The last thing I remembered was a black car speeding towards me.

A throbbing head woke me up as sunlight filtered through the window. I bit my chapped lips and squinted at my surroundings. The familiarity of this bedroom haunted me; this used to be ours. But, why was I here? This was the last place I wanted to be.

A cold metallic object clasped in my fingers caught my attention. A sharp-edged knife drenched in blood sneered at me. Alarmed, I threw it across the room and jolted my hand which was covered by blood too. Scarlet bloodstains ran down the hemlines of my dress. Whimpering, I stood up and reached for the doorknob. Tiptoeing through the hallway, I ran into my husband. The look on my face told him everything he needed to know.

“You did something really bad last night,” he said and I shivered.

“What did I…? What did I do? I don’t… I really don’t remember,” I stammered with tears running down my face, once again.

“Overcome by jealousy, you mercilessly stabbed Veronica to death. The cops are on their way, sweetheart. You couldn’t stand the fact that someone else had my attention, could you?”

“What? I didn’t… Victor, I swear I didn’t do it. You know I can’t do something like that,” I cried.

“The weapon was with you, wasn’t it? Don’t touch anything; let them investigate it,” he spoke nonchalantly.

“Don’t you trust me, Vic? I was at the bar last night, I told you. I couldn’t have done this.”

He left the room without saying another word, leaving me clueless and panicked. I shuddered at the thought of murdering someone. I may have never been fond of Veronica but, I wouldn’t go as far as killing her cold-bloodedly. But, the bigger problem was that last night was a blur to me. I forced myself to remember something and it only made my headache worse. I could recollect a crowd of drunken, sports fans, loud cheering, gulping numerous drinks and a black car. I couldn’t find a single answer for the millions of questions buzzing within my mind.

“Charlotte Howell,” my name boomed through the hallways.

I turned to see a team of police officers equipped with guns and other weapons with a firm look plastered over their faces. I sighed as I walked over to them. They told me that I had the right to remain silent just the way criminals are told on movie screens but, this time, I wasn’t an actress, I was Charlotte Bree Howell. Without protesting, I followed their commands and peacefully got into a car marked NYPD.

I watched an officer conversing with Victor, who was smirking. I was told that I was being taken to the police station for interrogation but, I knew better. They had recovered the weapon and stashed it in a transparent bag labeled “evidence”. Enveloped by shock and disbelief, I felt my heartbeats pace up. The thing I regretted the most was getting so drunk that I couldn’t remember a single shred of what happened last night after I exited the bar.

After the car halted, I stepped down as gracefully as I could when I realized that I was going to encounter paparazzi. Photographs will be clicked and coupled with saucy headlines for tomorrow’s newspaper since I was the famous artist, Victor Howell’s socialite wife. The news about Veronica’s murder spread like wildfire and burnt my reputation on the way. I admit that I was senselessly drunk but, I do know myself well enough to believe that I didn’t fatally stab Veronica.

I knew that suspects were considered innocent till proven guilty but, since the knife was coated with my fingerprints and I had bloodstains on my dress, it wouldn’t take long for them to place the blame on me even though I couldn’t have been more clueless. I was questioning myself at this point and wondering if the darker side of mine took over last night and stabbed Veronica Baldwin till she was lifeless.

I was ushered into a dim-lit room and asked to take a seat as my anxiety doubled by the minute. I answered the questions as truthfully as I could but, it wasn’t a clear picture to me, it was a myriad of blurs. I remembered nothing about what occurred after I stepped out of the bar at dinnertime and woke up in the bedroom at the house shared by my husband and me. They intricately noted down the details and made various entries about the time I left the house, what I was doing before entering the bar, when I left and what I did in the meantime.

After leaving the police station, I sheltered myself by checking into a ritzy hotel, accompanied with the little bag which had my belongings. It felt as if I was losing my mind and my soul seemed to be cluttered with chaos. Everything that happened last night was just too much to fathom.

I scribbled in my notepad to distract myself from the turbulent waves of emotions crashing against my heart:

the artist’s dainty mistress

lay lifeless

with her blood running down my sundress.

I was told that the police department will be closely observing my surroundings and what I was up to since the prime suspicion had landed on me. It made me feel like a criminal.

May be I was one.

I

Words came scratching their way up my throat. I wanted to scream my feelings out to breathe, but everything seemed like a

I saw through someone else’s eyes. I walked back through my mind to find the missing lines. I saw you.

I saw me, through the mirror hanging on the wall behind you and me.

A cold breeze kissed my cheeks. My eyes closed instantly without my control. Then my feet sank

Was it earlier or a day before?

Nevermind. The room already sank. No, I sank. Still, I smiled from ear to ear.

Maybe that was a week ago.

“No,” whispered a voice from behind.

When was it?

I was still smiling from ear to ear. I saw nothing but I felt it.

A quick flash of blinding light welcomed me as my whole body sank to the room. My eyes were closed before a beam of red sparks forced me to see. 

I wore a navy blue tie and that was all. I checked.

But, I didn’t feel my breasts!

What happened to my breasts?

I reached lower to check the other parts of me. My hands stopped just an inch below my flat chest.

Were my arms gone as well?

Words wanted to climb their way up my throat. Digging deeper into my flesh. I hoped blood splatter all over, but only an empty open mouth reflected on the mirror hanging behind you and me.

Screeching sounds overwhelmed you. No, me.

I looked at my hands and saw the walls coming nearer. My fingers touched the moist walls and I leaned against them. I felt numb, maybe tired. I heard the screeching sounds again.

Alas! It was from my own fingernails. Slowly yet seemed so gently, my nails…

Your nails peeled off from your pinkish flesh.

“Beautiful,” you said.

It’s alright, I replied. I got used to the smell and the sight. Nothing special.

You stopped and the little spots of blood slowly formed into a frown right in the middle of the wall. The fingernails grew bigger like some little seeds planted on the ground. Tiny sprouts broke out of the soil to shout for life.

Tears fell from each one. I knew then that you were sad.

My mouth shut with barbed wires. The wall melted like wax. Out of the room, I flew to the mountains next door.

A clock ticktocked on the sun. February moved to January of the next year. I waited. You didn’t come. It took a second for the mountains to change from a lovely verdant home to a snow covered, frozen zone.

How poetic.

This life, overflowing with surprises. I sank taller, grew smaller. There were glittering reflections on the icy water. Picked up a pair of skates, a door opened, it was too late. The sun lit brightly and the entire room burned from floor to ceiling. I walked quietly across hell and tiptoed to the basement on the first floor. Nothing’s odd. It was routine.

There were the clock and the mirror that reflected the image of you and me. Fire blazed around its frame yet no glare blocked the view. You looked straight. I looked for you, beyond the reflection on the mirror.

A door opened beside you. A door opened next to me, I touched the knob and felt the electrifying jolt of delight when I saw you waiting in the other room.

False hope.

It was two rooms to the right. No bridge connecting you to me. My room was a hollow cage with no beginning or end.

My shout echoed from wall to wall, bounced to the continuous cycle of the hollow cage.

How was it possible?

A thought of reality finally struck me.

Lightning hit the door frame. I still held the knob tightly, but the electricity stopped before it reached my pinky.

The room shattered. There were pieces of each one reflected on the other. Over and over. One part is within the other. One memory scattered on the loophole of the empty room within this magical world between a haven we created. I, you, whoever needed help.

Years passed, my head grew bigger, my breast flatter, my arms longer, sometimes shorter. Feet stuck. Feet moved. Feet left in the other room.

Only the mirror hanging on the wall behind you and me remained steady. Sure of its place.

Cheating, living on a fallacy. Cheating death. Cheating the beauty of unity.

Worked my way through a series of trances. My masculinity. My femininity. For this world, our world.

Forgot every detail.

The shape of my nose, to the arch of your lips, the length of my hair, the redness of your cheeks. Here, only the senses, the ideas, the memories are kept. True or false, story or reality.

I ran to escape that room of thoughts. I never liked monologues.

I walked to the center of the stage. My eyes longing for you even though the spotlight blinded the way.

Is somebody there?

An echoing laughter filled my guts. Not butterflies, but worms tickled the tiniest vein from within. The tiniest of the tiniest, I forgot their names.

Were you happy then?

The ticklish shock on my stomach came up to my chest, just a bit to the left of my heart. It wanted to take its place instead. Should I let it?

Every bit of the thump, thump from my chest pulled the room bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller. The ticklish beat burst and the room exploded into pieces, but I lived.

Why was I still here?

Wake up. Stand up. Shut up. Let it be.

“Ugly.”

“Stupid.”

″Worthless.”

Day after day she would spit those words at me. Mom said to put on a brave face, don’t let her know how much it hurts. So I tried.

″Loner.”

But she knew if she was persistent, my brave face would melt away and drown in my tears. Each word stung like a hornet. It felt rehearsed - as though she spent hours sharpening her tongue to hit a direct target: me.

″Nobody even likes you.”

I began to avoid her at every turn. I stayed in the library at recess and ate lunch in the bathroom. But she always found me, every day she would scratch at my heart until it felt hollowed out, enough to give room for all my fears to reside.

″I would hate myself if I were you.”

One day, I was eating in the stall and I heard her come in. I froze and peeked through the crack, praying that she wouldn’t find me; but she wasn't even looking.

She stood in front of the mirror and, just like I had imagined, stared herself hard in the eyes and practiced saying those words that were keeping me paralyzed in fear.

“Ugly.”

“Stupid.”

She hissed the words at herself with an intensity that surpassed all I had seen before. I shivered, imagining how quickly I would crumble if she performed as well as she practiced.

″Worthless.”

I held my breath as I waited for her to leave, certain that she could do no more, only: she practiced my part too.