“What is your biggest fear?”

Her voice and question are as clear as every object in the hospital,

Concise, clean, and transparent.

The answer, however, anything but.

“I am afraid of many things,”

I want to say,

“I am afraid of the pain my father swore he offered to better me as a person,

And also the person into which I have been bettered.

I am afraid of cars leaving the middle of the night after another noisy fight,

And the words ‘he didn’t want us anymore’,

I am afraid of cars and trees since my mother said our family would be happier if we would all drive into one,

And I am even more afraid of the time I did,

Increasingly I fear that crash was something I wanted.

I am afraid of the man who hovered over me late at night even after I bid farewell

And afraid of memories with him that I still can’t bring myself to tell.

I’m afraid of all of the ones I scared away and afraid it will always stay that way because in the words of my dad, ‘you will pay someday’.

Most of all I am afraid I am not enough,

That the brimstone and fire I try to radiate in each moment,

Attempts to burn through my past and into the future,

Don’t burn bright enough to see

Allowing darkness to take over me.”

Instead I stare at the white wall in front of me as I fiddle with my wristband, looking through you as I remember the things that brought me here.

“I don’t know,” I say,

“The dark, I guess.”

Some days find me emotionless and unyielding,

A cold-hearted soldier in battle to maintain my wellbeing,

The gray sky frightening any semblance of feelings.

Other moments find my frightened and fragile,

Round eyes looking to you like those of a child,

Fearful of the large world that runs so wild.

Still yet I awake as a young girl so alive,

The pure endurance of this world my only drive

As I search endlessly for the next way I can thrive.

There are so many more than just three versions of me,

My moods fleeting quickly to more than just cold, childish, and free.

Tell me, when you meet all of them, will you flee?

I am endless.

Time after time repeating the same pattern,

Constantly correcting and converting,

Strategically avoiding such simple concepts as ‘time’.

How does one end a poem about infinity?

A question, an answer, or by a simple closing line?

This poem remains endless, forever searching,

Waiting each day for an infinite amount of rhymes.

You first uttered the words on the night I was betrayed, a best friend comforting me about my cheating significant other. “You deserve better.”

The next time you said them was on a night filled with laughter and the taste of wine, muttered into my ear after I pressed eager lips against your soft mouth. “You deserve better.”

They were quieted for a while as we spent delightful months walking hand in hand, but I could hear the very syllables in your hesitation to accept my affection. “You deserve better.”

Our honeymoon brought wonderful memories of a starting life together, but after a particularly splendid night you looked to me with fearful eyes before speaking. “You deserve better.”

The memory of the first time you hit me often strikes as hard as your fist, the very image of tears welling in your eyes as you pulled away and spoke overwhelming. “You deserve better.”

But now, as I pack my bags over your sleeping body, I feel myself trying my tongue at your familiar refrain. In hushed tone I whisper words known all too well. “You deserve better.”

Love is a complicated thing, one that I choose not to involve myself in. The twisted romanticism of something that is no more than a chemical in the brain has always confounded me, a being that has yet to experience the sensation myself.

The negative emotions are much more scientifically logical. While the feeling of love exists only to continue the human race, anger and hatred exist as instinctive reactions to help us fight for ourselves. For this reason, I find myself easily succumbing to more negative emotions, allowing my animalistic instincts to guide me as I continue my life and trusting them to lead me in the correct direction.

You may be wondering at this point why I feel the need to elaborate on this. The explanation for this lesson is shown in a story I am about to tell you about a woman named Ella Bradshaw.

Ella Bradshaw and I went steady for two years in high school after meeting each other in driver’s education when we were 15. After graduating we agreed to go our separate ways, or so I thought.

I was 21 when she found me at a bar, her hair blowing wildly behind her as she slammed open the door. A putrid scent filled the room as she stepped in, a crazed expression on her face.

“I love you,” she gasped, her expression fixed on me. With these words a match was lit and I could only see flames around me, a burning heat etching into my fragile skin.

This is where you find me, reader. I will certainly die in this fire. My instincts cannot save me now, as even that part knows escape is futile. Death is a part of life, and the key to happiness is accepting this.

So why is part of me so in love with the world in which I live, my heart singing for each moment as I fear letting go? I have only ever understood love as a means of reproduction, so why am I suddenly so in love with life?

In the end, nothing is certain, for there are no answers, reader.

Love is a complicated thing, one that I choose not to involve myself in. The twisted romanticism of something that is no more than a chemical in the brain has always confounded me, a being that has yet to experience the sensation myself.

The negative emotions are much more scientifically logical. While the feeling of love exists only to continue the human race, anger and hatred exist as instinctive reactions to help us fight for ourselves. For this reason, I find myself easily succumbing to more negative emotions, allowing my animalistic instincts to guide me as I continue my life and trusting them to lead me in the correct direction.

You may be wondering at this point why I feel the need to elaborate on this. The explanation for this lesson is shown in a story I am about to tell you about a woman named Ella Bradshaw.

Ella Bradshaw and I went steady for two years in high school after meeting each other in driver’s education when we were 15. After graduating we agreed to go our separate ways, or so I thought.

I was 21 when she found me at a bar, her hair blowing wildly behind her as she slammed open the door. A putrid scent filled the room as she stepped in, a crazed expression on her face.

“I love you,” she gasped, her expression fixed on me. With these words a match was lit and I could only see flames around me, a burning heat etching into my fragile skin.

This is where you find me, reader. I will certainly die in this fire. My instincts cannot save me now, as even that part knows escape is futile. Death is a part of life, and the key to happiness is accepting this.

So why is part of me so in love with the world in which I live, my heart singing for each moment as I fear letting go? I have only ever understood love as a means of reproduction, so why am I suddenly so in love with life?

In the end, nothing is certain, for there are no answers, reader.

The finish line is in sight.

My fingers fly gracefully across the keys, not even pausing to question the notes they are playing. I am lost in the music as I marvel at the sounds because, even after all this time, music is still more beautiful than anything else I have ever experienced. I feel a small smile spread across my lips as my hand makes its way to the upper register of the piano, balancing a high sound with the beats of the bass hand.

It is as if I am alone with my music rather than playing for other people, my body simply a vessel for a lovely melody. Each movement of my hands is an outpouring of my soul, a diary exposed for all to see.

But just as quickly as music and I meet, we are destined to part. My hands settle on the closing chord and I am listening to the echo as it plays through the auditorium. The parting is always the hardest, this time no different.

When I surface to reality I am greeted by silence, the expected reaction during an audition. As the last chord reverberates through the room I am overwhelmed by a nauseous feeling that often accompanies anxiety. After the last remnants of the music dissipate from the large space my ears are pick up the quiet scratching of pencil on paper. Slowly I stand from my bench, each movement suddenly much harder than it should be due to my nervous state. I step to the edge of the stage, my heels clicking across the wooden surface as they announce my movement to the judges.

There are 3 of them sitting in the seats, their small existence startling due to the vast amount of seats the auditorium holds. As if part of one judgement-making machine, their heads rise from their papers simultaneously and offer me identical expressions of indifference. I smile nervously and bow to them, reminding myself to retain my manners in the face of anxiety.

“Thank you very much for your time,” I attempt to project my voice through the room, hoping to reach them at their distant seats. “I do hope you enjoyed my piece, and I would be honored to attend the music program at your college.”

“Thank you, Ms. Bradshaw,” one of the judges, a slender woman with curly red hair and a small nose, speaks up. “That was an excellent showcase of your abilities. We will be in contact with you soon regarding the results of your audition, but for now you are excused.” I nod in response to her words and flash another small smile in their direction.

As I hurriedly make my way towards the exit I can hear whispers from behind me, the judges discussing my recent performance. It takes great strength to continue walking, my curious mind aching to know the results immediately.

My sister is waiting outside of the doors. I find her leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone, oblivious to my emergence. Leah and I differ in many ways psychologically, yet people never get tired of telling us how alike we look. The 23-year-old shares the same dark brown hair as me, straight and long. Her green eyes also match mine, although these two things are some of the only things we have in common. While she stands at a short 5’4”, taking after my mother’s height, I find myself standing at 5’9”, cursed with the tall traits of my father. Her short stature does not stop her from being a force to be reckoned with, of course. Leah has always been the athletic one of the family, to the point that she has recently graduated with a degree in sports medicine.

I clear my throat as I wait for her to acknowledge my arrival, something that causes me to cough, making my existence clear to her.

“That bad, huh?” Her tone is playful as she speaks, a small smile spreading across her lips. She puts her phone in her back pocket and spreads her arms open, offering no further explanation of her desire in doing so. She scoffs at my hesitation as I do not come immediately to her. “I’m your sister, I drove all the way here, and you can’t even hug me?”

“I feel like I need to be professional,” I mutter, my cheeks flushing from embarrassment at her outburst. “I really want to get into school here.” Leah moves her arms into a crossed position, her smile turning into a frown at my words.

“They’d be stupid not to accept you. How long have you been playing music? How many concerts have you already done by 17 years old? You’re already practically a professional, Ella. You’re a shoe in.” I sigh at her words, aware of the truth in them. Still, I can’t help but feel a creeping sense of doubt in my abilities. I attempt halfheartedly to push these fears away and shoot Leah a smile in attempt to reassure her.

“You’re right, I am being ridiculous. But, as a professional musician, I couldn’t possibly hug you. It wouldn’t be very professional of me, would it?” I grin at her playfully as I walk by her, attempting to add an excited beat to my step. I don’t want Leah to worry about me, and the last thing I need is for anyone to know that I have severe doubts in my abilities. As an already well known musician on several instruments, it is important to maintain my image and not spread rumors through the musical circles.

“Whatever you say, little sister,” I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice as she catches up to me. I giggle quietly at her words as I make one last request before exiting the building.

“But can your little sister get ice cream on the way home?” While I can’t control the results of the audition, I remind myself that I am still a musician with a long future ahead of me. No judge can decide otherwise.

Snowflakes are unique

Dazzling fingerprints raining from above

Each crystalline beauty different from another

I have often marveled

At the gentle flakes as they fall

Landing gently on my eagerly awaiting tongue

But snowflakes make snow

A weapon if fun dares venture too far

If you wander into cold, death will be snow against your face.

“Leah?” Your voice is quiet, barely a whisper as you sit in the seat next to me. I turn my gaze towards you and offer a hesitant smile, attempting to assure you of my well-being. Your hand touches mine gently, a warmth radiating through my fingers at the small gesture.

“I am fine,” I inform you, my voice stronger than I expect it to sound as I speak. “Just lost in thought, I guess.” You shake your head and draw back your hand as you pull away from me, your body pushing against the leather seats of the car as you do so. The space next to my hand suddenly feels empty, as if an important part of me is suddenly missing.

“I don’t remember you being like this,” you mutter, my childhood friend suddenly displeased with my current actions.

“I don’t remember you being like this.”

I find myself suddenly flung into a memory so vivid that it feels real.

I looked up to you, the world spinning as I took your image. In my drunken haze you were nothing less than an angel come to save the day in the shape of my best friend, the one person I could knew I could count on.

“Never drinking again,” I informed you, my words coming out unintelligibly.

“That’s what you’ve said the last 8 times I was your DD, you drunk,” you joked, the familiar playful tone evident in your words even despite my cloudy mind.

“I love you,” I exclaimed, my hand reaching over to hold yours, desperate for some sort of physical affection. As I grabbed your hand I smiled at the sudden warmth, grateful to have you in my life. I barely even noticed the tree I had pulled us into by pulling away your hand.

Suddenly I am alone in the car, the driver’s seat empty as it sits idly in the driveway.

I wish I hadn’t remembered this.