The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

So you say you're looking for fresh talent. I can tell you, you won't find any with me. I'm just another hopeful person hopelessly trying. I don't want your help— I'm just writing because I want to. I like to express my feelings— while stabbing someone in the gut. I guess that's gruesome, but I was never taught better. I learned too young we have to fight for what we want. I learned too young success is few, and probably will never hit me. I also learned, I wasn't someone to give up; I was someone trying too hard. I'm someone you will wonder who I am for a split second, then throw me back into that ever growing pile of wannabes. See I'm not here to impress you. I'm just here to write. I don't suspect success— I suspect failure. So I'm not trying to win; I'm trying to live. I'm here writing, so that I can continue breathing. I'm here to make a statement and leave you wondering. So even if you don't ever see this, or you throw it in the trash; I know I spoke my mind. Success is less likely than winning the lottery, but that's why it's worth it—right?

I gave myself to the world.

Cafés, trains, streets

and me.

Strangers give the best love.

Practical. Magical.

Unknown eyes and discreet smiles

A flirty secret pulling her skirt up

- no touch.

Coffee, cigarettes, the people

and me.

My head tilts back in ecstasy, neck tickled with kisses. Kisses pressed by the chatter.

The words a mess of whos whys whens.

what what what? a controversy.

Society and me - fucking tragic lovers.

Don't bother me with commitment.

I saw dreams hanging off her eyelashes

that's when she shot me with a smile

the sleepy smile, you know?

the genuine smile, the 'lips appreciating life,

eyes longing for sleep' smile, you know?

she shot me through her gaze, too

that bullet made me bleed real bad

the red red love pouring out of me bad, you know?

the blushing bad, the 'on the edge of consciousness,

walking toward Death' bad, you know?

the dreams kept playing over her face

until she let them take over her mind 

Don't love an artist.

Even when they disappear, trace of paint will be left like ghosts of their steps. Charcoal will taint your heart and you'll only make it worse with attempt to scrub it away.

If they return, however, your skin will be paper again. Their fingertips brushes painting a portrait of love.

Their bed a landscape of life.

Don't love me.

Craving your touch, desiring you too much.

Never getting enough, overlooking the times rough.

Calling you mine, thinking it is fine.

Not showing affection, yet afraid of rejection.

Mad over nothing, always hating on something.

Burning with jealousy, seeming like your enemy.

Denying my mistakes, turning into distant fakes.

she listens to the clock go tick tock

and her hands get all clammy;

and her palms are soaked;

it's as if she's holding the ocean in her hands

she gets palpitations

and she knows it's time

she quietly creeps down the creaky old stairs

and saunters down the dark corridor

she wiggles the handle on the bathroom door

it groans open

she walks to the bathtub

and kneels down

she brings her hands together

and bows her head

she begins to pray to God,

the mighty man living above

she begins to plead

she tells him how sorry she is for sinning

she tells him how sorry she is for making her mom cry, last night, because of the hateful words she said

but her mother doesn't know how hard it is to make your voice sound soft when there's a fire burning your esophagus with hellish words of sin

she's never pleaded to God in her life, because she never really believed, but tonight was different

she felt as if there was a voice inside of her telling her to let everything everything out and not keep everything bottled up inside

she took all of her clothes off,

if she was going to be naked with God about herself

about what she's done

why not be naked, completely?

after another hour or two of confessions

she decided NOW is the time, the time to end everything, the time to end what she was becoming

she filled the bathtub to the rim

she stood there for a moment

and watched her reflection twinkle

and for a moment the water seemed as if it were a sheet of glass

she stepped into it, one step at a time

and, finally, sat down

she closed her eyes and thought long and hard about her decision

this caused the veins on her forehead to pop out in anger

she plugged her nose

and slid down far enough into the water to cover her whole body, completely

this was the end

in the moment of her last thought, she told everyone she loved them

and in the morning they can take a taste of her because she'll no longer be a person, she'll now be bathtub soup called bathtub gin .....

(K.M.M.)

[trigger warning for mentions of violence and suicide]

Could you hurt someone because you care? I couldn't.

Could you give up a promise because you love? I did.

I’m writing to never forget, but I don’t want to remember. The letters here, that’d never turn into spoken words, stand as I wish to place them. I can mix them up, form a whole new world out of them, a whole new memory.

There’s no need for that.

It has been a beautiful world, tainted with flaws that are us, it’s been made up of sunshine and storms, just like we are. The memory’s been made of the same pattern. Isn't everything that there is a wide, harshly framed diptych depicting our lives as a mosaic of highs and lows; it makes black and white nonexistent, turning them into all varieties of gray that often cling to the shades of more vivid colors.

You were the brightest piece of stained glass in the growing masterpiece of my life, but the grays surrounding eventually washed over you, and you pulled me to drown in it with you.

Before that day, the only way I'd taste your lips was over a cigarette, and that evening was the last time we shared one. The fog outside seemed equal to the smoke filling our lungs and swaying around us. The after-rain air was something you longed to inhale, instead. I knew you dreamed about it, always did, getting outside and letting the drops wash away the 'imprisoned' off your skin. I dreamed about it, too. Still do.

There was a difference between our dreams. You've gotten off the path, I've remained close to the fence. My hand could have no longer reached yours, but you've kept running and calling my name. Naturally, I followed. Careful, with my flashlight on, I searched for you, found you - so close to the Dream, and got back with but a shadow.

It's hilarious how close we were cramped together, in that toilet stall. Knowing how distant you actually were had my spirit crushed even more; between your physical persona and my leaking dark thoughts. I didn't even attempt to hide an obvious fact - I've been crying ever since I made the promise. My heart's been crying more than my eyes, but now they were almost as red and as full of pain. Not many tears fell, yet I felt them in my throat with every drag I took. Your face, on the contrary, was firm and a mild expression of confidence was stamped over it. I knew you had taken pills, you had told me nights ago you would. It was need, I just wished I could've said goodbye to the actual you. One pill would turn down the volume of your self-awaken fury, take a small bit of its weight off your shoulders, more of these round fuckers would snatch away the You from me, leaving me with a stranger. Strange was the calmness in everything you did then and there, you heartbeat rate didn't seem do increase even when your heel killed the cigarette I had handed you seconds before. Stranger was that stupid smile you put on when you handed me something else, a plastic bag, dragged out of your always crowded pocket. I clenched my fist around it, never expecting The strangest, and I was wrong. Today, I hope you weren't able to taste the tears that had fallen for you, I hope you were able to tell I had fallen for you. That moment, however, couldn't have been worse for steps that would lead into any direction of hope. The strangest happened, yes, when you kissed me.

And the two smokes combined, and my lungs burnt with flames I'd never felt inside - blue and red and yellow with no sign of conquering gray. Your fire, however, never seemed to rise from the ashes in your heart. At least, I've never felt its heat. It got to me when you inched back, a thin line of air and breaths separating us, and you spoke. Your lips touched mine only to whisper the instructions, on how should I help you to find a way to Hell. Pretty sweet of you, no? I know I had promised, but I'd promise you anything. You used everything well. In retrospective, I genuinely believed I was helping you escape, out of this place, and out of this world. I felt selfish because of crying, wanting you to stay with me made me feel like I was the worst friend, only thinking about my own happiness, when it was obvious you failed to find yours here. Leaned back against the door, temporarily hiding the typical bathroom graffiti, I kept nodding at your words, smiling not to spoil any of this for you.

"You know this shit can provide you with up to around half an hour of breathing?" You sounded like we're talking over the lunch, or like you're throwing one of your know-it-all comments at one of our teachers. I certainly did look and feel like a confused student, not even trying to understand. Not even wanting to. It only got you going on with the presentation. Drained eyes lowering as you sat down on the toilet seat cover, crossing one leg over the other so you could reach and pull the shoelace from your boot. You got it and pushed it into my hand.

A couple of thousand thoughts flooding my mind, none coming out. I stuck my free hand in one of my own pockets, by far emptier than yours, in search for a lighter to break the numbness of my standing and lost self. Then it struck me I had lend you it at the beginning of the evening. No choice's left but to return all my attention to you, which would be my favorite thing to do if only I wasn't thinking if you're gonna need the lighter there, on the other side. My not so free hand was busy squeezing on the two funnily innocent things, and your lips parted to spill more words to chew on my heart.

"I will fight, don't let me", that's when you pulled me forward. A new cigarette, which I've never get to light up, falling out of my shaky hand on the floor, along with all the fake courage I had stuffed myself with. "I've seen you're strong enough."

"Of course you'll fight, hell! You should have never stopped fighting! You wouldn't even reach this point if you even tried to 'fight' the right way", I broke there, I admit. I wasn't particularly talky, otherwise. Despite the short protest, I settled myself down on your lap, all fucking ready not to let you fight.

"I will think I want to live, don't believe me", that's when you gifted me the last smirk, a smile of rebellious nature only you knew how to pull off so effortlessly. Of course, wiping away my words like I've just kept my mouth shut as I firstly planned to.

One thing I'm thankful for - you did most of it.

Our skin shared the last two gentle touches when you took the plastic bag and shoelace from my hand, I tried hard to cage the feeling in the halls of my mind that'll become empty without you. The smirk disappeared when you pulled the bag over your head. You hurried to tie the shoelace around your neck to keep it in place, and prevent oxygen from sneaking in. Then I realized how the time is really fucked with this one, there's no sweet, quick death when you go for this, and my true pain started when I first saw you struggling for air, not a few minutes in. Plastic sucked in with the remaining air, it outlined the shape of your lips and I frowned upon myself when I reached up to place my hand over them. Other hand was gripping tightly around your wrists, holding all of you down as much as I could with my weight and strength. Now I could feel, and hear your heartbeat, I could almost smell it. The struggle of your blood cells rushing with the remaining oxygen wherever they could, spilling some of it on your hopeless efforts to squirm away. But shit, I almost lost my breath when I noticed you walking closer toward the eternally peaceful state. High on whatever goes through people's veins when they see the grin of Grim, I leaned forward, feeling dumb, but baring my teeth and biting into the plastic, tearing off the most I could manage. I apologize, I recall there was a small bit of your skin, too.

But now, I couldn't think of a situation when you looked more alive.

I don't know which was louder, your curses or gasps for air.

There was nothing thankful in the way you pushed me off, adrenaline pulsing through us both. I had both the torn plastic bag and the shoelace thrown at me, but I couldn't stop smiling like an asshole. There was something hysteric in that smile, though. I was very aware I had broken something unfixable.

"You couldn't even do that right!"

Oh, and it didn't kill you, but these words murdered whatever was growing between you and me.

Your fist flew into my face and I-- it wasn't the first punch, God, it wasn't even the worst one, yet it was the first one that actually hurt.

I remember what I was thinking the moment you shut the door: You will thank me one day. You never have.

That evening was -

· the last time we shared a cigarette· the first time we shared a kiss

· the last time we shared a word.

Did I think you should die? No. 

Did I think I was helping you? Maybe. 

Do I miss you? Absolutely.

Right after the final act, curtains of silence fell upon the both of us. Only the orchestra of breaths going decrescendo audible, with the mixed choir of late traffic in the background. It’s probably a little after midnight, but I didn’t bother to check my phone. He didn’t bother to put his clothes back on, resting there on the dusty, tattered couch. It isn’t the most glamorous stage, yet he shines there, bathed into red yellow green of the traffic light spying through the window. I, admiring from the audience position on the floor, interrupted our quiet with the lighter’s small noise to throw a glance at his dreamy face and to light up my killer.

I don’t love him.

He was the scent of concrete with flowery drops of expensive perfume, I freaking craved wildness with the smell of trees and the feel of a night breeze.

We were both flamed up by emptiness.

I was thinking about someone else. He probably wasn’t thinking at all.

He doesn’t love me.

He took care of the fire lit up by another person.

It’s just that the idea of an atelier full of canvases projecting his image gets him off.

I was amused. Tossing thoughts around, playing with short chuckles while balancing the cigarette between my lips. It was when my hand reached for a sketchbook and a pen when he spoke, muttering:

“You’re such a textbook example of a lost little artist” Amused.

Have I made him immortal yet?

My head soon fell back on the couch and it got my mind all messed up. His hand sank into my hair. I sank into dreams dreams d r e a m s.