You asked me once what I had done to your little girl. Your perfect, sweet, little girl. I could not answer through the knife in my heart.

As I looked into your pain-filled eyes I wished I could say "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry that I'm what's left of your daughter, and I'm sorry that I want her to die.

Growing up, I never questioned who I was or where I’d end up.

Childhood optimism had no room for doubt or worry.

After all, roadblocks and plot twists only belonged in books.

My path was bright, my future clear.

I was diagnosed with depression at age 12.

Suddenly, my future didn’t seem so certain.

Without the saving grace of childhood innocence, the me, that I am today, can’t ignore the “ifs”.

“I will succeed.” Maybe.

“I will be happy.” Hopefully.

The me who I am today takes notes, carefully detailing the context of my life. As if somehow a strategic history of my past could change the future. That maybe through study and careful understanding, I might find a way out.

When I was 12 I couldn’t stop crying.

By 13, the tears gave way to violent breakdowns.

At 14, I was numb

At 15, I wanted nothing more than to feel again.

At 16 I found a way to feel.

I was 18 when I stopped.

It’s in my moments of sanity my inner romantic screams out,

“this isn’t all just a fluke, a freak accident,

when you forget your future and struggle to continue on just remember that your very existence is proof that you belong

The state of the chemicals in your brain does not make you less of a person. It’s a side effect of a society that refuses to acknowledge an epidemic, a society that refuses to understand.

When we refuse to be silent, others are forced to hear. In the comfort of illusions nothing will every change.”

I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for others like me.

That they not only find the courage to get help, but the inspiration to fight, and the belief that they will be victorious.

I fight to give a voice to the me that I was.

It’s okay to not be okay.

It’s okay to ask for help.

Frank Denton believed wholeheartedly that feelings were overrated. In fact, he was often heard saying in his English lectures that if humanity ever failed anywhere along the evolutionary line, it was when they decided to give a crap about each other. Humans, he would argue with last night’s alcohol still on his breath, were garbage. All they did was destroy each other. If you ever met a non-garbage person, he said, stay away. Stay away because one of you will die.

He was a favorite among students. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment those days and an alcoholic teacher who was obsessed with death, well, it was certainly better than nothing. There was also the small fact that he let his students come and drink at his apartment on the weekends. Frank’s booze wasn’t any better than the bar down the street, it was all watered down just the same. Unlike the bar down the street, Frank didn’t charge.

Frank thought he was a garbage human.

Frank’s boss also thought he was a garbage human and Frank was fired for teaching drunk one too many times. His students visited once or twice out of pity but the pity ran out around the same time that Frank’s stock did.

Frank had only met a few non-garbage people in his life. Mrs. Harrison, his first-grade teacher, was the first. It could be childhood innocence but Frank remembered her as distinctly not garbage. Frank would sit on his own during recess. Mrs. Harrison didn’t force him to socialize. She mostly left him alone. His other teachers would hound him with questions. Is everything okay at home? Do you need to speak with a counselor? Why did you tell Samantha? She tried to exercise the janitor.

Sophia also was a non-garbage person, probably the most non-garbage person Frank had ever met. They had been married for two years when she died. Frank didn’t really believe in God but he often thought of a man sitting on a cloud directing the delivery truck that hit her to run the red light. All these years later, Frank still did not like God.

And so, Frank sat on his misshapen couch and considered what he should do. He was jobless, wifeless, Godless, and boozeless. The bar down the street could fix one of his problems.

Once he made sure his face was free of any errant whiskers, Frank made his way through his disheveled apartment and onto the street.

It had started to snow. Not enough to stick to anything besides the grass, but enough to turn your breath white. Frank cursed under his breath. Not too long ago, snow was a seasonal event. Due to the tilt of the Earth on its axis, half of the planet would experience colder seasons while the other half experienced the warmer seasons and then vice versa. When humans decided to start bombing each other they inadvertently blocked out most of the sun with all of the clouds and haze. Now it snowed most of the year.

A faint smell of ammonia greeted Frank when he walked into the bar. A half a second later his ears were assaulted with the typical bar noises, people arguing, a deal going sour, a woman crying, a whore propositioning a potential customer at the bar. At least it was warm.

It didn’t seem to matter how scarce food became, there was always plenty of alcohol. Sure it was watered down and tasted like it was probably distilled in the bathtub upstairs, but it was alcohol.

Frank found a booth in a darkened corner to sit with his beer. He thought he would sit alone for a while and drink until his he felt numb enough to go home.

“Why’re you sitting here all by yourself?”

Looking up from his drink, Frank saw that the woman he had spied trying to proposition the now passed out man at the bar was standing next to his booth. She had apparently moved on to a new target.

“I’m not interested,” Frank said.

“In what? A conversation? Geez.” She plopped down across from him and readjusted one of her boots. “So what’s your name then?”

Frank looked at her. She wasn’t bad looking by any means. In fact, if she showered she may have passed for conventionally pretty. She had caked on her mascara in an attempt to hide the bags under her eyes and her lipstick was already smeared.

“Why?” Frank drank to remind himself why he came to the bar in the first place. There wasn’t any booze at home.

“Don’t you usually ask somebody’s name before startin’ a conversation?”

“I guess.”

“Then that’s what I’m doin’.”

“I don’t really feel like conversing at the moment.”

“Well, that sucks because I do and you’re my only option.” She crossed her legs, propping them up on the table.

She was right of course. The only other single guy was the one she left passed out on his bar stool.

“What happened to him?” Frank gestured with his thumb.

“Not used to the top-shelf selection is my guess. Don’t worry though, he’s still breathin’.”

Frank was slightly taken aback when she stuck her hand into her cleavage and started rummaging around as if she were looking for something. Her clothing didn’t leave any extra fabric for pockets, but Frank was surprised at how much she apparently kept in her bra as it took her a good half minute to find what she was looking for, a package of cigarettes and a lighter.

“So, are you going to tell me your name or not?” She asked, placing a cigarette between her lips.

“Frank.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” She laughed and flicked her lighter on. It was supposed to be covered in glitter, but it had begun to wear off. She inhaled once before replying with her own name, “Taylor.”

“I was expecting something else.” Frank didn’t do a very good job of hiding his surprise.

“What? Diamond or Rose or some cheesy shit like that?”

Frank shrugged.

“We only do that when we want to hide our identities. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Taylor watched the smoke leave her lips. Slumping back in her seat, she added, “I’ve got no one to hide from.”

“What?”

Taylor looked up from the smoke dancing in front of her eyes, “Don’t you worry about it none.” She shoved the lighter and pack back into her bra. “So what’s a city boy like you doin’ around these parts anyhow?”

Frank simply raised his glass in response. “I’m all out at home.” He paused. “What makes you so sure I’m a city boy?”

“You’re clean,” she said sticking out her chin. “Boys ’round here don’t tidy up like you do.”

Without thinking Frank passed his fingers over his chin. He missed a small spot above his left jaw.

Frank may have grown up in the city but he never considered himself a city boy. Assumptions came along with city-slickers that he abhorred. If humans were garbage, city boys were sewage.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Alright then,” Taylor laughed. “No offense meant.” She put her hands up as if surrendering.

The alcohol content must have been higher than Frank thought as he found that her high-pitched laughter was still ringing in his ears. It reminded him of a bad hangover.

“So, what’s it you do?” She took another drag from her cigarette.

“Nothing.”

“That’s now, how ’bouts before?”

“I was an English teacher about a month ago.”

“An English teacher, huh? Why don’t you tell me a story then?”

“Nah, I’m not the storytelling type.”

“Then, what type of English teacher was you?”

“Literature analysis,” Frank paused. “And grammar.”

“Ha ha very funny.”

Frank let out a small laugh.

“Well, look at that! Mr. English Teacher has emotions.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.”

“Welcome to my world, darlin’.”

Rain poured down from the heavy clouds onto the sullen over-congested streets of the city. The religious may have thought that the swarming masses below had earned the wrath of the heavens above. Perhaps they had sinned. Perhaps they had forsaken their God. Or, perhaps the water droplets fell heavy without giving a care about God or Man.

A dense, gray fog hovered above the streets, threatening to crowd out the bleak lights struggling to show the wandering people where to go. Porchlights, streetlights, stoplights. The masses hurried along, crowded under umbrellas, hustling into buses and cabs, anything to get out of the torrent.

A man called Doug paused outside of a worn building and listened to the wind beating against the loose glass of the windows. Hopefully they would hold.

Inside, though dry, offered little refuge from the bleakness of the streets. The aftermath of the previous morning was still evident. Glass shards were scattered across the floor; a vase was turned over by the window. The drafty room carried the faint scent of copper.

Doug sat down on the side of the couch not covered in still-drying blood. Whisky bottle in hand, he studied the room around him.

What a sight this must be, he thought to himself. A man sitting alone in the wreckage of his own self-destruction. Or attempt thereof.

Doug figured that if there was ever a time to believe in God, this would be it. He reckoned the hole in his head was still present. If not, he could always put it back. His eyes fell onto the gun laying to his right.

Perhaps a different location this time.

Passing the whisky to his other hand, he reached for the gun. Deja-vu swept over him as he felt the cold metal of press against his palm.

Maybe he should put some papers down, just in case he failed again. The couch was ruined enough as it is.

If it worked, however, that wouldn’t matter.

Doug laughed and pulled the trigger.

Laughter turned into screams. The screams subsided back into laughter as Doug continued to pull the trigger until the gun clicked.

As the room around him swam back into focus, Doug realized the ringing in his head was not actually in his head, but his doorbell.

He staggered over to the door, drink still in hand. On the other side was his neighbor, Martha.

"Would you cut that racket out? I'm trying to sleep."

Doug looked down at the spent gun.

"That's not going to get you out of here."

"What?"

"Just how many damn holes did you put in your head?"

Doug paused before holding up four fingers.

"Just my advice," Martha leaned in and took the gun. "Stick to drink. It's quieter and," she glanced at the burgundy stain on his couch, "less messy."

Doug looked past Martha into the congested city streets. He didn't remember moving to the city. "Where am I?"

"You're not talking to Jesus, sweetie."

From winter's reign she breaks

In soulful flights to escape

A fledgling corvid taking wings

As feather falls so she sings

Until she drifts before the ground

Greets the hollow without sound

And tucks her bones beneath the earth

In resting once more to worth

So up again and flourishing

Leaves pass in seasons matching

'Till nest's next of kin hatches again

And out that heart a corvid begins

One day may pass that I witness

Her subtle passing over grasses

While your eyes glean the sight

Of your bird of black and white

Beyond mere feather does it say

How love's purpose may refrain

And echo as it does with us

Like the corvid's cycle

Harmonious.  

                                                                    I 

                                                               do seek.

                                                           What eddies 

                                                      whirl until they pale

                                                 beneath, pushing purpose

                                         to flowing beyond me continuously

                                       losing myself to that maelstrom whose

                                          swirling, turning, circling breathes

                                                endless as it pulls me deeper

                                                   a storm now evermore

                                                         brewing within

                                                            this mortal

                                                                core.

                                                                  I

                                                            do fight.

                                                    A recurring battle

                                            reincarnated at each dawn

                                       carnal as the blood which spawns

                                     words without meaning to life again

                                  to death as the cycle begins another turn

                                     hands ticking seconds to the infinite

                                        surrender, I might, one day if my

                                            breath should indeed cease

                                                 but my feet march to

                                                    an endless beat to

                                                      the final hours 

                                                          I do not

                                                            await.

                                                               I

                                                          am one.

                                                 Amongst the fallen

                                              on the precipice, I am

                                       that banner which stands listless

                                   tattered, marking corpses overrun by

                                   armies whose hands murdered all my

                                          ardent desires and fulcrums I

                                            lost, to be found yet again

                                               as the dust settles in

                                                    to that silent

                                                      ever dying

                                                           din.

                                                            I

                                                      have lost.

                                                 Yet still I kneel

                                            to that ruling hunger

                                    synonymous to my nature both

                                  destructive and creative at its apex

                                which commands my hands yet again

                                    returning, I must then relinquish

                                         fear once more as the sun

                                            spawns dawn, so now

                                               yet another battle

                                                 calls me again,

                                                     and again

                                                       I shall

                                                       begin.

my eyes

are closed.

but still i am looking.

the garden - it smells like a fragrant pale rose, tastes like a winter morning.

gently wafting, flower petals whirl and settle like the songs of birds and the faces of time.

I feel light on my face, against my eyelids, touching softly my lips and cheeks, casting pulsing rays through my entirety. warm and full, maroon red.

it engulfs wholly, a glow of energy, slow, lasting.

a rose breathes sparkling white dust onto my fingers. its petal feels soft, purple velvet and yellow silk under my touch.

the birds sound like tinkles of blue and silver and chocolate, flutelike and rounded, floating high above the toffee-brown smell of pine and the crisp blue air dotted with patches of satin warmth.

a voice, calling out from somewhere in the green expanse behind me, sounds low and a dark violet. it thrums softly, thin, reedy, but whole.

I touch a hand, gently. it is soft, small, dainty, and it feels like the molten white gold of home. spared the callouses of life, touched with snow, thin and beautiful. it feels like pearly white, pastel pink, the softest silver glow in the world.

you don't need to see to feel, and

love feels like pure gold.

Shall I compare you to a winter's night?

You are more frigid and more pitiless. 

Blizzards slam into towns with all their spite,

And winter's an eternal barrenness.

At times will Jack Frost's magic flare up wild,

And oft will dregs of silver bleach the earth;

And every man and beast touched be defiled,

Claimed victims of the season new in birth. 

But your sour aura always will prevail,

Nor can your visage ever hope to smooth,

Nor for you shall e'en death desire to hail,

When I have made known to the world this truth.

            In only parting with life shall I cease,

            And only then will you and I find peace.