Alpine Falls was no joke. Bears, fucking EVERYWHERE. And there was only one person who could protect the amusement park quests and employees: Roxanne. Burly, they were larger than any other person at the park. They were strong, and built for endurance. Calloused hands attached to thick wrists, which gave way to muscular arms. A ripped and scarred torso was hidden beneath layers of flannel: full lumberjack garb. Onlookers were in awe at the sight of them, and were more grateful for them then they would know. Roxanne had the most important job of all: fighting the bears. Alpine Falls was an extremely popular tourist attraction and theme park, styled after the Swiss Alps. Montana seemed to fit the bill for a location, but the investors didn't think about the bears. So many fucking bears. Grizzlies were prevalent in the area, and when the park first opened, bear attacks were rampant. That is, until they hired Roxanne. They had lived their life with their father, who bred and raised big cats down in Florida. He was eventually killed by the very animals he cared for (it was common in the big cat profession), so Roxanne decided to spend the rest of their days up north, taking rich men on hunts for big game. They had hunt many different animals, and bears were nothing new. But, the their job at the park had a very odd twist. They weren't allowed to shoot the bears with a gun. The owners didn't want to scare the guests with gun shots, or the sight of a gun strapped to an employee. So, Roxanne had to bear knuckle box these fucking bears. They trained for a year and a half before taking the job. No one could do this but Roxanne, and they knew it. They were the best. Guests loved it. Roxanne, bravely having a fist-cuffs with a 600 pound grizzly. It truly was a sight to behold. A knife was gifted to them after awhile, which was a blessing. Roxanne could take down a bear easily, but killing them was an entirely different story. A good twist of the head, sometimes strangling would work. But it took a lot of strength and patience, which, Roxanne lacked much of the second. They would pin the bears, or the bears would get them against a tree, and the large knife would be pulled from its sheath to meet the bear's thick neck. Blood would spew everywhere, sometimes flinging onto park goers that would get too close. The kids would stare in half terror, half sick enjoyment. "Who the hell would bring their kids here?"; Roxanne thought anyone who would come here was absolutely bat shit crazy. But, they were payed well, and they were saving people. "What a bunch of fucking nut jobs", they would think, as they punched another grizzly in the face.

I am two people.

I am kind,

I am compassionate,

I am loving,

I am hardworking,

I am social,

I am adventurous,

I am joyful,

I am content,

But:

I am also resentful,

I am selfish,

I am lazy,

I'd rather stay at home,

I am anxious,

I am sad.

I am two people at once,

And as tiring as it can be,

They are both me.

Gray, and wet

A calming sensation

Lingering

Silence follows

Warm blankets

Awake, and sleeping

Nesting

How nice

To not exist

Blank moments

Clean, and content

Leave bed

And stand in it

Let yourself exist

Comfort isn’t real

Hurting, living

Let the rain fall

And know

Life is good

Cold, and grateful

When I tried to hang myself, I told everyone that I did it once, and that the material I had used (I couldn’t find the belt I was going to use), slipped off the door knob, and that was why I was unsuccessful. That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. That same night, I laid awake, staring at my ceiling. It had been around three in the morning when I got up, turning to my night stand to turn on the small lamp. I fumbled through my clothes, and I found that belt I tried to find earlier. Creating two loops, I put one end on my door knob: pulling tight to make sure it would hold my weight. I got on my knees with my back to the door. Slipping the second loop over my head, I left the leather dig into my neck, tightening it before I leant forward. As I leaned, I thought of how silent and quick I would go. How my roommate wouldn’t stir from his sleep, or at least not before it was too late. I knew that I was going to be successful in my endeavors. That thought isn’t why I panicked and stopped when I began to see stars. Neither was the thought of my family missing me, or the people I loved hurting because of me. I sat there, weeping silently, belt still tight against my throat, with one thought in my mind: I would just have to start over again. Even if I did die, I firmly believe in reincarnation. There would be no sanctity in death. I felt no peace like I had when I was younger; when I had been swept into the currents of a river, pulled under. I had hoped it would have been like that: a peace washing over me, and a silent acceptance. I had been ready, even at such a young age. Looking back, it was like when I had reached up with one final effort, and grabbed a leg to pull myself up out of the depths. Even in death, there is no end. That’s the only thought that stopped me, and I still feel an overwhelming selfishness because of that. I cannot say that love saved me, and that will always haunt me.

Rain unrelentingly tapped against the window of your bedroom. It was dark and  comforting; the only light coming from the ashy pool of wax that was once a candle, minutes away from burnout. The space was small; thick drapes and tapestries enveloping the cool brick. Several rugs scattered the wood floor, yielding to the large, frameless mattress. Nestlike: this was your special place, that of which few had ever been allowed to see.

However, someone else joined you tonight, entangled within an ouroboros of sheets and blankets. You felt their warmth against your back: they were all you wanted. Affection has always been something difficult for you. Family life had never been easy, and it had left you bitter and uneducated on the matter. It had only hit you when you met them, how much you had craved that feeling of closeness.

As you lay there, curled into the arms of your lover; it felt cheap to even call them that, the way they fed you. You felt so full when you were with them: unlike anything you had felt before. You could stay in the soft folds with them for the rest of time. Hot breath against you. A wet mouth collides with the back of your neck: gentle. This gentleness was unmatched. Roughness is so prevalent in life: so few moments contain something of tenderness.

Large hands rubbed your shoulder blades. Legs brushing against your own. The mouth made its way to your shoulder, arms intertwining around you and with your own. They held you there, head pressed into the curve of your neck. Not just breathing you in: melting into you.

How you wanted to be someone else. But, when you were here, with them, it made you glad to be you. They made you feel like a person: no longer a deep void; an endless cavern to fall in. There was a ground here, with them. You pressed harder into them.

A sob escaped you: you could no longer hide it. They knew, and held you firmly through the storm. They had known that you were a dangerous wind trapped in a small, glass jar. And that sometimes the glass cracked, or that the lid would blow off all together. But they didn’t mind. There was a storm in us all.

You didn’t ask for anything, and they knew that these moments were all you really needed from them. Caressing their hand and wrist, you silently wept. Kisses dotted your neckline, and their firm grip remained. Rocking against them: the wind was strong today. They held you through the night, light touches and kisses keeping you grounded, their support protecting you.

How you were so grateful for them: you turned in their arms, and looked into their eyes and face. No words came to mind as you gazed over them. Slowly, you pressed your mouth into theirs, holding their face in place. How soft they were: how soft, yet firm enough to keep you up. You wanted to be strong, like them.

Every ounce of gratitude, you had poured out into them. There were nights you did the same for them, rocking them softly as they wept. Nightmares came and went, and it was a struggle for you both. But, you weathered the storm together, standing strong and still against it.

Forehead to forehead, you ran your hands over them, and they did the same. Nothing else mattered. Sharing breath, legs curved and twisted together. The rain still persisted, and it was that faint chiming through the night that let you both drift off. Warm, together: nested and content.

My favorite thing about myself is that when I wake up every morning, each day feels different and new. Like I had just been born: looking up into the smooth surface of my ceiling for the first time.

That used to be a great comfort for me.

When each day is new, you can be whoever you want to be, right?

Now, I just get anxious: thinking of what face I'll have to put on that day. I feel new, but forced. This act is so draining, and sometimes I wish I didn't wake up to my smooth ceiling at all, or that I would forget the days before that, making it truly unknown. There is hope for the unknown.

I want to feel that again, not knowing what to expect. It could be, it can be. Life is what you make it, but I am so tired now.

Is squandering your precious time redeemable?