His soul was the color

of broken glass

and creaking ice

a moment before

the plunge.

she fell.

His soul was the space

between the fine print-

so when he took her breath away

she didn't know

he wouldn't be giving it back.

she can't breathe.

And when the day ends

she is chained

to the corpse of a man

who never had a soul

to begin with.

so maybe she'll give him hers.

tearing it to ribbons

and pressing the silken fragments to cold lips.

but they flutter to the floor,

like the bloodied bodies of slain doves

and she learns

that love cannot be taught.

Jamie used to pull girls’ hair in Sunday School. He’s in jail now. Twenty years, what a shame.

Pricilla used to get her hair pulled. She’s a lawyer advocating for women’s rights now. Almost six years in the business.

Ilsa used to work for Jamie. She testified against him six years ago. Pricilla’s first big case.

Luca used to be Jamie’s assistant. The company tumbled after Ilsa’s testimony. Moved to LA a while back, does cameos on sitcoms.

Anna used to work on Will and Grace. She started her own show three months later. Gave Luca his first gig.

Elle used to go to Harvard. She dropped out sophomore year to become a model. Married Luca after they met at a premiere.

Gerald used to work for Pricilla. His wife left him, the catalyst for his life falling apart. Worked as an Uber driver.

Rose used to be a director. She had an affair with Elle. Got in an Uber car crash.

Freya, Anna’s sister, used to be an alcoholic before landing a job at a hospital. She helped a former lawyer turned Uber driver recover from a crash. Threw the bouquet to Ilsa, they went to college together.

*I was listening to a podcast, and these two people that live in LA talked about how everyone in their social circle and career knows everyone, so that's my inspiration.

The break room seems much more empty now that World Cup is over.

Meh, ADHD is just ADD in higher definition.

Butterscotch schnapps are like maple syrup shots only harder to spell after taking 3 of them...

Irish movies are depressing. Funny, but depressing. No wonder they drink so much.

Halloween is coming and I live in a city where the ratio of dead to living is roughly 10 to 1 - score!

Please no more 11 hour workdays!

You're taking me to your optometrist to get new glasses together? Wow, love really is blind...

Is it sad that I've got Ponyo on in the background not because I have any interest in watching it but because the soundtrack puts me to sleep?

Great, I finally call home and my brother answers, then tells me how he plans to build a flamethrower using a Zippo, a Super-Soaker, & Bacardi 151.

GOD DAMMIT! Some asshole took our clothes out from the washers and just dumped them in the communal laundry carts when I got there just 5 min after they'd finished and there were TWO fuckin' washers open he could have used instead!!!! WTF?!?!?

Wait, I DO have brownie mix -

*GASP* First issue Amalgam Comics for fifty cents each!!

Just had an awful thought - what if they DON'T lay us off in May??

*cough hack cough* There's a cookie recipe on the back of my saltine cracker box??

You know you're in Michigan when you're driving a car with seat warmers but no emergency/parking break.

Please, oh appliance gods, let my ancient washer/dryer hookups work with the new machines today...I am running out of underwear and the children at the laundromat scare me...

Crap - my plant is still alive and now must be trans-potted. Well, this was amazing while it lasted.

Meatloaf baked into pie = proof that marrying into a French-Canadian family was a smart move.

Driverless cars...because we're so anti social we can't just invest in buses/trains?

Apparently drunk me really likes Pearl Jam.

"Wanna order pizza and build Lego's?" has to be the most romantic date night I've ever had.

Improvisation: Realizing I bought the stir fry veggies without sauce and pouring steak sauce over the whole thing instead.

I have all of the material for the Addled Beer dual blades, yet the blacksmith still doesn't offer to craft them - what gives??

Cheeseburger Tacos: the meal that says "Yeah, I was too white for this, sorry."

Ten minutes of grooming and I still look like a lightning-blasted Hobbit...

Best bar night trivia group name ever overheard: Better Late Than Pregnant

I know I need to lose weight but every so often I feel the long-dead soul of a starving peasant in my heart going, "Yay! Body fat! It's so warm and jiggly! Gods be praised - let's eat more!"

Healthy peanut butter 'n chocolate cereal just tastes like disappointment and adulthood dusted with cocoa.

I think I relate more to DC comic characters because they feel like great people horribly trapped by greedy, idiotic corporate leadership - and I have been there, man.

A beautician could make a killing giving 10 min makeovers in the DMV waiting area. Just a thought.

Sprouts: Cause this salad didn't make me feel enough like a rabbit.

Okay, saw Wonder Woman finally and if I think of it as a fan fiction where Captain America is Thor's female cousin and he makes out with Agent Coulson, it's pretty good.

Blargh, I can't hold wine and my gaming controller at the same time...

It's not sacrilegious to use Challah bread for sloppy joe's if they're vegan, right?

Nothing like a trip to the dentist to remind you that you are a slowly decaying skeleton in a fleshy wrapper with no printed expiration date.

This coffee needs more Irish...

YES! God has finally answered my swears!

august 27th, 1967

'fire has but one purpose.' you close your eyes. 'to burn.'

you sit on the edge of my bed.

an unlit cigarette is perched between your lips.

in your hands, you hold a pack of matches.

i watch with swollen eyes. 'i suppose.'

you open the matchbox and pull a single match.

your hands are steady as you strike it.

flame explodes to life, dancing atop its thin roost.

you light the cigarette. take a drag. exhale.

the smoke is thick. the tension is thicker.

'i'm not supposed to smoke in my room,' i complain. 'you'll get me in trouble.'

'nobody's home.'

you shrug. open the matchbox. flick a match over to me.

'might as well make it count.'

i catch it, but i don't move.

the dim ceiling lights catch the blue of your eyes. you nod.

i stare back at you. 'you didn't give me a cigarette.'

'who cares?' you blow a ring of smoke into the air with expert precision.

you toss the matchbox over. it lands on the desk next to me. 'light it.'

my hands tremble.

i strike the match once, twice, three times before it finally catches fire.

i stare into its warmth, mesmerized.

within my fingers, i hold salvation. i hold destruction.

i look back up at you. the flame flickers deep within your eyes.

you meet my gaze.

'let go.'

'what?' my throat is dry.

the fire sucks the moisture straight from my body.

soon, i'll be no more than a dessicated husk.

you rise from the bed.

tuck the cigarette between your fingers.

place a hand on my shoulder.

'it's time to let go.'

the flame has burned its way down the match.

it's unbearably hot on my fingertips.

i swallow. look back at you. look back at the match.

salvation. destruction.

i know what i've chosen.

i let go.

the match falls to the carpet.

a small flame flickers atop the shag, but i don't stomp it out.

you don't either.

it grows. and it grows. and it grows.

you wink.

september 5th, 1967

i can't find you.

there's too many tubes in ungodly places.

more people than i've ever seen.

but not one of them is you.

they've got me strapped to this bed.

i keep telling them to stop, but they don't listen.

it hurts. god, it hurts.

where are you?

september 13th, 1967

a man with a shiny badge comes into the room.

he says his name is marvin.

i don't like him.

he looks like a sheep.

sheep make me think of your fluffy hair.

and thinking about you hurts.

marvin wants to know why i did it.

i tell him the truth.

i tell him you told me to.

he asks who you are.

i tell him.

there's a woman in the corner.

she's familiar, but i can't place her face.

she holds a tissue to her eyes.

she shakes her head at the mention of your name.

mumbles something i can't hear.

marvin glances over at her with a curt nod.

'we'll be back,' he tells me. 'stay here.'

as if i could go anywhere.

the straps have just grown thicker.

'dangerous', they say. 'for your own good.'

september 28th, 1967

you appear.

i don't know how long i've been here. you don't either.

you lean over the edge of my bed.

stroke the matted hair from my forehead.

your touch is fainter than usual.

the room is dark. curtains pulled shut.

the browning potted plant in the corner is my only company.

besides you.

my voice is hoarse. 'i missed you.'

you don't say a word.

'i'm sorry.' i swallow.

where's the goddamned water when i need it?

'please don't leave me here.'

silence.

the door cracks open. light shimmers through the opening.

my eyes struggle to adjust.

someone enters the room.

i look to you, but you're gone.

october 10th, 1967

they shove pills down my throat by the handful.

they're chalky. make my dry throat drier. taste horrible.

they say it'll help.

'help what?' i ask.

i don't need help.

i just need you.

they say that you're the problem.

they tried telling me that you're not real.

as if.

october 30th, 1967

you visit me again, right as the clock blinks midnight.

you kiss me upon my forehead.

if i focus, i can nearly feel it.

in your hand, you hold a white rose.

place it across my chest.

i want to reach for it.

but my hands are bound.

i blink.

the rose is gone.

in its place is a thick woolen blanket.

i look back up at you.

tears well in my eyes.

your face is lopsided.

your stance is slumped.

you're not yourself.

i can barely force a whisper from my throat.

'what have they done to you?'

you can only shake your head.

november 16th, 1967

marvin's back.

the woman is, too.

she always seems to be lingering around.

some days she talks to me.

i don't want to talk to anyone but you.

marvin sits at the foot of my bed.

he has a notepad in his hand.

he asks if you've come to visit.

i say yes.

he sighs. 'how often?' he asks.

i answer honestly. 'twice.'

there's another woman in the room.

i didn't notice her before.

she wears all white.

marvin glances to her.

she nods slightly.

'getting better,' she says. 'up the dosage.'

not the pills again.

they're doing nothing.

i feel fine.

i want to leave.

i want to go home.

i want you.

december 28th, 1967

the tubes have gone away, but the pills haven't.

they sit in bottles of all shapes and sizes on my bedside table.

i ask what they're for.

the woman in white tells me that you're not real again.

that you don't exist.

but if you don't exist, then why are you watching me right now?

you stand behind the woman, arms crossed.

i can see through you.

you flicker against the sterile backdrop of machinery.

like a flame.

you walk around the woman.

stand at my bedside.

she ignores you. just keeps talking, but i'm not listening.

because it's you.

you're pale. why are you so pale?

your face is expressionless.

a laugh bursts from my throat. where did it come from?

where did you come from?

you clutch the railing of the bed with white-knuckled fingers.

trace a heart onto the side of my cheek, over the bandages.

i feel nothing.

you flicker again.

the woman keeps talking.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you smile.

and then you're on fire / and the world is on fire / and i'm on fire / and i can't breathe / and i'm screaming for you / until my throat / is hoarse / but you don't respond

and i'm thrashing / against the straps / holding me down / but they don't give an inch / and i'm surely / burning at the stake / and the flames are / licking my body / and the flesh / is melting / from your face

and someone's screaming / and i can't tell / if it's me / or someone else / but it's all the same / because we're all burning

and strong hands / hold me down / and someone's crying / but i don't care / because can't they see / you're dying / someone help / goddamnit / get some fucking help

and something sharp / pricks into the side / of my neck / but i can barely feel it / and a metallic taste / takes over my mouth / is it blood / is it drugs / it's all the same

and i keep screaming / until the fire's gone

and i keep screaming / until you're gone

and i keep screaming / until i'm gone

december 28th, 1997

it's been thirty years.

the drugs help.

or so they claim.

i still can't believe you weren't real.

because i know you were.

and sometimes i stop taking the pills.

and i think i can hear your voice in the back of my mind.

i think i can see you on the edge of my bed.

i think i can see that cigarette between your lips,

the match within your fingers.

and i can feel the flames on my body.

these scars don't go away.

because fire has one purpose.

to burn.

Dear Ukulele,

My dad claims you’re too loud, but that’s exactly what the boys in middle school said about me, so I sympathize.

Dear Baseball Bat,

My mom tells me you’re too boyish for me and I shouldn’t keep you close “in case of emergencies.” She said the same thing about my best friend in first grade.

Dear Pearl Necklace,

I think you’re too pretty for me. Too delicate, more like. I think I’ll break you. That’s what I thought about my first crush too.

Dear Instant Dry Nail Polish,

You chip away too soon, almost like my self esteem.

Dear Anxiety,

My parents don’t think you exist. My old therapist claimed she could get rid of you. I don’t think I want to just yet. Or maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll do if you leave.

Dear Money,

People tell me that you’re worthless, and in the same breath, they explain your incalculable value. Whole worlds have been built around you, yet you’re taken for granted. Now, you’re being replaced by a screen and some code. I think you and happiness have a lot in common.

Dear Society,

You’re the home I don’t want to visit anymore but come crawling back for Thanksgiving dinners and weekly rants about the economy. You’ve been my old companion since I was six, and I don’t think you’ll ever leave me. You’re a spiteful bonfire that everyone hates, but we always come back for some more.

Dear Bookshelf,

Stop looking at me like that.

Dear Thoughts That Fill My Head At Night,

Don’t leave me.

Dear Inanimate Objects I Compare My Problems To In A Fictious Piece Because I Can’t Discuss My Problems With My Problems,

I’m glad you listen to me when nobody else will.