The music was loud

Her insecurity was much louder

Around her, sweat and pheromones mingling on the dance floor

Youth, cheap beer, expensive cocaine, and indiscretion inspiring a premating dance

A sailor met her eyes

Thoughts only of what lay between her thighs

His uniform made her heart skip

The hungry wolfish look on his face, she missed

Passion for her

Lust for him

Bound together, no latex separating them

Her ovum beckoned and his seed swam eagerly

Surely, he would die in Asia

Surely, she was on the pill

Oh, to be so wrong

Foolish thoughts that brought me along

Within the reflection,

An old soul stares back at me

Chestnut eyes, layered with depth

Years of joy, months of sorrow, times of both,

All pooled together

Dark curves lining my eyes,

Representing the stress of recent days

The anxiety bubbling underneath my skin,

Covered by a grinning mask

All of it contained in a mix of calm indifference

A soul, matured beyond its years,

Craving simplicity,

Wishing for peace,

But unable to obtain it

All peering back at me with a single glance to the mirror

Look into the mirror and you might see languid eyes and ropy hair.

Look into my eyes and you might see you.

The pain. The sorrow.

Laughter.

Life.

Forget the mirror.

Just look into someone’s eyes long enough and you’ll see the real them mirroring the real you.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the same young girl. All my girl-like features have withered away along with my youthful spirit. It’s the aging that hair dye or makeup can’t even cover up. The aging of the mind. I languidly pull my dark hair into a low ponytail, examining the fresh gray hairs sprouting in. I’m living my life on repeat, like a one track record. I pour my coffee like it’s an instinct, something that I can’t live without. I’m 45 and i’m wilting. I have been many people, four to be exact. Mother, lover, daughter, and sister. I can still remember a few things about being a daughter, one thing in particular, my mother sewing my dolls. Her hands moved so gracefully with the needle, mending and fixing. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t sew back together. When she taught me to sew, my hands would move clumsily with the needle, stabbing the fabric multiple times, I couldn’t fix, only break.

Like Halloween is this question

brings about fear for some and cheer for others

Some love to ponder and wonder why

Some despise the word why,

brings about too many questions

questions they can’t answer

I however is among those who love to ponder,

I question it every so often

And I used to know,

my kid self would say I wanted to share ideas with the world

Bring about peace

happiness

But then I grew,

grew from my childish ideas of wanting to be hero

Not everyone gets to be a hero

And I am a coward

Cowards don’t get to be heros

Now I don’t know, I don’t even know who I am anymore

So I wonder, why am I here...

‘Why am I here?’

The question replays in my mind as—

I see another death. Another meaningless fight.

‘Why am I here?’

I ask myself as I take another life and,

The battle field reeks of blood and death.

Then,

I remember.

Miles away,

Back at home,

Is my family.

Miles away,

Back at home,

Is the reason why I’m fighting.

A boy,

Who’s favourite food is tomatoes.

A boy,

Only the age of seven–

My lovely son.

And I remember,

The small moments,

The big moments–

My precious memories.

There is no purpose to war,

I think it’s pointless and meaningless—

‘Why am I here?’

I ask my self then...

I remember home and family.

And the numb feeling in my heart,

Is less.

He wakes slowly. Everything feels right. Easy. He watches her breathe, deep and steady. Her auburn hair, so often worn in a tight bun, now pooling around her. And something snaps. Her hair stirring memories, not quite his own, but still somehow memories. A lovely blonde. Sticky, dark puddles matting her hair to the bricks in the alley. Lips pouting, eyes glassed over. Throat leaking a slow dribble. And stomach missing all essentials. His eyes refocus on the dark haired kitten in a foreign bed. His bare feet tread light and quiet through the dim room with only starlight and a dying fire in the grate to guide him. His fingers close on the straight razor like a long-forgotten friend. And the metallic blade slides through the pale skin at her throat, easy as cutting the flesh of a peach. And the blue veins gush cataracts of contrasting scarlet. And the early morning sun finds her still and breathless. Insides spilled across the room. Face an unrecognizable mask of jagged cuts. Nightdress bloody between the legs. And the early morning sun finds the attic of his mind reawakened. Newborn shadows dancing across the weathered floorboards mixing with echoes screaming through the open halls. And early morning sun finds him a hunter of human flesh. Early morning sun rises on the rebirth of terror.