I went all in and lost.

I have no more cards to play,

no more moves to make.

Perhaps I can try another game,

one where your gamble

is insured by the house.

No more risking everything,

no more laying it bare,

showing my heart naked;

it’s so bruised and battered now,

cold and hardened.

I doubt anyone would want to see it.

i haven't seen you in a year.

it's a relief.

it should be a relief.

instead it's a dread.

i'm not stupid. i know

you'll be back.

sometimes when i lie awake

at night

i feel your approach

fading away just before

you arrive.

i breathe a sigh of relief

and fall asleep.

i push you from my mind

because i have to.

i cannot think about you.

don't think about it.

don't think about it.

don't talk about it.

don't write about it.

but here i am. writing it.

thinking it. maybe you

were right.

maybe i did want it.

maybe i even

needed it.

i haven't forgotten.

my days are spent

not with sighs of relief

or the cherishing of each night

that i go without—

but instead with the fear

of the night you'll return.

because i know you will.

maybe once upon a time,

i thought you went away,

but i've given up on

kidding myself.

you are, after all,

a part of me.

isn't that what

my first psychiatrist said?

you are the rot in my gut that i

try to starve out of me;

you are the intrusive thoughts

that make me believe i am a monster;

you are the distorted disgusting image

of my bare body that i spend my life

trying to cover up.

you are the hatred that i

cannot beat out of myself.

i'm always externalizing my flaws.

building people in my head to blame

when i fuck up.

you are the shame.

so many people told me

i had no reason to be broken.

so i invented you

to break me.

and it worked.

which is why i know you'll

be back.

because shame doesn't die.

it can't be killed.

it can only be stalled, delayed,

pushed away towards some

abstract future date

that i know is fast approaching.

you're coming.

i'd like to say i'm ready for it.

i'm prepared, or at least i'll

have time to prepare, to guard my throat

against the acid reflux, to

build up my mental defenses and stand up

to you again.

but i'm never prepared.

that's the funny thing about shame.

it creeps up. subtle.

you are the space in my brain that i define

by what's around it, the life, the love

that you displace. because i cannot

face it head on.

i have to stay on the outskirts,

fencing off the pitfalls

in my brain, tunnels in the amygdala,

rivers in the frontal lobe

that will lead me straight to you.

you're the part of me

that i cannot admit is mine.

and until i can,

we'll be stuck in this endless dance

of torment.

you: my flaws, my shame.

and me: forever looking for

excuses.

I thought it went away,

they said it would,

the heart that squeezes

bleeding tears

as memories

of joys and sorrows

little hurts

and big dreams

flood the mind

shared moments

when you were

still

and I could call

or visit

or write

and know

you would be there

with smiles

and hugs

and laughter

and love;

I thought it went away,

and I could face each day

with you tucked safely

deeply

in a corner of my mind

ache softened

dulled

by the passing years

growing older

than you ever were

and away

from when

our lives

entwined;

I thought it went away.

But then yesterday,

--was it an old song?

the huge full moon

as I drove home from work?

nature dressed in fall colors

under the clear, blue sky?

a joke that would have made you laugh?--

I picked up the phone

~I picked up the phone~

to share a silly nothing,

but there's no number to dial

that you will answer

and I can no longer hear

the echo of your voice

and your only smiles

are in fading pictures

and our only hugs

are the ones I give myself

wearing your sweater

full of holes

falling to pieces

like me

after all this time

I thought it went away,

grief;

I was mistaken.

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

I came into this world two days late, mad as hell. My parents were nine years too far into their marriage. My mom was two years from an overdose attempt and my father, five years from a decade-long disappearance.

My grandfather-- who would later assume my dad's role-- had the quirk of nicknaming all the babies born into the family. Sometimes it took a while, as he needed time to reflect on looks, personality, and memorable moments. Then he would christen them with whatever he found fitting. But mine came in an instant. As I screeched in my mother's arms, wailing in protest, nostalgic for the void, her father pulled me into his age-spotted arms and I settled, growing silent in his embrace.

I like to think that my soul recognized his, that there was some part of me that carried an innate knowing of the traits we shared. But that's a story for another chapter. If you're the skeptical type, then it's a tall tale for another time. My Papa looked at me, and I looked at him, face still flushed with the remnants of my tantrum. On that Tuesday afternoon in the late Southern spring, my nickname chose itself.

Screaming Redcheeks.

Papa was the only one who called me this, and usually shortened it to Redcheeks, rarely calling me by my given name. There was even a paint stick with SCREAMING REDCHEEKS scrawled onto it with a fat-tipped Sharpie, kept atop the china cabinet for the days in which I lived up to my namesake. My tantrums became expected, routine even. I was set off by nearly everything, even trivial matters like the dog not listening or an especially tricky level of a computer game. I was (still am) argumentative and questioned the validity and authority of everyone and everything.

With my history, I find it strange that others describe me as calm or stoic. I was noted as being a polite, intelligent, and motivated child, though that sentiment decreased dramatically in my teens. Anytime I'm complimented on my nature, a montage of screaming fits, unfeeling language, and brazen manipulation flashes through my mind. I think of the year I smashed all the Christmas ornaments during a tantrum, or the time I threw a dining room chair at my mother. I see my children's worried faces and my patterns repeated within them. Then plays a vision of my marriage on the rocks, with my husband wavering on the cliffside, peering into the depths of Irreconcilable Differences.

My temperament breathes in dualities. There's a consistent ebb and flow, tempestuous currents of mood and mentality. There is understanding betrothed to denial. Warm embraces are frozen in a duel with cold calculation. Within hope lives hopelessness. In the absence of mania, comes depression.

I am Screaming Redcheeks. I am Marissa Wolfe.

Somewhere, within the gray of black-white polarities, there have been touches of silver that slow the pendulum just enough to offer glimpses of what healthy, happy, and hopeful looks like. Just enough to strive for. Just enough to snap the paint stick and depart from the path of rage. Anger is birthed from sadness. Sadness is birthed from pain. Pain roots itself, unyielding, into the grooves of the brain and chokes out the chambers of the heart.

And yet, it has been my greatest teacher. My greatest motivator.

The flame-soaked phoenix wails to the heavens, wondering why she's been forsaken, but within her scattered ashes is the chance to start anew. She reforms, entrenched in her cycles, and cries a different song, more knowing than the one before.

The blackened streams converging,

Methodically line by line.

Such power in its beauty.

The etched pulp plains now eroded to carry the waves in synchronicity to unfold memories paintings.

A comprehensive look into the vault;

Contrast of shadows bring life to the light on the steel walls.

As the rains from above fall in rumination,

The plains flood the streams leaving behind a silent bog forgotten in sorrow.

(trigger warning: suicide and discrimination)

I tell myself it's fine.

I repeat those words every single day.

I try to make them true.

I lie to make them true.

You ask me if I'm ok. "Yes, I am ok." I say, taking the time to envision the letters and their sounds in my head before speaking. I wonder if others have a hard time. If they think talking is hard, if they understand that stuttering and blanking and waiting for the words to come are a daily occurrence for me. Do I understand? Explaining why I can't talk is hard. I have to go through the process of talking to do that.

But, it - is - ok. Think, force yourself to think in a different way than is natural. Read the words in your mind as you talk. Animate the letters soaring in. That will make it interesting enough, right? Pay attention: think about how each syllable fits together before saying anything and never talk before thinking. And sometimes, never talk at all. But its ok. Everything is fine. It has to be, right? I can't not hold it together. Letting myself come undone at the seems would be a tragedy at best. That's what everyone says... or is it just me? I can't think. I can't come undone. Aaahhh! I feel like I'm screaming inside, a constant melancholy of anger and rage. I just want to be understood. Is that ok? No, its not. I can't understand myself, let alone ask others for help. But its fine. Everything is fine. Trust me. It will be ok, someday, maybe, I hope so. Do I even deserve to hope? I'm non-binary, which screams at me to be shut down. I deserve to be hated just for that, at least that is what I was told in church and they know everything. I know I can trust that my Pastor knows what's right. Even my mom says so. Everyone says so. My parents do, my grandma does, my friends do and I love them all. I trust them and I would do anything to earn that loyalty back. But its ok. There is nothing I can demand from others that I'm not willing to give. I guess... But, something about that's wrong. No! I can't just ask for anything but I can just expect to be given what I give in return or at least the respect to be considered something other than a stepping stone in a story that isn't my own. I want to be ok. I try to be ok. How can I be ok when I haven't earned the respect I deserve, but I have! I earned it a hundred times over. I have done more than you ever could. The only thing I got in return were labels saying Disformed, Broken, Thing, Her. I'm angry, I can't deny that, but I'm ok. I have to be ok. One slip is a forever fall into the lack of hope that swells within. I can't not be ok. I'm telling you, I'm fine. Ignore the PTSD. Ignore the fact that my hand shivers. Ignore that I stutter when I talk. Ignore that I don't have someone taking care of me. Ignore my irrational fears and crazy obsessions. Just believe you are ok and you will be. Don't worry. No one could ever except me for being me. No one understands some one who's trans, and its fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'll just be here. "Don't worry," I say, "I understand. I remember what you taught me: be grateful for everything you have and always, always respect your elders." Don't worry, I understand it isn't for control. I get why you can't change to help me. You just don't care enough and its acceptable because no one can ever understand that I'm gay, no one can ever under stand that I'm trans or autistic. It goes against what God decreed. How can I compare my knowledge with his? Don't worry, I understand. I understand everything thoroughly. Just don't come asking when I disappear. It's your own fault I died. You didn't understand. I returned the favor. Thanks for the opportunity, Christ. You saved me from myself. I met hate young. Now be kind and give me a break. I'm jumping today.

2 Eggs, 3 Yolks

July 09, 2024

In college, our situation came from necessity. I roomed with Holly and Elizabeth. They are gay. I am straight. I gave them as much clearance as they required. I also paid half of the rent and most of the utilities. I got three hots and a cot. They got a friend.

After graduation, we opted to continue this arrangement in Los Angeles. I found a position in finance selling mutual funds. Holly became a baker. Elizabeth worked for an ad agency as a copywriter. The rent was outrageous, but we managed. We ate dinner together two or three times a week. I worked out when I could. The girls found the city both exciting and invigorating. We were in our grooves within a few months.

Then the girls began arguing. First, it was about the late nights for Holly and the early rising for Elizabeth. Then, the arguing moved to the silent treatment. With these two, a break up was imminent, but a change in domiciles was impossible. I offered Holly my bedroom while I slept on the couch.

It should have deescalated the tension. It only made things worse.

The yelling became louder. The girls did not want to be in the house at the same time.

I just wanted the best for the three of us. And that’s where I went wrong.

One day I left for work, only having to return to the apartment to pick up my phone. I had the chance to overhear the girls crying and fighting and crying again.

So I listened.

Holly told Elizabeth that the someone else she had fallen for was me. Elizabeth saw her life with Holly at an end. Where would she go? How could she pay her bills on her own? It would be too awkward to remain and too difficult to leave. Holly said things like this just happen and that Elizabeth would be fine on her own.

Holly gave Elizabeth just two weeks to leave the apartment.

I silently went back to my car and departed when the garbage man arrived, creating enough noise to mask my car engine. I like Holly, but I never thought of her in that way before. I felt sorry for Elizabeth. It feels good to be wanted, but not at this price. Not this way.

But, on the day Elizabeth moved out, I gave Holly a chance. We hit it off immediately and had a great run. However, it only took three months before Holly sensed I was not the person for her. When we began to fight, I asked her to leave the apartment just before she asked me to leave. My name was the only name of the lease and the threat of calling the police was enough to convince Holly of the error of her ways.

After Holly left, I needed a roomie to help with the bills.

The very next day, who should come calling? Why, Elizabeth. She heard from a friend that Holly was gone. Could Elizabeth return?

Of course I said yes.

I wanted to be careful so as not to lose a good friend and a rent check. Elizabeth had other ideas. One night, she entered my room and crawled into the bed with me. I was close too drunk and feeling no pain. My instinct surpassed my reservation and we made love.

Within a month, I came home to find Holly moved back in, via permission of Elizabeth.

The two girls act as if nothing had ever occurred, everything is as it always was.

The girls are (now) exclusively gay. Both are back at work. All of the bills are paid.

And I sit bewildered, but saying nothing.

Somewhere, I have a calendar with a 18 week period I blacked out with a Sharpie. Those days have all of the meaning in the world for me, but only for me. I can never get them back. I can never speak of them. Sort of a self-imposed gas-lighting. Sort of an emotional exile.

I value that calendar more than anything else I own.

There are nine obvious holes in me

Nine liaisons with the universe

I hope to leave humanity

With nine, no more, in my hearse

There are two for catching drumbeats

Tympanically delivered

From a world of broken heartbeats

Before I'm umbilically scissored

Four holes I have are front and near

Two that breathe my share of air

Two are for leaking my salty tears

All on my face, arranged in pairs

There's one that comes with taste and suction

Where both my needs and wants will meet

With compensatory eruption

When overindulging the Great Teat

There's one ending vermiform

Between my legs--who knew?

When it grows up, it'll fusiform

And corkscrew more holey people, too

One hole that's truly splendid

Alleged to be a one-way street

Doth render me truly open-ended

Without it, obstructed and incomplete

Extra holes are dangerous

They bleed or gape or drain

Bodily fluids that raise a fuss

'Cause you won't get 'em back again

It doesn't scare others

that I like the slaughter

of flowers,

and find it worthy

of our center table.

But I worry

about the ants

in funeral procession

who come

with respect

to their end,

beneath a thumb

that gently rearranges

my fragrant wilting bouquet

--This symbol

of our infatuation

with Life & Death--

only my Heart

will understand,

in the great unsaid

static shock divide,

how it is

Love also dies.