I absolutely hate it when the bathroom doorknob is wet. In fact, I hate touching anything that's unexpectedly damp. Once after someone else's shower, I picked up the tube of toothpaste and found it soaked with condensation. It was like touching a dead slug.

I always dry my hands very thoroughly after washing them, because I don't like the feeling of lingering dampness. I don't like having to touch things with wet fingers. I take forever at the hand dryers in public washrooms—even the really useless ones, because they work eventually, if you're patient enough.

I always brush off my dishes and utensils with my fingers, before I use them. Sometimes I feel silly doing it. But sometimes I feel crumbs, and then all the satisfaction of validation. If I hadn't brushed it off, those crumbs would be in my food.

In the shower, I imagine I'm washing away all the crusty old thoughts and beliefs I don't need anymore. I tend to hold onto things, once I have them. So I make a point of trying to let go.

It's because I'm so good at avoiding things. I keep everything away from me. So when something gets in, I cling for dear life.

The trap had been sprung, but there was nothing in it.

Sidny searched for tracks, but the muddy ground was undisturbed, the undergrowth uncrushed, so she decided it must have been the trap itself. A malfunction. She reset it.

The next morning, it had been sprung again.

Sidny tried switching it out for another trap. She tried setting both traps, a little ways apart. Every trap she set was sprung the next morning, empty.

Eventually, Sidny took the traps home without bothering to reset them.

By the time she discovered she had caught something after all, it was too late.

Perfection causes all kinds of problems.

As a child I learned my temper was unacceptable,

a beast to be hidden away from, so

I banged and scratched my mother's bedroom door

and howled the frustration I couldn't understand,

my fingernail marks on the wood

a monument of my abandonment.

My two-year-old tantrums weren't the end of it.

My sense of injustice was sensitive

and I didn't know how to reconcile

myself with the world, so I lashed out

and slapped what I could not control—

the mortal sin of violence

rooting ever deeper

my shame.

I was told stop, stop, stop

but given no instructions and

I couldn't,

so every time I boiled over

I cried and hated myself

and broke myself in two—

the good part and the anger I cannot control.

So I controlled it.

I learned not to be bossy,

not to be selfish,

not to stand up for myself,

not to ask for what I needed;

it was safer to be silent.

As a teenager, I didn't see the problem with my perfectionism.

I clung to my high standards, the mast of a sinking ship

with a flag at the top proclaiming, "I'm a good person!"

I took pride in my effort and quietly resented

everyone who was free to not care quite so much.

But I see it now.

I see the anger and shame

and all the ways I learned to make myself small.

I feel it all over again every time I make the tiniest mistake

and it's enough to stop me from even trying;

safer to sit in depression and fear than risk

being locked out again.

Safer to lock out myself.

Safer to nitpick every thought and

never let it out of my mouth.

Everyone hid from my emotions, so

I learned to hide them from myself.

In messy reality, perfection is meaningless

and "doing your best" is easily misconstrued,

and I think what we really need is to be seen.

Witness my anger and my shame, and love me anyway.

When failure is met with love,

space is created to move forward.

I hope I can learn,

deep in my bones,

how worthy it is to try and fail;

how courageous to accept myself as I am;

how wonderful to sometimes let things be.

"I am enough" does not preclude growth;

without "I am enough,"

I exhausted myself

holding back half of myself

and had no energy left for moving forward.

She built a pyramid in the sand,

portioning a quotient to each of us,

and she tasted the structures' fright

as we kicked them down.

She would absorb the sun like a plant,

turning green, and make a fossil out of

each thought she was too afraid to say,

building glaciers of her emotions.

She had a habit of pretending to be invisible,

so similar to her surroundings

we wouldn't notice her bleak outlook

or the way she tied her hair.

She wanted a balcony to sit on,

to observe the world from,

where helicopter maple keys and fallen leaves

were her only real visitors.

She never hosted slumber parties

and gave harsh answers to avoid the truth;

the jellyfish sting of declined invitations

was a possibility too impossible to allow.

She hoarded nuts like a chipmunk,

stuffing her cheeks with every stare cast her way

as she made her solemn march downtown

wondering why she hated attention.

She might have crumpled the pages of your heart

if you were to put it in her hands, so she thought

she'd better not risk it, and remained

in the typical lonely day-to-day.

the devil wears lipstick and white

so all the stains show;

the devil touches everything.

the devil lives in the shadows;

not to hide, but to invite us in.

the devil makes our sins impossible to ignore.

I wake up with no memories but my mission.

I wonder only briefly at the empty spaces in my mind. Who needs memories when you have purpose?

So I sit up and feel the crisp, white sheets slide down my arms. I'm in a bed, in a pristine room. Gauzy white curtains billow at the edges of the glass wall opposite, and I push the sheets away as I look out over the city.

The floor looks like wood, but it's smooth and cold on my feet. I put my hand on the glass. It doesn't fog under my fingertips, and I leave no prints.

The sky is hidden under a flat, white sheet of cloud and the light is diffuse. It makes the city look flat, a perfectly lifelike drawing. A photograph. Something that once was real, but this is only a likeness of it.

It's all glass and metal, and I don't know if it's familiar or not. Nothing feels familiar except my own body, so does that mean I've never been here before, or is it only gone with the rest of my memories?

I step back so I can find my reflection in the glass, superimposed over the city. She's vague and doesn't look quite like me, but she smiles when I smile and mimics my wave.

I find clothes in a closet, and dress myself in a shiny grey jacket and billowy white pants. There are boots—tall, sleek, and baby blue—that fit me perfectly.

I tie up my hair in the full-length mirror hung on the back of the closet door, studying my face as I do it. This reflection is clear, and looks like me, but I don't know what I've done, where I've been. There's only this place, here, and my mission. My purpose. I tighten my ponytail and smile.

The building beyond that room feels empty. I cross a mezzanine with a glass railing and evenly-spaced potted plants that could be real or fake. I walk down a glass staircase.

I don't know where I'm going, but I don't need do. I know what I'm here to do, and I'll do it, one way or another.

The city feels more real when I step out into it, but there's still an eerie quiet in the air. The buildings here are tall, and the street is wide, and when I stand in the middle of it and look, all I can see is an endless tunnel of metal and glass that vanishes into the sky.

Walking down the empty street, I find my eyes watering. I don't know why. Tears run down my face, and a sob shakes its way out of me.

Maybe my body is remembering something my mind can't.

But what?

For a split second, my resolve wavers.

At an intersection, I find an abandoned vehicle floating askew. The sliding door isn't working right and bumps loosely, sliding repeatedly partway shut and open again.

I knock on the metal hull, and listen to the echoing ring die away.

I climb up through the broken door, the vehicle rocking under me as I walk along it. Whatever stabilizing mechanism it had isn't working, maybe because it's broken, or maybe just because the vehicle's turned off.

I try to turn it on, but nothing changes.

So I leave the vehicle and keep walking. I go into some of the buildings. Everything's still, until a breeze comes and pokes at my pants and the ends of my hair.

One of the buildings has a metal door just inside the entrance, with a screen on the wall beside it that I tap on without expecting anything.

It lights up.

I scroll through a list of locations, and then set it back to the original one. 92 Quadranth Street.

When I go through the door, that's where I am. I find the number on the building, and a street sign, just to be sure.

I explore a few more places through the door, out of interest, but everywhere is empty and much the same. When I find a park, I stop and walk there instead, off the path and into the trees. Surrounded by them, I could almost pretend there was no city at all. But even the trees don't feel quite alive anymore.

I'm struck by another fit of sobbing when a memory slices through my head. Or through my chest, maybe. Now I remember not only my mission, but how to achieve it. There's a place I need to go, and a button I need to press.

A button that will end the world.

I consider this as I walk there. It's a long walk, so I have plenty of time to consider.

I begin to wonder if I'm confused—this world feels dead already.

But no. I know my mission. I'm here to end the world.

Maybe because it's too far gone to save.

I walk up to a sliding glass door. It's supposed to be automatic, but nothing happens even when I wave my arms at it. I have to push it all the way open, fingertips squealing as they slip across the glass.

There's a big open space beyond, with sleek benches and sleek potted trees and a sleek elevator. The doors won't open, so I take the stairs instead.

At the top of the tower, a room. I pause to lean against the wall, breathing heavily from the climb until my heart rate slows.

I push open the silver door. But before I can step into the room, I'm struck by another memory. It's big and powerful and makes me gasp and fall to my knees. The pain of my kneecaps striking the floor is only enough to distract me for a moment, and then I'm lost in the deluge of memory.

By the time it's over I'm lying, gasping, on the floor.

I remember everything.

This isn't the end of the world at all. This world died long ago; I have come to the beginning of time. The beginning of my world's time, anyway. I haven't yet been born, and I won't be born yet for years and years—centuries, in fact.

This time when I start to cry, I know why. I cry for everything I've lost—a whole world, given up. I sacrificed my future so I come here and kill the world. So I could come here, and erase this dead, empty space so new life can begin.

I sacrificed the rest of my life so that the start of my life could be possible at all.

Gathering myself together, I get to my feet. The tears course down my face as I step toward the console, a wide sweep of chrome counter covered in lights that have gone out.

In the centre, a simple red button. As I step closer, I find that it's not what I expected, and yet it makes more sense, somehow. The button isn't made of plastic or metal; it's organic. It's soft and slightly veined and I can see where it has caused a tiny crack in the console where it grew through the metal.

The world is practically asking me to end its misery.

I reach out and hesitate, my finger hovering. I think of my face, not my real face but my reflection in the window. I think of the empty, echoing streets.

"Thank you," I whisper to the old world, and I press the button.

the red flower drips

like fireworks down the wall

as the gun clatters

extra words for word limit

Just as the new year creeps in on

Accelerated heels as always,

New years resolutions fall away as fast and

Underneath the false promises, your

Arrival here still means something;

Run to catch up with

Your life, if you dare

I've always been sparing with my affection

and I suppose it's from my fear of being judged;

if I admit to nothing, I'll face no accusations

and no one can say I have bad taste.

My discernment is valuable, and I try to never give false praise

so I can always be trusted; partially for your benefit,

and partially for mine.

Religion, like morality, is personal.

It should be a structure to support each of our connections with divinity.

But misused, it becomes just another form of oppression.

It's funny how there are christians with so much anger at old religious persecution, who turn around and say witches should be burned.