Myra’s eyes opened from the warm sun peeking through the shade, and she thought about finally investing in shudders. She picked up her phone from the side table and the time read, “5:17 AM.” She sighed heavily and decided to open up Instagram and waste some of the 2 hours she had left to lay in bed. Carlos and she had a funeral service to attend at 10 am, and Myra had agreed to pick up the deceased’s 20 year old nephew. Myra thought to herself, “I still can’t believe she asked us to pick up her kid, so she didn’t have to take a right turn on her way to the funeral home.”

Scrolling through the usual vanity and celebrity breakdowns, her blurred vision seemed to sharpen for a second when she saw a post from Vaniteux, Will’s restaurant. A picture of Will, Riley and Patrick, all obviously stoned, and what seemed like attempting to look “cool.” The goal was not achieved. Patrick’s skin was flawless, dusted with pigmentation and a five o’clock shadow. Myra examined the picture and took a screenshot. She wanted to look at it again, with her lenses in. Her heart raced and her other senses stirred while she stared at the image of Patrick.

“Awe come on. Is this really how we are going to start the day?” Myra cried out in a morning fatigued chagrin. She riggeled with aggravation at the thought that her morning would be invaded by such deranged unfulfillment. She threw her phone to the end of her bed but that recent image of Patrick was stuck in her mind’s eye now, and it wasn’t ever going to leave her. She rested her arm across her eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but the heat from the sun beat down on her wrist, making sleeping impossible. The smell of spring dampness in New England forced nostalgia. “Fucking sunbeam.” She said out loud and just like that, her favorite memory began.

Myra’s mind was falling fast into this echo. It would be more beneficial to fight off these ghosts of Patrick, however, this morning she wouldn’t exercise that restraint.

“Fine! Go ahead!” She said out loud knowing she had plenty of time to commit to a fantasy before the reality of the day. There was no point to the struggle. She wasn’t going to get out of bed yet and as long as she was laying down with her eyes closed, this treasured souvenir of Patrick would be merciless in its attempts to invade her rest. She remembered a morning two decades ago that changed everything, for both of them. But it wasn’t until years later that Myra really understood what it was and wondered if Patrick thought about that morning the way she did.

Her heart beat with anticipation while her mind made that journey to that morning 20 years ago. Patrick had spent the night after an evening of playful sex. This wasn’t unusual. However, when Myra awoke she was facing a sleeping Patrick, breathing in her face. She was confused, because it didn’t bother her. Eyes open, her vision still sharp and clear. These were the years before Keratoconus began to ravage her sight. The colors she remembers are much more vibrant than the ones she sees now. She interrupted her own fantasy with the thought that maybe it’s the clarity of vision that she actually misses. There was no way to fight the deterioration, so she knew to put that thought out of her head. Back to Patrick.

Myra watched Patrick sleep. She never took pleasure in watching a lover sleep before, and rarely did she ever let one spend the night. Had they not both collapsed from hours shameless dissipation, he may have made his way home. But Myra didn’t mind that he was there, breathing in her face, sleeping in her bed, his head sunken into her pillow. Her emerald green plaid comforter lay just below his naked shoulders. The sunlight streamed through the side of the window where the nicotine stained, white shade didn’t cover. His full lashes shined golden strawberry in the natural spotlight and his cheeks were still adolescent in appearance. But his neck and shoulders we that of a man.

Cinnamon colored freckles colonized his olive skin. Myra thought then and now that his skin is the most exquisite and unlikely combination of two dominant traits. Her finger tip gently pet his eyelash and then followed the bridge of his nose to the tip. Her hand descended to his lips and gently brushed them while she thought about kissing them. He lay there, still sleeping. Her hand traveled to the part of his back exposed from the blanket. Myra tenderly traced the freckles into patterns that she meditated into invisible designs. She thought it would be interesting to draw letters in his skin and see which lover’s cipher would be the one to wake him from his sleep.

Her left hand positioned itself between his shoulder blades. She used her middle finger and spelled out, “Good Morning.” He didn’t move. She then spelled out, “Freckles are sexy.” His breathing got a bit stronger. Myra smiled while she continued to write, “I want you.” A deep breath raised his back with a deep breath, but still his eyes were closed. “I need you.” She wrote instinctively and immediately wondered why she did. Patrick opened his eyes, quick, and then looked into her’s without fear or hesitation. He didn’t move. In his skin she wrote, “Yes.”

Patrick kissed her, but this was no morning kiss. This was a kiss after hours of flirting, a kiss after seduction, a kiss of desire. It was the kind of kiss that people usually have to work for. He kissed Myra this way because it was the only way he ever wanted to kiss her. He moved on top of her, and for once, she didn’t mind. Myra was and is opposed to the missionary position. The feeling of powerlessness killed all arousal in Myra. Patrick and she discussed this subject matter ad nauseum yet, this morning, she left trepidation to abandon. Trust replaced fear for the first (and arguably “only”) time in her life.

He was heavy, but not burdensome. Naked together, her legs wrapped around his, her ankles resting on the inside of his lower calves. Patrick’s arms were wrapped around Myra’s body, holding her tight to him, and she strung her arms through his grasping his back, pressing her hands into him, as he moved inside her. Myra moved her hands from his back to his face. Eyes open, they kissed each other. He didn’t need to touch her breasts, she didn’t need to be on top, what was happening was more than sexual pleasure. For these two people this was wanting to be close, and only to each other.

There was no sound in the room but theirs, and Patrick’s breathing ignited her to breathlessness. They stopped kissing and looked at each other, her holding his face, his chest pressed into her breasts, the suffocation of movement respired a new definition for the oldest pastime. Her head felt lighted with rush but not unfocused. Patrick submitted to the beast he hides and let it take over. For the first time he made no attempt to deny or restrain it. Myra could feel this rush move to her neck, her back, her body, and she pushed her pelvis into his. The two never broke gaze while their bodies made every effort to stay convolute. Her fingers massaged his head, the feeling of his coarse, crimson curls between them only inflamed intemperance. Her body began to shake, every muscle contracted in uncharted pleasure and it enraptured Patrick.

Myra thought to herself that this must be what inspired the myth of heaven. Patrick kissed her, and she held onto his back with her left hand and had a palm full of curls in the right. His arms wrapped around her, his biceps pressing against her ribcage, as if he was trying to keep her from falling. Myra had never felt what was happening to her body, and Patrick never felt a woman so completely. Intrinsically they both sacrifice their insecurities to this undiscovered ethos, and still, neither spoke a word. They kissed with the same glutinous rhythm and no errant thoughts intruded. It was them and no one else existed. She belonged to him and he knew he had possessed her when she looked at him and said, “Patrick.”

Patrick replied, “Myra.”

They kissed again with the recognition of humanity and their libidos released them from this trance. They lay together, still connected and unmotivated to separate. Myra gently stroked Patrick’s hair and he lay his head into her neck. He breathed with exhaustion, his chest pushing against hers while she inhaled the triumphant scent of him. She held him, pet him, adored him. Patrick monopolized this behavior in Myra’s, and she wondered if he knew that. She wanted him to know that.

“Patrick. You’re a unicorn.” She said holding him to her, still petting him. She felt his mouth moving on her chest, making a smile.

Patrick replied, “You’re My ‘Ra.’ ” Myra was captivated at being compared to a god.

“It’s funny we both went mythical, but not biblical.” Myra said.

“Some people would say they are the same thing.” Patrick replied. The prospect of an interesting conversation propelled Myra’s words.

“Patrick. Spend the day with me?” Myra asked and was made uneasy at the vulnerability in her voice.

“I can’t I was supposed to be at work a hour ago.” He moved his body as he spoke so he could look at her. She kissed him. “I want to stay.” He kissed her, “But I can’t I have to go to work.”

“Call in to work. Stay with me today.” Myra playfully demanded. Patrick’s sense of responsibility stopped him from making decisions based on desire. The fact he was late to work already was a true testament of the kind of force that morning spell had on him.

“Myra. You know I can’t. It’s my job.” He said to her. The fog of passion was lifting from the room.

“Of course, your job. The sanctum suck-torum. A controlled, monitored, guided and hugely expensive place to achieve transcendence. Which, is the exact opposite of what you achieve in that environment. It’s a place rich assholes go to be around other rich assholes to meditate where none of the peasants can bother them. There is no transcendence in a playpen filled vegan cookies and posh excuses.” Myra’s spite for the Saraswati Center was never hidden. Its cult like nature and Patrick’s naivety were a menacing combination that weighed on Myra’s mind.

“Come on, Myra. It’s my job, and I love it. They are always complimenting me, they pay me well, and i like being in that environment.” Patrick said with honesty.

“Its a fucking cult.” She said brashly. Patrick moved from on top of her, kissed her and said. “I gotta go. I’ll call you on my lunch break.”

She wondered to herself why he was going to call her on his lunch break, but was gitty at the thought of it. That bothered her. Myra pulled him to her to kiss her again, and said, “Or you can stay here and we can have each other for lunch.” She touched his face. “Stay with me.”

Patrick started to bend to her desire, and kissed her again. “Myra, I want to stay. You have to know how much I want to stay here, in bed with you.” He brushed her dark brown, hair back from her ear and kissed her cheek and then her mouth again. He moved to get off the bed and Myra leaned upward using her arm as support. She wanted to ask him to come back tonight, but the rejection perceived as voluntary immediately closed her off. It was the reaction of a jealous child, and her reflection on this memory was marked with shame over such stubborn defensiveness. He gathered his clothes from the floor and put his oversized jeans on and balled up his boxers to put in his pocket.

“Flying commando?” Myra teased. Patrick walked over to Myra, white tshirt, jeans, and sweater in his hand. He bent forward and said, “Well, he’s pretty tuckered out. I’m going to let him take it easy.” He kissed her. She pulled him to her.

“I gotta go.” He said in a laugh.

“You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are, do you?” She said as she held his chin and looked at his lips. She kissed him, he blushed and smiled and after putting his shoes on he walked out of her bedroom. Myra heard him close her front door and run down the staircase. When the large green door that lead from the hallway to the staircase on the street, Myra looked out of her shade at the foot of her bed, to watch Patrick get into his car. She saw him running to the drivers side door of his small, blue honda and as he put the key in the lock to open it, he looked up at Myra’s window and saw her watching him. He smiled at her and blew a kiss. It sickened her that she motioned to catch it. He got into his car and drove away.

Myra was released from reverie by the sound of Carlos ringtone. It was now 6:15am.

“What?” Myra said when she answered.

“What’s your problem? Where you flicking the bean to 1980’s Dennis Quaid?” Carlos said while drinking his morning espresso.

“A. No woman limits herself to the 80’s when it comes to Dennis Quaid. B. If I was masterbating I wouldn’t have picked up the phone.” She said while she fought off the haunting memory of the only vaginal orgasm she has ever had.

“So...I can hear it. What’s up?” Carlos asked with genuine concern.

“Nothing, really it’s nothing. I saw a picture of Patrick on Instagram and it reminded me of something, that’s all.” She said as she sat up and headed to the kitchen.

Carlos gasped, “Oh no...The Unicorn.”

“I wish I had never told you about it. I’m fine. I’m getting in the shower now. I’ll call you when I’m out.” Myra said on her way to the bathroom.

I know the demon's kiss

and a demon such as this

brings many sorrows as I recall

The stories and the lies

nothing exists behind the eyes

when the soul isn't there at all

I knew him very well

The demon with an angel shell

and accepted every flaw

When i became more than me

The demon he did flee

With contempt for what he saw

Angry and alone

he sat upon his throne

wondering if he should change

He began to see the wrong

that had plagued his choices so long

His form began to rearrange

But his matron witch did see

metamorphosis begin in he

this she could not suffer

To keep her demon damned

She evoked diamonds from the sand

Spell cast by this demon's mother

She showered him with gifts

For evil acts and tricks

No thank you needed from him

Illusion for happiness you see

No love she had for he

Just control, malice and sin

The witch could only survive

By ruining children's lives

And turning them into demons

She tried but could not fool me

To give control of my angel baby

To her and her false angel son

She took the demon home

Jewel decorated throne

In order to keep him in her wake

This witch said to me

"My demon will never be

The angel you tried to make"

When I knew this to true

I offered "let us save you"

He angered at the truth

He coward in fear

His matron witch near

To save him from love and youth

The witch looked at me

And laughed with evil glee

Knowing she had been victorious

Her calculated win

Left the demon hollow and thin

Where once stood something glorious

My angel baby was safe

But attempts she did make

To try and seize him from me

She offered diamonds of enormous size

But I saw the glassy lie

My angel baby stays with me

She called upon her broken demon

To bring the angel baby to her cave

"He will be the greatest demon yet!"

She cried, without regret

While fondly she recalled all the souls unsaved

That masked demon came to us

Preaching love and using lust

To try and cloud my reason

But I knew all the while

His intentions were truly vile

A plan of vicious treason

Deception his only tool

He walked away a fool

Once the angel baby shined his light

What was hidden came to sight

Not always a pleasing scene

But revelation gleamed

That witch's anger grew

With her demons failure true

She knew she could not try

Spells on the innocent's eye

The witch threatened me with pain

In my arms the angel baby did remain

His soul is entrusted to me

This special angel baby

But demons and witches are afraid

That hope will change their ways

Of manipulation, narcissism and greed

If the angel baby beings to share

And others become aware

Witch's gifts satisfy her evil need

To make more demon slaves to be

An army of ignorance and misery

With no regret for the souls she's burned

Clutching my angel baby tight

We are safe inside the light

And our minds remained unturned

That witch she packed her cave

Took her demon slaves

And accepted her defeat

We smiled and danced hex free

My angel baby and me

Triumph making the air sweet.

The demon will always try

To be in his Witch’s eye

By doing the evil he was taught

And on occasion bother me

With lies and trickery

So transparent they come to not.

Given the choice of good or bad

Some cower and choose the fad

For instant gratification

With the choice to abandon grace

You cannot hide your demon face

And are damned to a life of indignation

Now this fable does not preach

Of religious belief

Just of bad choices made by some

When they choose themselves above

Their child's health and love

The damage cannot be undone.

These selfish people are made

By parents who persuade

Ego and ignorance

These evil parents too

Take the easy way through

With others feelings of no consequence

And as a mother now

I cannot allow

My angel baby to become

Vapid, arrogant and cruel

By the dishonest hands of fools

So their chances are left to none

I keep my son aware

Other people aren't just there

As a means to an end

That all living things are entitled

To respect, and it is vital

That good intention we always emit

It may not make him wealthy

But his soul will remain healthy

With love, honesty and valor in it.

“Today I will be happy.”

That’s how each page starts. That’s how each day starts.

“Today I will be happy.”

It’s perfect. Hanni never has to think. She could. If she wanted, she could think. But why? It’s all written so well. When you’re born you’re given your book. The story of your life. What you will decide to eat every day. How many errands you’ll run. The people you’ll meet. Who you like. Who you hate. All of it foretold for you. Your first day of school. Your wedding day. The day you get your wisdom teeth pulled. The birthdays. The sick days. The lazy days. The memorable moments. All written down. Black and white. Clean page after neat, clean page.

And, “Today I will be happy,” atop every one of them.

“Today I will be happy.”

Hanni stretches. Because that’s what her book says.

“Today I will be happy. And to start today I stretch.”

She scratches her cat, Jax, behind the ears. She showers. Eats eggs. Makes her bed. Hanni dresses for work. She grabs a bottle of water and an apple and is out the door. Because that’s what her book says. And each day is just like this.

“Today I will be happy.”

Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Trip.

Wait. Trip?

Hanni trips. She glides down her front steps like every other day. Her office is 8 blocks from home. And at the third block, Hanni trips. Her arms reach out in a quick attempt to save herself, but it’s too late. She had never planned on tripping. The apple rolls to her right and her water bottle and book fly into the street. A car passes over the bottle and water explodes in every direction. And Hanni’s heart breaks. The book is drenched. She can’t remember seeing this in the book ever. She can’t remember anyone ever ruining their book. Hanni snatches up her book and returns home. No one calls to see why she’s not at work. No one has a book that says she will not be at work. Her life was simple. She had skipped ahead several times and she knew that she was happy. Her life, happy and unremarkable. She would stay happy and healthy until retirement. At which time Jax would pass. She would be happy though because he lived a long, happy life with her. And she would take her retirement money and travel. A new city to be happy and stretch and make the bed in every year until she died herself.

Unremarkable but happy. She could keep going on. She mostly knew the plan. After all, it was unremarkable...

Tomorrow Hanni would wake up and continue the way she had been.

Today I will be happy.

And Hanni’s doorbell rings. Before her eyes are even open, her doorbell rings. That has never happened before. She opens the door and finds a new book on her steps. A red ribbon tied around its leather bound pages.

This book does not say she will be happy.

This book is empty but for one page.

The words are scrawled in her own writing.

They are not neat. They are not even straight or centered. There are splotches where it looks like someone may have not only spilt coffee but also cried. And along the edges someone has inked in little roses and vines. And somewhere in the mess, in Hanni’s own script is just one message.

“Today I will live.”

I take a razor blade from my friend,

to stop him from cutting

And then I crawl into the bathroom and cut with it

I’m just a hypocrite in my hypocritical hole,

hoping that no one questions the flaws in my logic,

But they always do.

Good question.

I don’t know.

My body runs on automatic.

Go through the motions if only to make everyone think I’m okay.

Okay.

What defines okay?

For me okay means I get up in the morning.

For my mom and dad it means I don’t feel bad.

Or I don’t cut.

But I have a different definition.

If I’m okay, I will get out of bed in the morning.

I never lie when I say I’m okay

I just bend the truth.

What gets me up when I know I only face pain?

What gets me up when I can’t?

Nothing,

Except for my automatic programming.

There’s crushed apples. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And there’s blood. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. I wake on the floor amidst the mess. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Sticky, wet, rotting, sugary mess. I push down the terror from the sweet, metallic saliva that holds my mouth closed and try to decide how long I’ve been here. Light beats dull and muted through the dust covered windows in the east. I was starving close to sundown. My hunger, unyielding and predatory. And I could smell it on the air. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. My fingers close on matted hair to the right of me, and I ignore my violent self-loathing. I roll to my side to assess just how much blood has pooled around my victim. I am wasteful when I am mad with hunger, so I know what I will find. Great puddles with chunks of flesh and tissue. Bloody, spoiled apple cores being swallowed slowly by the fruit flies. I yank hard on the hair, dragging the body across the hardwoods. No heat. And the wet mess has coagulated in its deepest pools, while drying into crusty, maroon scabs at the edges. My head pounds with clouded confusion. I press my palms to my eyes and hold my thumbs against my temples. I breathe deep. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And all the while, that sweet, metallic after-taste staining my teeth, sending my mind careening into the memory of my voracious hunt. Sticky, wet, rotting sugar. And body after body just waiting to be plucked and ravaged. And syrupy chunks of once white, fruit flesh clinging to the mess. And glazed over eyes, once burning with fire. And sticky, wet, rotting sugar.

My cheeks are laced with unwanted tears.

There's a tear in my heart of a different nature though.

I can't stop myself from falling and hurting,

Why do I treat myself so?

My mind has braced for hard circumstances,

but my heart is naive and unexperienced still.

It has had cuts and gashes and burning pains,

yet why isn't it ruthless and difficult to kill?

My lungs are filling with air,

yet my breath is uneven between sobs.

My heart is beating in a literal sense,

but why can't I feel it beneath my chest?

People see my mistakes written so clearly on my face,

why don't they see the tears I shed?

People see me as a monster with no remorse,

I can clearly see their faces contorted in disgust and ridicule at my sight, ill-bred.

I might just be over-reacting in light of the tragedy,

but how can I help myself when I barely recognise the stakes?

I might just be another person with no consideration for others,

but help me believe I am not a helpless case.

01/23/19

There are things that medicine heals. There are things that faith heals.

When these two things top healing, Time heals.

But healing doesn't mean no pain or loss. Healing means going through the worst with the minimum amount of cuts you can get. It isn't about what you want or what you could have. It's about what you get to keep, what you fight and preserve.

I am not saying Life is harsh. It's justified. It provides either only what you need, or only what you fight hard enough for.

Medicine is believing in humans. Faith is believing in God. It all boils down to believing in something. It doesn't have to be God or a deity. I personally don't have that outlook.

But I do like to believe in something making things happen the way they are. It may just be huge concentration of pure energy ,as defined by physics, which controls the world by radiation and sub-conscious telepathic ties. This is the practical proof method.

Faith is the more common ,easier method to explain. Where did Life spring from? The elemnts. Where is it going to go to? The elements. But what about the technicalities. It's just one of the things without a rational explanation.

Like, preferring an antique instrument over a new one. The feel of it, the sound quality is better, but playing it just encompasses the personalities of it's previous owners and shnes thorugh in a manner which cannot be satisfied through words.

Like, fighting for the other piece of the chocolate even though you know that they are the same. It's a feeling of belief. A feeling you get from something. A belief which is completely irrational, yet so influential, you can't ignore it's effects. It's like loving one black dress over another similar black one.

Some feel the pull of medicines and practicality.

Some prefer Faith and a sense of community.

When these two stars fade, comes Time. The most reliable healer. The proven healer.

A person with cancer may not be healed by medicines or Faith. But Time heals. If not his pain, then that of others around him, by giving him eternal peace.

There could be, and are, debates and discussions and conflicts and wars about this topic. I want anyone who reads this to write down their views. What they believe? What they feel? Any message for those who believe or those who don't ? Justify your response. Poetry or Prose, doesn't matter. Please be sure to tag me so I can read you views.

The soft snow rested on your hair like a veil, innocence radiating from your smile and red nose. Cold lungs and warm exhales. That’s how we found each other, a winter of contentment.

The pounding hail provided you with enough interjections to avoid what you came to say. Some were still in your hair, rapidly melting and blending with tears. He was there, I was not. He was present I was not. He was as I used to be… but only for a short summer. One empty season with a gaping void. One regretful season cowering from the ones we shared.

I wanted to say I told you so, but we shared too much for such an annoying response. I’m sorry you have regret - I suppose that’s worse. I swam with you and drowned, only to see you find an empty rock. Visible to me, but not worth the swim.