Dark molars falling out of my mouth? Have I lost something precious, and it was time to move on? There’s a strange hand touching mine. I don’t what hand that it is or why it is approaching me. I have to run to escape a barrage of words from an anti-depressant, over-the-counter drug induced person sleeping next to me who related unrelated events, telling stories of what could’ve been but never should’ve happened. I have to escape a barrage of bullets because unkind times are following me everywhere and every things that falls in every place I go is a scare. I wake up sweating from a night’s half-baked sleep wondering where I am when I am faced by a reality that doesn’t fit me, and I try to change the fit but it doesn’t work because life isn’t a shop where fits are fitted. So, I run adapting to what the faithful tell me to adapt to because if I can’t change then I adapt. I feel like everyone is setting me in a trap trying to unravel my vulnerabilities. Their smiles are missiles, their gazes are blames, and their eyes’ avoidance is their guilt and my shame. So, I know that tomorrow I will reach for the unattainable, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve done it before. I know some people say that I can’t have it because I’m not cut out for it and it’s not the man who fits the cloth but the cloth that fits the man. But I know someone who is willing to sign the contract that I am so willing to escape. I tell myself not to sign, but my idle hand is moving inevitably toward the deal with Mephistopheles look-alike, smirk on the outside, brimstone on the inside, both of us wishing things had never come to be. I search for the exit, there’s light at the end of my sleep. I wake and I never escape.

Tick-tock

Oh dear, cards crashing down

As tailing guards rush forth

Their faces red with anger

And perhaps a hint of rouge

Tick-tock, tick-tock

Oh dear, oh dear, would you look at the time?

It’s teatime, teatime, why don’t you look at that?

No need to trip all over yourself

No need to follow me down this winding trail

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I mustn't be late!

Cricket-green blades of ever-sharp grass

Blood-red blossoms that snap at me

Tear-clear sap trickling down my back

Tick-tock, tick-tock

Oh my Queen, please wait for me!

Why must this world taunt me so?

I shake like a leaf at the sight of it all

This world makes me go mad, go mad I say!

Tick-tock

M-my Queen, m-my Q-Queen, please stop the guards

I-I’m here, I-I’m here, p-please look at me

T-the blades will soon pass right through me

M-MY QUEEN, IS THAT A GIRL I SEE?

Tick-tock

then the grass

firm beneath my feet

seems to become unsteady

he's sure to look for me

every man i see

looks a little bit like him

but i promise i wont die

im not going out like this

but then again im tired

and woth him i'd have a place to stay

but i have to stay strong

and focus on getting away

because though i'd have a bed

i'd have a hard time sleeping

scared of the knife

and he's scared of the secrets i'd be keeping

so off i go into

the woods paranoid and naked

and hopefully find a town

and find a police station

but if i dont

cuz i know i wont

i can say that i tried

if it kills me

i tried

The sting on her face, the bruises on her legs, the tears in her eyes, the rage in her heart.

"Never again!!" she shouts to an empty room.

The flowers, the hand to lift her off the floor, the tears in his eyes, the apology and promise that, "it'll never happen again".

The vicious cycle begins, once again.

This time a black eye, glass shards in her hands, a lump forming on the back of the head, and heart screaming to be heard--to be set free.

The lies are told to neighbors, friends, family and onlookers. "No, I just broke a dish"; "I just hit my head"; "I just fell down the stairs"; "I can be so clumsy."

But how do you lie to a 3 year-old? A little one standing at the door, clutching his teddy bear to his chest while listening to mommy's screams, daddy's shouts, and watching his daddy turn into the monsters, like on tv?

What kind of lie can hide the truth? No more lies!

Suitcases packed, secret bank account emptied, plane tickets bought with cash, new adventure on the horizon. Little boy hand in mama's bruised one. Big brown eyes searching deep grey ones. No questions asked, just ready for Never Again!

No problem for the unhumped

My humps explain

My difficulties getting through

The hump I carry for each sin

The hump I profit for my avarice

The humps grown in disloyalties

Lick the end of Clotho's thread with a forked tongue

Still creates a taper for threading her spindle

While Lachesis salivates

The eye of the needle accommodates

But only so far as Atropos' decision

And my fate matures

The shape of destiny is a landscape

Of humps on the horizon in stark relief

To the sunset we all ride off into, through contracting needles' eyes

Iris-out and fade-to-black

There's always room for fluid hope

When leaving the humps behind

The players in this story will be given fictional names, as this is a true account of my twenties. I'm not protecting the innocent, because as you'll see, they didn't deserve it.

James was 10 years my senior and a man's man, because had he been a woman's man, he might have known better. Because how could a man so much older than I -make such a dangerous mistake, if he had an inkling of a woman's fears?

I still wonder at it.

We moved far up North. He was beckoned by a "head hunter" who I'll call Mark. Mark decided to befriend us. Being new to the area, he reasoned, he could show us around so that it would be more hospitable to us. He was a friendly guy.

It didn't strike me as strange that a recruiter would strike up a friendship beyond professionalism. I was young and inexperienced in the professional world though. In retrospect, it was pretty weird.

It seemed like James and Mark spent a lot of time together, drinking and hanging out. I was a homebody, always kind of had been.

It was with a lot of gusto that Mark would try his damnedest to get me to join their frat boy style frolics. I was uninterested.

It was with tremendous prodding one snowy, winter night that finally I agreed to go. They had already been drinking at Mark's - for a while- by the sounds of it.

I was placed on speaker phone.

"I don't have chains on my tires. I don't feel comfortable driving in this."

"Mark is sober, he'll pick you up."

I sighed, out of excuses and got dressed.

During the night, Mark told a story, intended to be humorous. I didn't laugh.

He shared he had been on a date with a girl who had passed out in the cab they shared. She wasn't able to consent.

This was meant to be seen as "cheeky", I guess.

I was quietly horrified.

The night progressed, at my annoyance and growing trepidation- with both men drinking and I, constantly declining. But it was only James who really seemed out of it after a while.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" They pressured.

I watched Mark like a hawk as he poured my one, single shot of vodka. I coughed as I swallowed and declined more.

I conversed with Mark for a short time, trying to be normal until we could leave. It wasn't long before I noticed that James had left. I found him on the front porch. Head in hands.

"James? Are you okay?" My heart pounded with concern. He looked confused. Mark and I managed to, between us, pull his large frame to the couch to lie down comfortably. Mark assured me that James was just very, very drunk.

I can't remember what we talked about. I just remember requesting every 10 minutes that we be taken home. Mark declined. I was overreacting. James was fine. "We" were having fun.

Mark got up abruptly and came back with something in his palm.

"Oh hey! I want you to try this!"

"What is it?" My heart jumped -in a bad way.

"Trust me, it's good stuff. It'll be fun."

I saw it now, pressed between his thumb and forefinger. A little. Black. Pill. It looked dangerous and he wouldn't tell me what it was. I froze.

I remember the way his face changed from a smile, to intense frustration as he tried to shove the pill into my mouth. I clenched my teeth. He tried again and I doubled down and met his eyes with my own. He drew away. I'll never forget his face.

He didn't argue when I demanded he helped me get James to the car to take us home.

The next day, James admitted to taking one of those black pills. I shook my head.

I never spent time with Mark again, nor was I asked to. Had I been a little older, I would have demanded we report him to the police and would have stood my ground.

James remained friends with him a short time after and I'm certain he never confronted him. For such a big man, he was a coward. But this is one of only many reasons I lost feelings of affection for him.

I'm no longer bitter, because I kept myself safe that night, and that was what was most important. I don't remember Mark's last name. My only regret is not holding him accountable. I wonder how many young, sweet girls trusted this man? It hurts my heart to think about it.

Ara sighed as he listened to the metallic clickity clack of the dogs claws on the hardwood floor.

Geez.. Why a dog? Why did he have to live through the constant irritation.. And the smell! Eeew! Ok. The freaking dog is a robot. And an ancient one at that. But why the hell would they give them scented piss? I mean really? Was it that essential back in the 2000's? I mean it was literally piss smell everywhere. Well everywhere you wanted to sit, or lay, or stick your nose and face for that matter. The damn thing was a relic from his great grand parents and had been handed down generation to generation.. Not like a prize, but handed off as if everyone was afraid to tarnish the memory of good ol' great gamy and pop pop. But come on! Nobody has a dog now. Nobody! And it's not like it's worth anything, even as a relic. But here we are. Decades later. Forced to sit here and deal with the this mechanical dog's barking and pissing and the sound of it's metallic claws tip tapping on the hardwood that ran throughout the foyer and down the halls. Sigh.. If only it didn't piss everywhere..

Indentured gumption forsaken

courtesy each pulled wisdom-tooth

this hug gust aspiring writer..., albeit youth

fool looking imp posse Hubble wordsmith,

(i.e. the babbling dad) coon sitters hyperbole

nsync as acceptable literary playfulness,

no matter figurative persiflage

bespeaks, expresses, invokes, jimmy's...

simultaneously stretching limits credulity

(think courtesy metaphorical crowbar)

teases out apropos exaggeration

after quaffing vermilion vintage vermouth

without shadow of doubt signifying untruth

merely relishes using me pickled brine

as a practiced po' wit,

whereby this logophile

doth das scribe today June sixth, tooth

house sand and twenty three, hoop fully

hits pun hushing metaphorical home runs,

yours truly figurative

slugger and word sleuth

rivaling those four baggers

fielded by legendary Babe Ruth

lemme know if literary endeavor

(even juiced by ghost of chance) forsooth

pretty please notice ingratiation

linkedin with mine being couth

prominently tickles one and/or booth

phunny bone of bunny rabbit.

Funny bones belonging to thee

generic garden variety bot

dear reader rabbit carrot

teen loony toon Bugs Bunny

(asking what's up doc)

impersonator 'course I would unroll

welcome mat (a two seater)

roomy for outsize trumpeting despot

Scottish tartan and Harris tweed

(cuz I'm boss), oh... I almost forgot

dons hat as coordinator

three ring circuits, who runs hot

and cold compliments

to thee named Ingrid,

I proffer a family heirloom ingot

(worth about the same as fine spun gold)

courtesy schizoid personality disorder,

when juiced mere unicellular, speck, jot...

nine month parasite huddled in utero

with umbilical cord tied into Gordian knot

assimilating, gestating, maturing,

signaling mine trademark bon mot,

which aforementioned gobbledygook

devoid of sense and sensibility or riveting plot

poetic translation essentially means diddly-squat

thus tis probably high time,

I mount my Clydesdale steed and happily trot

back to the house at Pooh's corner.

All Joe King aside, I embarked

as independent contractor

for United States Space Force

as 007 secret double agent

to craft senseless poem

with humorous figurative bent

elbow quite aware acronym

designating heaven cent

ear, nose and throat specialist

may not necessarily wax poetic,

thus scud daddy ling dude,

(nevertheless quite decent)

wrought literary dud versus

concocting Earth shaking event

versatility exemplifying fragment

infinitesimal ability owned by modest gent

with honest to goodness intent

and no self approbation, emasculation,

indignation, obfuscation, meant

against one singular heir a parent

whose fortune on credit card bills

and automobile loan he spent,

thus futile to beseech thee dear reader

for legal tender, filthy lucre,

greenbacks, et cetera cuz

series of unfortunate events

one charity case if appreciates

reading thru plaintive feeble vent.

After the above written

rhyme without reason poetic yawping,

I took much needed reprieve NOT

to exhaust mine laudatory wellspring

subsequently all he wrote comprises something

inane, and without sophisticated substance

essentially absolute zero nothing

nutritious for cerebral cortex

to feast upon material hampering

intellectual succor zilch

otherwise outcome ranked as low achieving.

In the darkness of the night, I lay in my bed, my mind racing, a million things in my head,  flashing back to moments of regret, wishing I could turn back time and forget.  But I know deep down, it's too late now,  I'm about to die. The memories flood my mind, a torrential wave, of laughter and tears, of hope and of grave, of moments that defined me, good and bad, as I lay here, alone and terribly sad. I wish I could go back, and make things right, to say the things I left unsaid, but it's too late now, the end is near, I can feel it, death is almost here. And as I take my final breath, I know, that the memories will stay with me, and grow, forever etched in my mind, my heart, and my whole. I wish I could say that I have grown,  but deep down inside, I'm all alone, there's something about it, maybe it's just all I've ever known, it doesn't matter, I'm about to turn the stone. So let this be a lesson to all, young and old, to live life to the fullest,  to take chances, and never fear, because life is short, and death is near.

I think maybe half my family is dead. Dead but alive, corpses in heaving, breathing skin that begs to be seen to be believed. An uncle, living peacefully on his own, silent and detached from the entire world. Another, going through the motions, struggling yet incapable of caring. An aunt who cries at her mother's funeral and asks you why you don't smile more on the same span of time.

Tick, tock.

I suppose we all live however we can. The only real qualification for it is breathing after all, right?

I only find it funny now, the quiet memory. It buzzes about gently, pushing, prodding, hard for me to believe. I remember as a child, watching a movie where a woman simply slipped in her bathroom and died on the very spot. An older one, tired, fragile. I told myself it couldn't happen to me, as terrifying and sudden as it was.

And then, it did.

Imagine entering a possible afterlife with the knowledge that your personal, forever death story was a single misstep. Well... Better than being murdered, I suppose.

A number of things ran through my mind as people began to crowd around me. I didn't understand why - that is, until the pain finally hit and I finally realised that the gentle haze at the back of my head was getting worse and worse and worse. I'd never seen so much blood in my life. Blood on my hands, blood on their hands, blood all over my clothes. I threw away those clothes after trying to wash away the memories.

Scarlet stains, traveller.

And - can I be honest? The trip to the hospital was such a funny thing, now. I was in a panic, then but I can shake my head gently at my past self today because tell me why I was bleeding myself to near-unconsciousness, yet I was begging them to please calm down as I cried, please don't stress yourself too much, don't make a fuss, this isn't important- I am not important. Even when you're thinking the lights are about to go out on life, somehow, you find your old habits never quite die.

I remember thinking this was it. And I remember when that finally hit me as I was put on a hospital bed. Existence was about to be extinguished. And at first, I thought about my family. About how my sister would feel. My parents who had waited a near-decade for their "disappointment" child to exist, at least by my overly high standards of then. And then, I thought of myself.

I thought of my life. I thought of how inconsequential everything was. I thought about the end. I waited for the black to cloud my vision, sinking calmly into the bed. And all of a sudden, it was gone. Blown to oblivion. Every anxious thought. Every person I'd ever lowered myself to accommodate. Every decision I'd made to please all but myself. Nothing mattered, anymore. And I was alone.

It was a peace I'd never felt before. Not in a church, not in my mother's arms, not hurting myself or sitting pretty in an air-conditioned room or reading a sappy fanfiction. It was peace and it was oblivion. And I wondered why every day alive couldn't have been like this. All we do is keep ourselves busy, waiting around to die anyway, right?

The end of the light show. What a lovely thing. To simply slip away...

I survived, of course. Got myself a scar that you can still feel if you press a finger to the puckered skin and was sent right back to my lodgings. Over and out. Alive, still. Nothing matters is still one of the most strangely comforting things I can ever think. The words sink into me, patting my head with gentle, motherly wisdom, promising me that that interaction and that horrible memory and that missed test will soon disappear into the aether.

Slacken up, a bit. We're too obsessed with being alive these days. Don't be too desperate for that existent feeling. I've been feeling borderline dead again for some time now, on and off, like so many people I've known. Relax into it. Remember nothing matters. Cut a few toxic strings out of your life and make a beeline for stuff that makes you feel something. There is no magical purpose or love or peace that'll fix everything, we're too human for a single cure that will end all the bad shit. But... If anything does make you feel a little bit more vivant, hold it for as long as it's willing to walk with you. And if the time comes that it ends - as all things eventually do, one way or the other - have the courage and kindness for your own sake to learn to let go.

Breathe... In... Out. That's the only requirement, and now, you are alive. Everything else is societally-constructed human bullshit. Just buzz around, little bee. It never feels like it'll start and it never feels like it'll end.

And as some (probably dead) person said once upon a time, when death finds you, may it find you alive.