am I chameleon

even at Night..?

out on the limb

of arms

unseen

I am pulling

the color

out of

every

visual

that

the

storm

in flashes

of teeth

will reveal

...am I

matching

the darkness

or Lightning?

04.25.2023

Darkness & Light challenge @DylanLuke

for hours and hours

he lies

down

but doesn’t sleep

“Can’t sleep when your

eyes aren’t

tired,” he says

but his eyes are

beyond tiredness. They’re dead.

Been fished out

quite expertly

a long time ago by a

very unfortunate, very unhappy

mother who couldn’t stand

looking into them

“Bitch should’ve gouged

her own then,” he says

these days, laughing and

making jokes about it

Not a lot of

people

find them funny though

but that’s all right

he’s not some standup comedian

No, he sits down

on the park bench

and plays the guitar

from noon to morning

for eager audiences of

dead children

who look up to him as a hero

Sometimes

real people

even throw coins at him

sometimes

even food

And all his songs

are about

cheering

and loving life

***

INSTAGRAM:

https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/

a woman: the by-product of a man.

the "wo" to conceal the "man" and the

"fe" to mask the "male."

an inferiority. a secondary creation.

"and so from man came woman".

Pandora, Lilith, Eve.

dependent, provocative by nature, ignorant

to matters of politics, science, substance.

a whining, better-to-be-seen-than-heard,

good-to-aid-men, nurturing creature.

and what of our rage?

for i do not feel like the gentle creature which

has been demanded of me. i feel like a fanged abomination,

bearing its teeth to the world, snarling and spitting its

outrage. ready to take a swipe at someones eyes.

i have been whittled down to an organ

my body happens to contain. "it must be that

time of the month" they say when i voice my anger.

"someones asking for it", or else "what a prude, look

how she covers up". our relevance to society has been

measured by our ability to reproduce. by default, our

ability to seduce and please men.

and i feel angry. god's above, i feel this unquenchable rage,

eating at my lungs, chewing and spitting and consuming,

until breath becomes a luxury and the only true way i can

bring air into my poor lungs is by screaming. over and over again.

so i do. but it doesn't stop. it never will. it'll keep eating

at us, and we'll scream, but it'll never stop, not really.

we'll keep screaming into the abyss, and no one will listen.

i feel this rage for my sisters, past, present, and future.

when we are whistled at from across the street, causing us

to freeze up and speed up, while their cruel laughter follows us

from behind. when we say "no, no, no" yet still they hold us down

still they touch us, against our screaming and begging, because it

turns the bastards on.

and then we're blamed, because we should have known better.

i feel this for my sisters who are treated like toys, married

off at the first sign of blood, when my sisters are

tortured and raped and killed because they had the gall to

fight for their autonomy. when my sisters are ridiculed and killed

because they were brave enough to match what's outside to

what's inside.

i hear the howls of all my women wronged.

their shrieks, screaming of injustice. the ancestral,

inherited rage, which was my mothers, and hers,

has become but an heirloom amongst us women. the anger

at a world which should have adapted, improved.

and so i shall nurture my anger, feed it stories of

women who have suffered for the sins of men. i will

fight, i will scream into the abyss with my sisters, and when

the time is right, i will pass on my angry heirloom, so that

one day, we can rest our sorry lungs and become

primary creations.

For a moment, everything looks familiar. I’m sitting in the back seat of the van my parents had when I was a kid. My dad is sitting in the driver’s seat, and we’re driving over the bridge that crosses the river that borders my hometown. I know this road like the back of my hand. Growing up, we crossed this bridge both ways at least twice a week.

When I turn around, I should see the town behind me. So, I turn, and I do. But it’s not as I know it should be.

It’s on fire.

I can barely make out the buildings in the flames. The wall of fire seems impossibly high, and it’s getting closer.

“DAD!” I scream.

He looks in the rearview mirror at me and then back at the road. We are at a standstill. The cars in front of us aren’t moving, and both lanes of traffic are blocked. There is nowhere to go.

The flames roar behind us, engulfing everything in their path. In almost no time at all, the fire is right behind us.

And I wake up.

I’m sorry

For everything I have and haven’t done. I’m sorry. I really don’t mean for any of this to happen. I really wish that I could just go back to when you were happy. 0000, I’m so fucking sorry. All of this is my fault and I hate that. I just want to die. I hate this. I’ve been shaking and freaking out. Maybe she lied to me about me and she actually likes you. I think that's it. I’m not good enough for anyone. I’m sorry that I am here. I’m sorry I’m alive. I wish that wasn’t here too. I wish she picked you and not me. I’m sorry I messed everything up. I don’t care if you tell people how much you hate me. I don’t mind. You may say that you don’t hate me, but I would hate me. I wish I wasn’t here messing up your life. I wish I could just take back what I did but I can’t.

It’s my fault, I’m sorry. To be honest, if I could unfriend myself, I would. Trust me. You can block me, ignore me, do anything you want. I don’t mind.

I’m sorry that I’m alive

Maybe I shouldn’t be saying sorry. Maybe you aren’t that loyal friend that I thought you were. I’m not good enough but also I want to be asked for forgiveness. I’m always the one down on my knees begging for someone’s trust. Everyone takes me for granted. Everyone! Everyone thinks that they can tell me anything they want and they don’t think about how much it could hurt me. No one cares, why would they? I’m trying to be nice with this. I just want to be thought about like a person, not this shy, meek, trusting person I am. I have trust issues and yet, everyone takes me as this person who just trusts whoever whenever. I trusted you with so much and you’re using it against me too. I like this person. You do too. I don’t know what this is. I don’t want to mess it up. I get it. I am a terrible fucking friend. BUT I AM TRYING.

I want to be the person who people can go to for help but I don’t want to be so overwhelmed when people do. I can’t stop shaking and freaking out. I am using all of my might to not itch myself. Or go home and just lock myself in my room. I am being honest; I am done. I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard and everyone just uses me. I just want to be okay. I want to look at myself and like what I see. But no. I can’t. When I think about it, all of my friends need to do better than I can. When other people come up to me and they ask “Yo, is what blah blah said, true?” Like, 11111. He said, “What 0000 is saying is crazy.” Are you really going around telling him this? I have only told one person. I trust that person. I am trying so hard to just hold it all in until I get home so I can cry myself to sleep. I don’t get it. I thought we were good friends. I really trusted you and I don’t get it. I think this is a sad/mad letter. I’m pissed off. Sure, you’re one of my best friends and I always want to be with you, this is hurting. I don’t know. It hurts. What the fuck. I’m hurt. I want to see what’s going on inside of my head and why it’s being so chaotic.

The names are numbers. Safety reasons. I need help.

Here's the conversation:

0000 Wrote:

Can I ask you something?

Me: ye :D

0000: alright im just gonna cut right to the point

whenever im hanging around with you and 33333

i ALWAYS feel like the third wheel

which i dont even know how that’s possible since she and i are dating

and another thing

you two are always talking and doing shit together

and now her and i almost never talk

and that just makes me beyond upset

Me: Y'all are dating?

0000: yeah???

i told you didnt i???

Me: No, you said that you just liked her and stuff.

Also, I'm sorry that you feel upset. But um.

33333 and I have been together since the 28th of February.

I thought she told you she didn't like you.

I'm going to talk to her

I'm sorry

I'm just fucking everything up all of the time.

I didn't know if she wanted to tell you. Like I thought she wanted to tell you herself

I'm sorry.

Fuck.

You can just leave me and shit. Like forget about me. I've fucked up everything

I'm sorry

000000: im not leaving you

im just extremely upset with the both of you

the fact that you two were together while me and her were together

i dont think i can forgive you for that

but i would like to try

Me: I'm sorry

I thought that she told you

I didn't want to tell you before she was ready

I don't want to fuck this up more than I already have

0000:she said to me once that she was losing interest in guys

but she wanted to give me a shot since i make her happy according to her

guess that shot is gone huh?

Me: I don't know

I'm sorry

I'll talk to her

I just

This is my first actual relationship and I don't wanna mess it up

0000: no no

i wanna talk to her

Me: Okay

Maybe you should do it in person

Over email won't bring the full effect

0000: well i dont know when we could in person

since we dont have classes together or lunch together today

ill just talk to her on discord i guess

if shes on or something

Me: okay

I'm sorry

0000: i know you are

Me: I really didn't mean for any of this to happen

0000: Mhm

Me: I get it if you're mad. I bet the birthday gift doesn't mean shit to anymore and I don't blame you. I'll keep my distance and stuff. I really get it. I'm sorry.

Maybe I'll see you in the next one

A.E.T.

What is wrong with you?

No, like, actually.

What. Is. Your. Problem.

I tried to like you, I really did, but you are so disgusting.

Inside and out.

There is no win.

I loved you, fuck, I still do, but I don't fucking like you.

I did not leave you because we had ONE argument.

I did not leave you because I can't handle criticism.

I did not leave you because I didn't want to change.

I did not leave you to pursue someone else.

I did not leave you because I was pursuing someone else while we were together.

I left you because I didn't like you.

I left you because you were my first love, not my only, and not my last.

I left you because you were not the one.

You never were, you never were going to be, and you never will be.

When we were split, I thought I missed you and your romance, but I realize now that romance was never even there.

I didn't miss your love. I was mourning our friendship.

Every day we were together, I hated you more and more.

I hated when you touched me or would tell me you loved me.

I hated when you bragged to others about our "love story."

I hated how you talked shit about the people I cared about because I hung out with them when I could have hung out with you.

When I told Lex, he said we should've been friends with benefits.

What fucking benefits?

The sex I didn't want and didn't like?

The dates you never wanted to go on?

The dinners with your family where they would sit there and talk down on me while you laughed along?

The conversations you never wanted to have with me?

The making fun of my passions?

The insulting of the people I care about?

The kisses you forced down my tongue?

The shit you would talk about me to your friends you think I never heard about?

The communication skills you didn't have?

You were the fucking worst.

I was so scared that maybe it was all in my head and that it wasn't that serious.

Maybe I was just having an episode, and I'll start liking you again after we break up.

All the things you always said were such a problem when the only problem was you.

I guess I was right though, I do like you more now that we are not together.

I like you better when I don't owe you shit.

I like you now that I'm not forced to.

I have been so happy to not be your girlfriend.

I haven't talked any shit, started any rumors, or thrown any shade.

It's clear to see that you aren't capable of that though.

This was the thing I was most worried about.

You don't know how to leave with grace.

I've heard a million rumors, and all of them have come from you.

Why does there have to be a problem?

You do not know how to be at peace.

I pray that one day you will have enough self-respect to let yourself be happy.

I know I do.

But I also know I'd be even happier if, for once in your goddamn pathetic life, you shut the fuck up.

I'm sorry, but no one wants to hear about every piece of trauma you've gone through before they know your favorite color. And we don't want to hear it in the middle of talking about something that made us happy.

You find the need to make everything about yourself, and you refuse to let someone else feel good about themselves or their accomplishments.

There is a reason no one fucking likes you. It's because you are you.

Simple.

You are an annoying piece of shit that no one wants to be around or to have to listen to.

And the sad part is, I'm not even saying that just to say it.

I have all the people you force to be around you that you think you are friends with to back me up.

Everyone who heard about what happened with us through you went straight to me for the real story.

70% of the people you hung out with stopped because they don't feel obligated to anymore because I'm no longer there begging them to be nice to you.

The rest are just there because they feel bad and are trying to be a good person because they know if they didn't hang out with you, you would be completely lonely.

They told me.

ALSO

your ass is not black. no one in your family is. even your family will say that. stop making being black your major personality point. we all know.

There was the tickle of my breathe choking out into the open air, nervous laughter trickling in behind.

”It hurts,” I told her as I felt the knife sink in.

I felt like Christmas roast, the blade digging down till the pain seared white, and it dragged down the center of my chest.

I must have been screaming that, my eyes pinched shut as I felt the heating blade leave, giving me reprieve only to start moaning again.

Her hand was digging in, giving me open heart surgery, because she said she would ‘take away my pain’.

A thing that lucky people don’t get, and can’t get, because it’s just too alien-bizarro in how it happens, but being married to a real, “personality-disordered” narcissist is not like having a lazy, do-nothing spouse who never helps you out. A lazy, do-nothing spouse is an absolute wondrous blessing from above compared to a truly narcissistic spouse.

For the narcissistic spouse not only does nothing to help you out, but he or she actively, covertly, diabolically, sneakily, furtively, constantly is working against you, undermining you without telling you, relentlessly sabotaging your hard work “for the family“ and smiling and cajoling and flattering you all the while.

It makes no sense. For in the end it sinks the narcissist’s own ship, too—though not with you: You will have sunk before them; the narcissist will inevitably sink two or three or ten codependent suckers later after they abused and discarded you. Or, in my case, if you reproduced with the demon, discarded them to save your life, but are still tied to the narcissist’s sinking, abusive garbage-skow-disguised-as-a-yacht via the children.

But a narcissist doesn’t think about the future. Like everything else, they only pretend to do so and make a big, impressive-sounding show of it.

The narcissist only thinks of the next hit of narcissistic supply. Adoration-from-strangers supply, abuse-and-control-of-family supply, and that’s it. Literally. That is literally it. But they are so good at posing as normal, or even ”such a good person.”

Baseball?

No, football.

No, his arms, oh God, look at his arms... Back to baseball.

She knew he had to have played a sport. Didn't know what kind of sport but she sure wanted to find that out. That and so many other things about him. All the things.

She was studying the way his shirt was straining over different areas of his back and biceps. She was in a position to sneakily study him today. Bliss.

Stop being such a freaking creeper she admonished herself. But to no avail. The delicious inspection would continue.

Here at work, she was not the only one noticing him either. Whenever he walked by, flocks of females stupidly stuck out their tits toward him, sticking out their asses, preening like complete jackasses. All types: fat, skinny, pretty, dog-faced, it didn't matter. They all tried. Their shrill voices cawing out a greeting to him followed by silly, asinine giggles. They were all so desperate to catch his eye. She felt a hefty portion of second-hand embarrassment each time it happened.

Look at these idiot women...

She, on the other hand, remained cool and reserved. She pretended not to see him, pretended to be too absorbed in whatever task be at hand. Inside though, she was going crazy. He was creating a tempest within her in which she joyfully reveled.

She wanted to find a way to hold her body against his. The thought of how her calves would feel draped over his glorious shoulders gave her a shiver.

Sigh.

The lyrics to "Creep" came to mind. She winced.

Yeah, I'll own that. Fair enough.

She supposed that in the end, she was no better than the horny flock. She was just better at hiding it.

"Does it hurt?" I ask while watching her.

"Only when I think about it." She winces.

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry."

She laughs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she tosses her insulin needle in a sharps container. "It's fine. I'm used to the whole thing."

"You started when? At ten?"

"No, I was twelve. Right after this." She traces the line of a scar on her thigh. She was riding a horse, and it walked her into the tin eave of a low-slung shed. The cut was scary deep and crazy long, running from her hip down and across the thigh well short of the knee. "It was that trip to the hospital that we discovered the diabetes, so I guess it was a good thing I was nearly murdered by the horse."

"Was it the horse, or the roof?"

"I think they were in on it together." She grins, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

I smile back at her, and the kiss becomes a hug.

"Well. I'm glad they didn't succeed."

"Wow. That's just about the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

"Not true. I've said you have fantastic bazongas, and that's a pretty damned sweet thing to say, I think."

It's true, she did. Maybe still does.

"Wow," she chuckles and smacks me on the arm. "Remind me again why you haven't swept me off my feet?"

We both laugh, and I look away.

It's true. I have. I know it, and she knows it, but she knows that I've pretended I haven't. It's best that way.

Does it hurt? I never ask anymore, because we don't talk.

Only when I think about it I say to myself, as I scroll past her name in my contact list.