i can't escape

even and

especially

in my dreams

i see you

because any

time away

i miss you

but even my

dream self

wont ask

the question

on my tongue

or dare

admit the

dangerous

bottled

truth

real or fake

i let

you go

every

time

without

fail

do my

thoughts

stray so far

from

reality

that my

dreams

cant even

imagine

us

?

i

walk

a

winding

path

paved

with

my

regrets,

the

worn

cobblestones

under

my

bare

feet

rough

against

my

skin.

i

can

feel

the

ghosts

of

my

poor

decisions

tugging

at

my

heels,

beckoning

me

to

turn

and

go

down

that

path

again.

i

can

smell

the

enticing

aroma

of

toxic

love,

tempting

me

to

stop

and

breathe

a

little

longer.

i

can

taste

the

bitter

tang

of

sadness

in

the

air,

calling

me

to

wallow

in

its

depths

for

a

second

more.

i

can

hear

the

bickering

voices

that

would

pry

inside

my

head,

whispering

to

me

to

listen

to

their

words

anew.

i

can

see

the

heat

of

my

forgotten

anger,

shimmering

in

the

air

as

a

spiteful

reminder

of

my

past.

i

know

the

path

is

summoning

me

back,

but

i

hold

my

head

high

and

keep

striding

onward.

When I was six, my grandmother tells me

she will be an old stone.

In all of my endless, six year old wisdom

I tell her that a stone is a very boring thing to be.

She laughs,

swings me around,

and tells me I will understand,

someday.

When I am sixteen, my niece wears

an old topaz bit, set in silver on a rusting chain.

It was my grandmother's,

maybe, probably.

I'd never seen it til the day after she died, hanging on her mirror.

My grandfather tells me

she wore it every day

tucked under her collar.

And so,

I have a piece of uncut garnet,

set on a silver back,

tucked under my collar.

I think, one day,

I'll be an old, old stone.

You blink

And look briefly over your shoulder, but only half turning your head. Did you hear footsteps? Or was it just your imagination following close behind? Looking, once again, steadfastly forward, your warm breath exhales into… what?

Steam?

You wonder briefly. Surely humans don’t breathe out steam. No. That can’t be right! It must be condensation… yes, that’s it. Condensation.

It may sound odd to others, but you often chat to yourself inside your head when you are nervous.

And you are nervous now.

This walk is short and pleasant on a crisp spring evening, or a shining summer’s day. But now! In the dead of winter… It’s cold. And dark. And somehow longer.

Perhaps you should have listened to the others and taken the bus. But as usual, you know best. You laughed at their caution.

Startled you spin round.

Yes!

Certain this time that you heard footsteps.

You turn to run and slam into the strong chest of a strong man. He grabs your arms as you bounce off him.

“Whoa! Steady… Are you alright, miss?”

The question is genuine, but your heart is pounding with fear. He has you gripped by both arms. His grip is gentle, but your fear feels his strength.

From behind you hear the footsteps, closer. Ever closer.

Your mouth opens to eject the scream rising from your gut.

“Oh, hello dear. It’s Cassie, isn’t it?”

Your scream is throttled as you turn your head to the talking footsteps behind. The man’s soft grip releases you.

You stammer and answer to the middle aged lady and her dog. Yes, you are Cassie, you say.

“It’s me, dearie. Mrs Jackson.”

A giggle combined with a sob burbles from you.

It’s Mrs Jackson, your neighbour from two doors down! Without thinking, you hug her.

“I think she was a bit spooked by the dark,” says the soothing voice of the tall man.

Mrs Jackson laughs.

“Oh, hello Mr Thompson. Yes. I think you are right. She is new in this neighbourhood. Come with us Cassie, we can all walk home together.”

And nobody ever sees you again…

i.

hands

too many hands, touching all the wrong spots. too much pressure, in places that never asked to be stained with dirty fingerprints and filthy mouths.

ii.

nights i woke up blindfolded. nights i woke up deaf. nights i woke up screaming. nights i woke up dead. nights i never slept.

iii.

the way the refrigerator felt pressed up against my back. anorexic-spine refusing to bend and break. chin up, tears checked. the way that the solid object gave false confidence. the way my bones still cracked.

iv.

the wedding ring in the grass.

v.

tubes & wires

small lungs failing. because babies don’t belong here this early. but trauma has a way of bringing out the best of us.

vi.

tubes & wires

“you can’t hold him.”

“please give me back my baby?”

“you have nerve damage.”

“give me my baby back!”

“someone put her back to sleep.”

vii.

distance and space and sirens and screams. and how all of those words just feel like the word abandoned. and how everyone always leaves.

viii.

all these fucking metaphors.

ix.

my wrists tied to his knuckles. and how he hangs around my neck. and how he hangs around my thoughts. and how he gets hung up in my throat. and how my eyes feel hung out to dry.

x.

the way the mirror explodes when it sees my face. how two of my fingers fit so perfectly at the back of my mouth. how i reach for the devil and up comes the ache.

Your hands are shaking and you stare at them at if that will keep them steady. You try to ignore the shouts from downstairs. They haven’t found you yet.

Releasing a deep breath, you grip the test tube tighter and stare intently at the end of the pipette in your opposite hand. Gently, you squeeze and release one drop of bromine into the test tube.

One.

It fizzles when it makes contact with the blue liquid already inside. You ignore the sound of feet running up the stairs.

You squeeze the pipette again, letting out another small drop.

Two.

The muffled shouts are closer now, and your heart is beating loudly in your ears. Somehow, you keep your hands steady, and pinch the end of the pipette.

Three.

Fists pound on the lab door, and your breath is choked out of you in a mixture of fear and surprise. The pipette falls from your hand.

“Professor, open up!” a shrill voice shouts from behind the door. The doorknob rattles, and more shouting ensues.

You don’t have time to look, just to scramble to the ground and pick up the pipette. Squatting, you drip another bead of bromine into the test tube.

Four.

You only — a loud slam against the door — need — your mouth is dry with fear — one more — a loud crack, and the sound of running feet — drop.

You squeeze again, and the last droplet of bromine waits on the tip of the pipette, as if refusing to fall. You can hear feet stop just behind you, and hands grab at your shoulders, but it’s alright, because — hiss — the last drop has fallen into the test tube.

Five.

“It’s complete,” you whisper hoarsly, and the hands clawing at your shoulders stop. The test tube is warm in your grasp, and you stand and hold it up for all to see.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

She sits across from you. She’s in her mid-twenties. Maybe thirties even. You fold one leg over the other and cross your fingers on your lap. You look at her over the rim of your glasses.

“Ms. Anderson, can you tell me what brings you here today?” You ask. You notice how she fidgets. Oh. She’s so precious.

“I’m back on antidepressants, and I just feel really, really empty,” She tells you. You nod. Sympathetic.

Jack jumped over a candlestick

“Can you try and describe that further, maybe try and interpret it in your own way?” You offer. She nods. She fidgets again.

“I don’t really know to be honest. It’s like…”

“There’s no point?” You suggest with a sly smile. She nods quickly and your heart seems to quicken. She looks relieved almost.

“Yeah,” She breathes. You nod.

“Have you ever considered taking your own life?”

Jack jumped high, Jack jumped low

She shakes her head, looking down at her hands.

“I don’t know if I could do it,” She admits. You nod.

“I understand,” You say. “There are numerous incidents each year. Overdoses, slit wrists, hangings, even shootings.” You notice how her lip twitches. She nods. “Most in cases where the individual feels empty.” She looks up. Her eyes are glassed. She nods.

“Is something wrong, Ms. Anderson,” You ask.

“You didn’t refer to them as victims.”

Jack jumped over, and burned his toe

“Is that how you would refer to someone who got what they wanted?” You propose. You see the flicker in her eyes. This is what you want. You mask a smile. “Ms. Anderson?” You prompt. She nods.

“Yes,” She murmurs, her eyes meeting yours. They don’t appear sad anymore. They look hopeful. “Thank you.”

Jack be slick, Jack be prose

You’re notified the next morning. Ms. Anderson had hung herself. Found by her roommate only hours after.

You put on your mask, you nod, say you wish you could have done more for her.

But you add another tally to your list. Another dead, another to go.

Jack they’ll find you, six feet below.

My wife works in admissions, and almost exactly a month ago, she came home from working a grad fair with a flyer for a low-res creative writing MFA program. I laughed, for several reasons.

The idea is incredibly impractical because money time children life. I also don’t need it; I’ve got my job, and I’m fortunate enough that it’s not going anywhere. Adjuncting someday could be fun, but financially speaking, I’d be better off doing quite literally anything else. An MFA is a lazy “maybe someday” daydream for me very similar to a monthlong European vacation. Hypothetically, if I bent my will and wallet toward it I could eventually make it happen, but am I? really?

Mostly though, I laughed because as I told my wife, “It’s been two years since I’ve written literally anything.”

Those anythings were one-act plays that I sent around to a few competitions in the hopes of seeing one staged. (One finalist status and a lot of radio silence.) Three years before that was the personal essay I actually worked on for real and sent around to a few literary magazines whose niche it seemed to fit. (It didn’t.) And before that was sixteen chapters of a novel I abandoned. Total readership: around 7 for the essay (people who I named in it and wanted an OK from, but who did say they liked it), X anonymous judges for the plays, and 1 for the novel (wife, though I don’t think I ever showed her anything past chapter 10).

That all did feel a little discouraging, but mostly, I hadn’t written anything in two years because I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. So I laughed, but even while I scoffed at myself, I realized I missed having something to say.

The well still felt very dry, so I turned to the ol’ algorithmic witching rod to hunt for a contest that could give me a topic. Google brought back a bunch of uninteresting stuff, including a contest about the end of the world, and I dropped the matter until I decided that I was going to do this, I was going to write something. So I created a Prose account and wrote about toast.

And then somebody Liked it. And somebody else. And eventually 15 people liked “Little Things,” which means that with the work of a couple hours, I had gotten roughly double the readership I had in the preceding decade.

There’s that bromide about “if you reach one person” that people trot out to cheer up artists who fail to find an audience, and usually, I think the cliché just pisses said artist off more. I have to say, though, Jesus did 15 feel nice.

I’ve been trying to give as much back to Prose people as I’m receiving, reading liking and commenting both on random new posts and posts of people who do the same with my stuff. I’ve probably missed some people. And I’m going to have to slow down my Prose pace some, both writing and reading, because I have this bad habit of feeling most creative when I have a stack of dishes or grading that I’m supposed to be dealing with. But I wanted to write a post to express my appreciation.

I will now (and for the only time, I promise) obnoxiously tag the people who have liked something I’ve posted. Thank you. The reads and likes and comments and reposts and follows mean a lot. Keep on doing your respective things.

It’s funny how they tell you, when they first take you, how this is the New World.

This is the real society. These are real people. These are real skills.

Why wasn’t I real before?

I sit and watch my youth, full of shame with what I’ve become

-No -

With what they made me. Crafted me. Poured me into a mold. Cut my hair. Changed my clothes. Burned me. Beat me. Left me with nothing of who I was.

The loss of my native tongue.

The loss I carry on.

We never did anything wrong. We were just as real and civil.

Funny we’re the savages when they’re out seeking wars.

I’ll never forget, and I’ll never forgive.

There’ll never be enough for all the scars I still hide.

Even the ones that can’t be seen.

But never is a long time when you have nothing left.

I started off my sixteenth year with a blowjob from a girl I had never met before. I’m not quite sure how it happened. She had found out it was my birthday, and I guess she wanted to give me a gift. I cherished it greatly.

Later that night I walked home. It was quiet. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet. From further down the hall, in the room across from mine, a lump lay on a mattress underneath a thin bedcover.

A few months passed. I got my license, and was given the family’s old green minivan. Some say it was blue. Let’s just call it teal. I would drive it all over town.

I spent my morning’s before school shaking my father awake. Sometimes I would try to drag him out of bed. He was worse in the mornings, while I was worse at nights. Together, we made a complete happy person.

I started to date a girl who was more interested in having her skin wounded than caressed. I did not know why everyone around me was so sad.

My mother once told me that we surround ourselves with what we most manifest. She could no longer remind me of this. I had to remember for myself.

My father stood at the doorway of my bedroom. He told me his life insurance plan would leave over a million dollars to my name. He had thought it through very carefully.

We rode in the teal minivan down the street so that he could speak with my friend’s mother. I dropped him off, then left to pick up milk from the local convenience store. I drove all over town.

I ended up parked on the side of the road. My arms were too tense to grasp the steering wheel. I lay in the backseat, my body shaking.

My father once told me that some people are not meant to go through life alone. That he needed somebody. I hopped in the teal minivan, and drove all over town.

Later that year I was later honored as an All-Conference track athlete at my high school. I was good at running. I did it a lot.