One is humming, just loud enough to distract

Another challenging me to violently act

Yet another, a small child doing silly things

The fourth "friend", paranoia, suspicion brings

Next, an older lady reading from scripture

And a scruff who is not a pretty picture

There's, lucky number seven, a proper girl

And a teen boy who's clenched fists never uncurl

A floozy, rudely behaved, scantily dressed

And the leader, a boss who "directs" the rest

Last, there's me- behind the curtain, backstage crew

At any moment, I present one to you

And you, kind audience member cheer woohoo

As if they played just for you on this good stage

Not in my head, each acting out their true rage

As if they played just for you on this good stage

Not in my head, each acting out their true rage

The girl you called fat, she's starving herself. The boy you called poor; has to work till dawn to support his family. The boy you made fun of because of the ugly scars; he protected his brother.

~~~~~

You ask me why I never smile. You point at me whenever I smile as if I’m a spectacle. I’ll ask you why I don’t smile.

This fact, the both of us know: I used to like grinning before. But why did I stop? Ask yourself if why you called me “Buckteeth” every time I smiled and think whether you’re asking a redundant question. Ask yourself if it was my choice to have a 10-millimeter deviation. Ask yourself if commenting on my teeth every single time was being caring or simply trying to be smart, pointing out others’ faults and leaving them to be ashamed of themselves. Ask yourself if you ever think I already know about everything you keep saying. Ask yourself if you were- and are being stupid. Ask your stupid self if you even have the right to judge.

You think you’re being the nice person, involving me in your conversations. But you’re not, you’re really not. Staying in a corner alone is many times better than being made a joke of.

I tell my parents that everything’s fine. That I have nice friends that care for me. I can tell them that I wrote this on a whim and that everything’s a lie. Who’s to know? But if you look closer, you can see that I don’t smile. Well, not anymore.

Now tell me. Why don’t I smile?

~~~~~

You called her fat. Made fun of her size. Craned your heads to try and see her weight whenever they did body checks. Secretly looked at the slip she got so you could gossip about her BMI when she was gone. Though, you never really cared, did you?

You clearly knew that she was at the doorway, but continued talking at the tops of your voices. You were aware that her eyes filled up with tears upon hearing your remarks. But you didn’t care, did you? After all, trying to be cool, to be an insider, is everything.

Have you ever thought how she did not choose to look the way she looked, that she had no choice as to who her parents were and where her genetic information came from? Ever thought that she would develop anorexia, and start starving herself? Ever thought about how many times she considered suicide because her weight was something she couldn’t change?

You tell me.

~~~~~

You stared at him when you first laid eyes upon him. Looked away because Mom told you not to stare at people who look different. Couldn’t resist it and took another glance. And another. And another.

A large part of his face a lighter shade. Scars on his arms and legs. Burn scars.

You called him ugly. Made fun of his scars, called your friends to join in the fun. Ugly. Monster. Weirdo.

But you didn’t know that he protected his brother from the blazing beams in a house engulfed in fire, did you? Didn’t know he hugged his brother and used himself as a shield against the flames around them. Didn’t know that he stayed in that position until they found him and his brother, enduring the searing pain of the flames, and the sensation of his skin melting. Didn’t know that he covered himself up and buried himself in his hands to prevent his brother from seeing his state, from hating him. Fearing rejection.

And you never thought about how many skin grafting treatments he had to endure just to look a bit better, did you? Just gritting his teeth and chanting every time, “Just a little more… just a little more.”

Who’s the ugly one now?

~~~~~

You see his wrinkled clothes. The embarrassed look on his face whenever he’s berated by the teachers. And you call him poor.

You take a look in his bag and scoff at the fact that there’s barely anything inside. Noticing the condition of the bag afterwards and adding a few crude remarks so the “cool” people in class will notice you.

Then you look at his stationery and see that they are of the cheapest brands. Actually, no. They don’t even have a brand. You point that out and ridicule him again, making sure to say that extra loudly.

But you don’t know what he keeps to himself, do you?

Working till dusk for his family, even having to work when he’s sick, very well aware of the fact that a day he doesn’t work is a day that his family has nothing to eat. Saving up his money so his little sister doesn’t have to suffer the same derision as him, being able to buy stationery of better quality. Skipping meals so that his father can get better treatment, and get well soon. Losing hope again, only to forcibly regain it because there’s no other choice, no other way.

But even so, he doesn’t steal, nor does he beg.

Poverty in itself is not a crime. But losing your morals and going astray due to your circumstances is.

Now, you didn’t know that, did you?

Don't ever judge a person by how they look. You don't know the tears they hide behind smiles.

They think I smile,

they think I'm not mad.

They think I didn't hear

all the things they said.

Wish they'd have ears,

wish they'd have eyes,

wish they could see

all the tears I cry.

Wish they would know

how much it hurts

wish they would one day

finally learn.

If there were someone

who would see my scars

and tell me it's fine now

though the going was hard

I'd smile again. 

I sat on the bridge, my legs hanging off the side. It was a nice, breezy day. The sky was a deep blue, cloudless and beautiful. The sun shone down on the waters below me, making it a shimmering green.

The bridge was where I went daily, a sanctuary for me to go to. The days slowly passing, with me on the same bridge in that same spot.

Maybe this is the day.

I have repeated that line everyday I came here. But today I was confident.

I looked down at the sea under me. Amazingly calm, waiting to engulf me in the deep waters. I flung the piece of paper behind me and clambered onto the railings.

I’ve always wanted to ask someone these questions.

Do you know what it feels like to be abandoned?

To be thrown around? Like someone’s rag doll, with no life?

Do you know what it’s like to love someone?

And to have your heart broken by them?

Do you know what it feels like to want to die?

Every single wretched moment of your life?

I bet you don’t.

And I bet you don’t care.

We are all broken, all of us.

Each one with our unique scar.

But I am different, I am not just broken.

I am so full of scars that I am disfigured.

My happiness a facade.

I am shattered. Crushed to dust.

And there is no way back.

~~~~~

I closed my eyes. The breeze ruffling my hair and clothes. And, I smiled.

For the first time in years.

Then, I shuffled forwards and lifted my foot. I was ready to let go.

As I tilted forwards, I felt a cold hand grasp my ankle. I spun round, furious.

“What? Go away!” I yelled.

“I do. And, I do,” the girl said. She had hazel, brown hair and amber eyes. The eyes that 

reached my soul. But that wasn’t the only thing unique about her. Her complexion was pale and she wore a baggy hospital gown. Despite all that, she was beautiful.

“What?” I asked, my voice softened. I was mesmerised.

“I do know these feelings. And, I do care. I really do,” Her lips twisted into a smile as she held up the paper.

I didn’t know what to say.

I stared at her and she stared at me. Both unrelenting. But she let go of my ankle and held up her hand.

Something caught my eye. Her wrists were covered in huge scars, still healing from the cut. I realised that she was like me. Broken, shattered and scarred. But different.

She was healing.

Her face was radiant, not showing a trace of misery of torture. But me? I gave up so fast. 

Looking at her hand, reaching out to me, I wanted to grab it. To put the past behind me and be reborn again. Before I could, she grinned.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Ready for what?”

“For a new life,”

Without a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed her hand.

I was broken, broken to a point of no return. Grabbing her hand? Just a choice I made because I thought my life couldn't be worse. 

But now? Now, I think, I found the one to mend me. And I hope she found hers. 

I look at her, smile plastered on her face despite the scars covering her wrists and her heart.

My sunshine, my healer. 

And that day, was the day that I smiled a second time.

Nothing’s been the same since you

died

no matter how I slice it

no matter how I see it

no matter how much time attempts some bullshit move to heal it

You were in my blood and you will stay in my

blood

until my blood stops

and dries

your love and roots and every

bit of fur haunt me

no matter where I run

no matter which continent

or bar or highway

your little ghost

sits, sleeps, rides shotgun

your eyes the faintest of blue

looking wise in the sunshine

across the parks and ponds and lakes

and coasts

your little heart beating big enough

for my own

your belly against my palm

in all those shitty rooms

in shitty towns

or in the beds of

shitty women

you always knew I had

guts when nobody else

did

and you always knew I’d

pull us up and out of anywhere

we despised

closer to me than any human

will get

deeper under my skin than

my own bones

so far into my heart you’re still

the center

and though

your daddy was in jail

when you had to die

and though I don’t believe

in angels or anything beyond

carbon

you came to see me the first night

you were gone

and I held you on the slab in

the cell and fell asleep with my

hand on your stomach one last time

before you went off

to do something greater

than I could ever imagine

I want to take this afternoon

to tell you that I love you more than

anything

and no sacrifice I’ve ever made

to keep you

could hold a candle to how much

I still love you

six years past your

death

and I want to tell you here

that because of you

I know what unconditional love means

and if you were here now

I’d buy you the best of everything

even though you wouldn’t have

any idea what that means

but your little brother is almost

eleven now,

and he’s happy

and I still talk about you

and his tail still wags at the mention

of your name

and there’s even a little

girl in the mix now

she looks something like you

which is why she’s here

and while it’s true she doesn’t have your

shrewd, moody genius

I know you’d be proud that

I gave her a home

and on days like this

when the whiskey’s half gone

and I’m lost out on the road

while I wait for things to come through

while I cross my fingers and hope

things start to make sense

while I wait for the spines and brains around

me to grow

while tricky assholes have

siphoned my money

while I either do or do not

wait for eminent failure

or success

the Sun sits high and warm

and shines a beautiful

orange across the desert

while I sit in a hotel and

drink whiskey

to disappear back into

the days when you were

here

when I was alive

and we watched each other

swim

anywhere we chose

to swim

and while I’m sitting here

drunk

and staring into

darkness

I want to take this

moment

to tell you

I still love you.

When I was young,

I sung a song

with a word

I heard

but didn't understand.

Hallelujah.

And my father

heard me sing

a song

his father sung

that he passed on

to me.

Hallelujah.

And when I grew

into myself,

I finally knew

the meaning of

all the little,

all the different,

Hallelujahs.

Wy words bon't look right.

I wish people could fathom

That I don't choose this.

Wish they would help we

Not glance at we sneakily

Like I am stupid.

They call it a Clock Witch.

A gluttonous little creature that burrows into the brassy depths of gears, cogs and springs, nibbling away at all measures of time. A Clock Witch, they say, is the reason your ten-minute snooze rings in ten seconds. It’s the reason the morning hours pass quicker before work or school and the hours during work or school seem to drag on for days. According to Newt Scamander’s Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them, the mundane hours of a witch or wizard’s life are the most unfavorable in both taste and satisfaction. A Clock Witch prefers only the finest of hours, the most scrumptious of minutes and savory of seconds. These are unfortunately, and more often than not, the most important.

I’d never heard of a Clock Witch before. 

Until now, I had always assumed that time was just time and there was nothing more mischievous and gluttonous than time itself. Nights spent mulling over my new discovery were quick to prove me wrong and after lapping up the dusty words of old books that had been touched by nothing but time (inhaling a grimy cloud or two and pausing only to let pass a fit of coughs and hacks), I decided I’d meet a Clock Witch for myself.

The process of extracting a Clock Witch from a clock would be a delicate one, of that I had no doubt. But I figured I’d read enough pointless manuals and various How-To's to handle the situation. There was bound to be a tidbit of clock-picking skills stored somewhere in my mind's waste bin of useless information, not so useless now that I'd found a use. Of course I could have cast a few spells, muttered a few charms. But that would have been too easy. Aside of meeting the Clock Witch, I intended to catch it and like catching any other pest, one can never expect such a task to be simple.

So much for pointless manuals and various How-To's. 

Instead, I found my clock-picking skills through Disney's 1951 adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Like the Mad Hatter, I sat determined. Fork in one hand and a timepiece in the other, I pried all four prongs between the brass seam and pulled.

Tick. Pop. Spring!

Gears flew, screws spun. An impish laugh rose from the still ticking heart, a small burst of cold air hitting my cheek in its escape. I stared down at the dissected apparatus, my own muddy reflection staring back from the rusted clockwork. 

Empty.

I checked the time on the intact and well functioning wall clock above my desk. 10:37 PM. In the hours I'd spent searching for this pest of prime, I'd missed study hall, two exams, and a much anticipated chess game with a friend.

They call it a Clock Witch.

A Clock Witch prefers only the finest of hours, the most scrumptious of minutes and savory of seconds. And these are unfortunately, and more often than not, the most important.

“Do you remember this place?”

Of course she did. 

It was our summer getaway, our after school paradise. How could she forget? Redwoods lined the trail, their woolly bark snagged on the limber trunks of unwelcome eucalyptus. We’d sit on a bench made from a pair of unlucky stumps, suckling honey sticks and sipping fresh squeezed lemonade bought from the general store down the road. Shadows danced across the sandy soil beneath our feet. I tried to reimagine it as best I could but it’s hard with only a few crayola crayons and inkless ballpoint pens. I’m hardly an artist, but I think she remembered. I think...

“How about this one?”

Of course she did. 

Our tree house. Her house. She lived in a forest of light where the leaves were always painted gold by the sun. She would tell me about the magic of this place. She would spin tales of the faerie hunts in day and the howling mists at night. Between each tale, we’d take a break to gather ripe blackberries from the bushes planted snug against an overgrown fence. Shirts plump and filled with bittersweet loot, we’d scurry back to the safety of our scrap plank fortress before the Ground Gnomes ate our toes.

Do you remember this place?

I wanted to ask but the words never came. Of course she did. How could she forget? The broken glass still smothered the gravel, baked in the heat of the sun. It was impossible to tell rock from shard, shard from rock. The smoke from the engine was thick and nauseating. It forced me to realize what had happened. Her hand was on the hood. Only her hand. I didn’t want to draw this.

“She’s still here,” I whispered.

“Of course I am,” a voice replied. “Someone’s gotta’ clean up this mess.”

The nurse had been weaving in and out of my room for hours now, folding my clothes and rearranging my belongings, putting them here and there and back into the places she thought they best belonged. “She’s still here,” I repeated.

“Oh,” the nurse sighed. “This again? She’s gone, honey. Don’t you remember the accident? It’s why you’re here.”

“I’m not here,” I argued. “She’s still here.” I repeated myself again and again. “She’s still here. She’s still here. She’s still here. She’s still here.”

I never noticed the nurse leave the room until she returned, and with company.

---

“Do you remember this place?”

Of course she did. 

It was our third time in solitary confinement this week. No drawing could do justice the loneliness of this small, vacuous space. A blank sheet of paper would suffice. But I’m not alone... right?

“Do you remember this place?” I asked again. “Do you remember this place?”

And again.

“Do you remember this place?”

And again.

“Do you remember this place?”

Of course she did. 

How could she forget? 

She’s still here.

She's always here.

I hear the laughter (in my head)

    I stay silent (like the dead)

The task at hand can not I waste

The clock chimes in and I make haste

Deep as I can, I dive right in

    Tearing it out (the filth and sin)

The crimson walls on every side

Nothing unclean will I abide

Needle and thread I sew a stitch

    Pulling it taught without a glitch

Lovingly wash away the blood

My tears a never-ending flood

I have thoroughly purged from her

    The vile thoughts that she would stir

Taking root inside her soul

Now my deed has made her whole

Fingers caress her perfect cheek

    Beauty fails not to make me weak

I ignore unseeing eyes

That I no longer hear her cries

I have emptied then filled her cup

    At her mouth I'll forever sup

With no voice (to speak her mind)

She cannot object this eternal bind.