Star Wars: Episode 1 -

A ninja mime chases down a few rent-a-cops while a whining child fumbles his way through a civil war.

Star Wars: Episode 2 -

A culmination of terrible life choices results in one giant, raging ego. Also the whining child has grown up into a whining teenager and starts another war.

Star Wars: Episode 3 -

Everybody loves space opera, so I thought you might want some space opera in your space opera. Annoying teenager lashes out in self hatred and kills annoying children in an attempt to kill himself. Suicide attempt almost succeeds, but becomes a robot instead. Space ninja order eradicated.

Star Wars: Episode 4 -

If you thought the previous lead was annoying, whoa boy! Whining farm boy (annoyance must be hereditary) becomes Mary Sue and blows up a moon just to get revenge for a creepy old space ninja.

Star Wars: Episode 5 -

Like tandem skydiving, but instead tandem tantrum throwing. Robot from before channels his inner teenage angst to capture his teenage angsty progeny. Hands up - HAH! I remember something about a bunch of snow somewhere...

Star Wars: Episode 6 -

Teenage angst vanquished! ... Not. Whiny adult leads teddy bear rebellion against the space robot. Fireworks and booze for all the teddy bears. A weird love triangle gets resolved when it turns out the one redeeming factor about the whiny bunch is that they don't like incest.

Star Wars: Episode 7 -

Did you see episode 4? Replace whiny teenage boy with inexplicably perfect teenage girl. Everything else remains unchanged. Unofficial title is Star Wars Episode 7: The Search for More Merchandising.

Star Wars: Episode 8 -

Tonight, there's going to be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town! Tonight there's going to be a jailbreak, and every intelligent person even remotely associated with the project will abandon all hope and leave. The most boring space race of all time crawls on by while an insubordinate dick wad goes on a side quest. Girl Perfect meets whiny incestor who still hasn't found a cure for all the whining going on in the galaxy. Oh, did I forget to mention the most whiny of all characters, New Space Robot? Yeah. New Space Robot, version 2: now serving cheese with its whine.

The first time I ever committed real self-harm, I was 13. Emo was cool, and kids were cutting, and that was acceptable. I was almost jealous. My insides were constantly twisting and writhing, and I wanted it out of me. I wanted to control all of the aching and stinging. Cutting seemed like a grossly under thought plan. I was analytical and overly conscious of my decisions. I was never anything short of thorough. I remember in an out of body moment of maturity and clarity telling myself, if you’re not old enough to decide if you want a tattoo, you definitely aren’t old enough to decide if you can live with the consequences of your scars. What I didn’t know was how eternal mental scars linger. What I didn’t know was the way that choices stick.

For awhile, I had been imparting minor afflictions on myself. I would snap rubber bands against my skin or claw at my thighs. Squeeze my nails into the palms of my hands. Sometimes I would pull at my hair until my scalp ached, never hard enough to rip any from my head, though. I frequently starved myself. Things that hurt in a way that relieved some internal pressure, but were never enough of the control I was craving.

I had changed schools that year after being expelled for fighting, and that coupled with an onslaught of teenage emotions had made me ill-equipped to navigate relationships. Especially at home. Everything kept building up inside of me. The fighting probably should have served as some type of warning to my need to release the internal struggle externally, but somehow I missed that sign.

I don’t remember what set me off, but I remember a quick cataract of thoughts. I remember fierce anger. I remember feeling like if I didn’t hurt something on the outside my insides would explode. I had already decided cutting was not for me. I opened my desk drawer, stuck my arm in, and slammed. My wrist bled. The bruising was immediate. Purple and red swelling like water color spills under my skin. There was a puckered, white crease at the point of impact that had small trickles of blood where the skin had ripped away. I didn’t feel it. What I felt was a rushing sensation in my head and my spine. It was followed by intense heat and then the feeling of cold water dripping from my fingers and toes. I used that method more than once afterwards. Sometimes if I was the only one home I would slam my ankles in doors. I don’t know how I never broke anything. That moment of release began a constant search to expel my anger on myself.

My eating disorders became more relentless. I had extreme body dysmorphia, so it wasn’t hard to drop my guard and unleash that particular form of punishment. My mother was a nurse, and I was always careful to check in with myself physically to limit the chances of hospital visits. Feeling faint or a bit dizzy was ok. Hunger pangs were ok. Racing or irregular heartbeats were not. Dehydration was to be avoided. I was good at hiding things.

I started going to shows around this time, as well. I learned quickly that a bit of unchecked passion in the mosh pit would get me hit hard. I was a wild thing. Not only was this a place I could let out my anger, but this was a place I could get hit back. I had complete control over this fighting. If I wanted calm, I stepped back. If I needed power, I became untamed.

When I started dating, I picked sexually and emotionally abusive partners. Not purposefully, but their quick-to-anger attitudes often drew me to them. I knew I would be able to incite fights without much persuasion.

I started self-harm before I knew what I was doing. You can’t take it back. At some point it becomes the only way you know how to manage anything. I still put myself through daily abuse without ever consciously deciding to. I seek out dangerous situations. Street racing, rough sex, being pushed around at shows, parties where I don’t know anyone, and neighborhoods I probably don’t belong in. I throw myself into hard to complete projects or emotionally draining relationships. I still tend to use eating disorders to feel dominance over my physical appearance. And I somehow never feel like the one in charge. The abuse rules my life, and I’m not sure if I know the way out of it.

The ocean of pain begins

with a single action.

The ocean of pain starts

with hate.

I bought myself a boat into

this ocean.

And I pushed it off the shore.

Now I’m lost in the waves,

shore far out of sight.

They say I’ll never get back,

but I might.

I just have to defeat the hate,

I just have to fight.

But when you feel as strongly as I do,

It’s not easy.

So maybe,

I’ll live and die in this ocean.

Or maybe I’ll rise.

Hate.

It’s a bad feeling,

yet it’s so easy to give in

and so hard to dig yourself out.

But if you made the pit,

you can climb out.

You just need someone on the outside

to pull you out.

You can’t fight an army with one person.

You have to raise an army of your own.

So the army of love

fights against hate.

So the army of hate

fights against love.

Both armies are the same size.

In the end, it comes down to

passion.

Hate is a river,

it never stops moving

from cause to cause

planting seeds of deep doubt.

I hate myself.

Myself seems not to care about

what really matters.

Myself never looks the way I want it to.

Myself looks into danger and cowers.

Myself hates me and

I hate myself.

Planting seeds of deep doubt

from cause to cause,

hate is a river.

Live backwards is evil.

Life is an evil force.

I hate living.

I hate living.

I hate.

I hate.

I...

etah.

Live si etah.

That phrase sounds kind of latin.

But it’s not.

It’s backwards.

When you put it forwards,

hate is evil.

Hate is evil.

It’s the most vile of all emotions.

But it’s so much easier

than love.

I hate love.

I hate looking at my

family and friends and lovers

and saying I love you.

Because it’s not easy.

And I had to go through hell

before I realized that.

I hate love.

Because love hurts.

And hate feels good.

I hate writing.

I hate baring my sould for the world to see

everything that’s wrong with me

on a sheet of paper.

But I hate talking

even more than writing.

The words

never form themselves properly

in audio

the way they do

in my head.

on a screen.

on paper.

I hate hate.

I hate the way people hate

because of being different.

I love differences.

I hate haters.

But in a way,

I’m a hater.

So I hate Myself.

Myself feels to strongly,

yet I’m too weak to

rid myself of those feels.

So I cut.

I cut away the hate,

release the hatred bubbling under my skin.

And it comes out and stains my clothes red.

But eventually,

It’ll bleed out completely.

And there will be

one less hater in the world.

Myself.

Such a complex being,

yet my motivations are simple.

Myself is motivated by hate.

It sees the hate of others and twists it like molten metal

into a knife.

Then Myself takes this knife,

this knife of hate,

and points it

at the source.

The hate of others

is turned into my own hate

directed at them.

Live si etah.

Live si etah.

Live si etah.

If hate is evil,

then am I, too?

I hate the way Myself has no strength.

I hate the way Myself doesn’t

see the problems it causes.

I hate the way Myself is confused.

Myself is confused.

While I write this poem, Myself is confused.

Myself is confused about hate.

Is hate evil,

or is evil hate?

Is evil even a thing?

Is hate?

Or is it all just another gallon of gas

on the speedway of life.

Myself’s gas tank has reached it’s capacity.

It’s beginning to overflow.

Time to take a knife,

and bleed out some gas,

that way,

it’s not so overwhelming

anymore.

Myself wonders why I do this.

I’ve tried and tried to explain.

But Myself just won’t leave me alone.

Sometimes I want to kill Myself.

It’s just so annoying.

Myself contradicts me.

Sometimes I contradict Myself.

I don’t agree with Myself,

and Myself doesn’t agree with me.

Myself is merely a voice inside my head.

I don’t have to care about Myself.

But my friends and family care about Myself,

so I’m forced to pretend.

I’ll never be free of Myself,

even when I die,

Myself, the infuriating voice

will always be there.

I hate Myself.

In the gas tank of life,

I’m full.

I can’t carry anymore.

But Myself is making me run

off of electricity,

not blood like I want to.

Always,

I will be stuck with Myself.

Even when

I want Myself to die.

Why do I have to be Myself?

Why do people call me Myself?

I’m not Myself.

I’m me.

Keep me out of my mind.

Take me out of Myself

Live si etah.

flesym etah I

Even if I write this

whole poem backwards,

Myself will always be there.

ereht eb syawla lliw flesym

I can’t escape Myself.

But still,

sometimes,

I want to kill Myself.

and rid me of the hatred

for Myself.

Myself won’t leave me alone.

I hate Myself.

I hate Myself.

I hate Myself.

Myself doesn’t care about my hate.

I wish I could

not care about other’s hate,

but I’m not like Myself.

LIVE SI ETAH

I MA SA

I met him in the sunset of my youth. Full and bursting with light and vibrance. Blissfully unaware of what would come in the dark. And I believe he did his best to teach me every little thing I might meet there in the impending shadows. He was a match, and I thought I could be a candle to help us navigate the night. But really I was only a rose. Small and suffocating, starving and wilting without the light. So at his touch I caught fire and like the sunset went out with a burst of color, then blinked out of sight.

“It's deep…”

“What exactly does that mean?” A moment ago I was sleepy from the thick, flowery air in the small, warm room. It's cliché and serves its purpose well. My stupor came on fast and lulling. Now, I am all energy. I feel electricity pass through my spine down to my fingertips and glide across my ribs down to my toes.

“You will have her across every life time. And you will lose her. Over and over. Or rather. She will lose you. I can't be sure. Although...my heart says she will lose you. You will push and push, and she will break. She will always break. You will build her up just to break her. Over and over. Across every existence. You can break the pattern…”

The smallest, downy hairs rise in ripples across my arms and legs. She knows how to use her words to create urgency, but this is important even without all the dramatics. Somewhere inside I knew this. It is still a halting collision to my heart. My lungs stop, and it is all I can do to hold steady. I find my breath and swallow hard. “How…how do I break that pattern? All I want is her whole.”

Her bright eyes lower. I wait in her arrested quiet, pushing back my tears, willing my lungs to keep filling and emptying. I watch her hands raise to her forehead. She looks tired, too tired to tell me what she's thinking. Her elbows rest on the table, and her head rests in her hands, fingers massaging her temples. Her eyes snap up with silent tears pouring from them. “But can’t you see? That there, that is the pattern. You want her whole. You will push her until she is almost complete. You want her whole. And you want her as your own. She is already yours, and you've already missed it. You want her whole, but you will destroy her. You have to take that with you. You have to keep it inside you. You cannot forget. This pattern has already begun. All you can hope is that you take it with you, and you remember for your regeneration. You cannot make her whole. You can only keep her. And each time you push to complete her rather than hold her you will dismantle it all.”

I shake my head. I can't accept that. I pull my hand back across the table. I don't care about a line that is severed. I don't care about a pattern. I can fix this. I can fix us both. I can find her, and then she will find herself and me. I can fix it.

*

I can't let it go. I haven't found her yet, but I can remember. There's a dark room. October 25th 1941. It's late on the night before I sacrificed my regeneration cycle. The room has a heavy feeling. Its like you closed the door and ran a hot shower, and now you're basking in the steam. I remember the false sense of security that room offered. I remember little before or after. I know that that wasn't my first or last visit to the “gypsy”. I know that she wasn't a gypsy either. She was the same as me, only she knew how to do her business out in the open. It wasn't easy then. Not that it is now. Then, though, it was nearly impossible to make it through the days. Only those who could divine were really able to get away with using their magic. The rest of us were limited to feigning parlor tricks if we wanted to avoid questions. Genesis was her real name, but she went by Madame Apollo. As though Genesis wasn’t able to garner enough histrionics in the art of fortune telling. The lighting was low, and the air was heavy. There was me in a pressed suit and tie, and her in all of the gauzy, lacy layers of clothing that the swamp lands had ever known. We were tucked away in a back corner of a tea shop. The curtains were deep reds and oranges mirroring the leaves outside and layered in the same haphazard fashion as the folds of Madame’s dress. The walls were a muted, pale purple, and the flames danced across them in a way that made them almost disappear into a living thing. She told me of the girl and how I would come to ruin her. And I can't remember that girl, but I can remember how important that revelation was. I don't know what I did. I can remember leaving that room with determination and defiance in my heart. I can remember my chin held high as I told myself that the lines she had read meant nothing. The cards had meant nothing. The leaves, nothing. She may be practiced in divination, but divination was finicky, and strong will and energy could change it. I would change it. I remember walking out with my eyes burning, but my head high and determined. And I remember returning to Genesis the following evening. I remember the tears breaking through and me breaking down. My head in her lap as she quieted me and helped me remember to breathe. I knew of an ancient magic that would require her help. It was mythical. There was no way to know of its power or if it had ever worked. She was a true seer, not like most now that have learned their craft. She was born with the ability to see, which is what the spell required. She knew why I was there before I had even gathered myself up enough to tell her. She was hesitant. If it didn't work, we would invite a darkness into our world that had long been caged. She spoke of a return to the earth. But not a regeneration as we usually experienced. It would be an end. Permanent. I said nothing. I held my hand out for her. Palm to palm. Her eyes rolled back and closed. I felt every nerve in my body come to attention and saw her skin take the shock of it. And then I felt nothing. My eyes closed involuntarily, and I felt nothing but perhaps, an indescribable lightness. And then I was drowning. Suffocating. Burning alive. Until it all melted away. My eyes opened and she nodded. I knew she had felt it. It was all I wanted, and I would not make this mistake again, if I could just hold the idea through to my next life. She didn't speak. She lifted her layers of skirt and pulled a blade from her garter. What I was asking her for required blood magic. Mine and hers. And memory. Strong memory. And strong magic, also. There has to be enough energy for the blade to hold the memory. That means a terrifying amount of power. All of the power I had. Most of hers. It would cut her lifespan by half. If something were to go wrong and I was not able to hold her power it wouldn't even come back to full after her next regeneration. This was reason enough for her to return her blade and tell me to find another way. She must have felt it. She felt my will or she would not trust me to carry the spell. She handed me the knife. The handle was made of some ancient magical bone tumbled and polished then wrapped ornately in a sparkling silver that must have been faerie made. I can feel the magic thrumming through it even now. I am right back there. My skin ignites with its energy. We all keep magical objects. Most of us still use wands or rings to help channel our power. The few with true divine magic do not need a channel. Their body is conduit enough, however they still keep something impregnated with magic to steady their own. Handing over something like that is like handing someone a vessel full of yourself. I use a wand to contain my current. It's made from blood crystal from the dark sea. I laid it out on the table in front of her as a courtesy. I know she trusts me, but it feels disrespectful to not offer her up some sign of that same trust. I touch the tip of her blade to my temple. I start to conjure up the girls face, but Madame must sense this. She lays her hand on mine and shakes her head. She tells me it's not strong enough. She tells me I need to remember her energy in order to hold onto her. The face will do nothing. I need to feel her energy and know how to hold it without crushing it. I let go of the face. I think of her. I think of everything I have ever felt from her. Every vibration she has ever sent through my being. I can feel her all through me as she passes through my mind. I can feel every breath I have stolen from her. I can feel her hands and her mouth. My skin is crawling with every memory it has ever contained of her. I am awake and alive and teeming with energy I have picked up over all of my lifetimes with her. It is painful and breathtaking and every part of me wants to hold onto it forever. I cannot. I let it spill into Madame’s blade. I feel the memory draining into it. It is an intense heat that creeps throughout me and leaves a damp cold in its place, and by the time it reaches the blade my temple is on fire. I feel flames pour out of me into the faerie silver. Then there is no more fire, but I am still burning. I pull the blade away and it is glowing almost golden with heat. My exhaustion is indescribable, but I push past it. Madame slices her palm then squeezes the blood into a cup of something steaming. It smells like pines. She takes my hand and does the same. The drink turns a glowing yet milky white. It is memory liquefied. I have seen this once before now. At a museum. An orb filled with liquid memory from a failed attempt at this same spell. It is the most enticing sight I can ever recall. And it is the last thing I remember before now.

I threw myself at you,

and you balled up your fists.

Tilted my head back,

throat exposed.

And you left your face buried in my neck,

mouth closed tight.

And somehow,

it’s my fault

that you

still

couldn’t

catch.