I'd always wondered how it would feel to kill myself.

The morning sun recreated the bars of the windows on my bed, imprisoning me in a cage of shadows. I grabbed the sheets where the dark lines fell, seeing if I could pull them apart, and off to my liberation. But I couldn't even grasp them, as if they never existed. But I knew. I knew how the cage bound me in chains-- disguised as a blanket of warmth and comfort. Disguised as a tapestry of blood and kinship.

"Morning, sweetheart." He entered my room again, dawning his pretence costume of a saviour in the streets. People looked at him like a hero, but I knew who he was beneath all the medals and the stars. I knew the creepy ogre lurking beneath his malicious sneer. I knew the grotesque fantasies hiding underneath his firm assurances. I knew. I knew.

His filthy palms were on my neck. I baulked away from his disgusting frame, his foul stench. I knew I shouldn't have-- he was about to leave, and I could have been in peace till the night fell, but no. Today was different.

Frustrated sigh-- removing the metal watch and holster from his undeserving outfit-- he stood with his back against me. The silhouette of his stocky frame enclosed within the same bars that held me-- but he stood mighty, while I, an incomprehensible heap of slender patterns. But today was different.

I stood upon my bed, my shadow growing vast behind me. The bars could only then reach my knees, but they surrounded him-- a beast prepared for the kill. I bent down, seizing the holster without his notice. Bore the cold piece of metal on my skinny arms. Turn around, sweetheart.

The sheets would have to be washed. The floors would have to be wiped. The walls would have to be painted. But the house was cleansed of its dirt more than ever-- it no longer sheltered within an aberration, one the world didn't need.

I exited the bed and onto the floor. The bars could not hold me anymore.

Blood squished under my bare feet. I walked out the front doors and onto my liberation.

I'd always wondered how it would feel to be alive.

#fiction

I had just exited the restroom when the clamoring voices of several young children filled my ears. There were four of them. They ran wildly, everywhere. I scanned the area, certainly a parent is nearby; surely they cannot be just unattended like this…

Then I saw her. She weakly reached out toward her rambunctious brood, mumbling softly and incoherently. In a tattered carrier strapped to her chest, a red-faced infant wailed. The woman had a haggard look about her and dark smudges beneath her eyes. Greasy hair kept falling in her face.

Then a forlorn, guttural noise escaped her mouth. She suddenly fell back against a nearby wall and slowly slid down to the floor. She began to weep loudly. Her sobs and howls joined along with the squalling infant on her chest. She and her baby became a symphony of human misery.

She was partially blocking the walkway. A few onlookers spoke harshly to her as they stepped over her legs:

“Don’t breed ‘em if you ain’t gonna take care of ’em!”

“Ever heard of birth control?”

“Oh, give me a break, lady…”

Fifteen-year-old me looked around.

Someone should help her…

I looked around awkwardly for an adult to offer aid. I found not one friendly face, only strangers’ expressions of shock and disgust or averted gazes.

I’m just a kid. I don’t know what to do.

Maybe she was a single mom… Maybe she was simply overwhelmed… Maybe she was suffering from postpartum depression. I will never know exactly what was happening with her that day. My point is, it doesn’t matter the circumstance. I had a chance to be a comfort and blessing to a stranger and I opted out.

This is where my shame lies: my inaction. Even if I was unsure what practical help I could offer, I could have (at the very least) sat there on the floor with her. I could have let a hurting person know they were not alone on a bad day. But I chose to turn and walk away, with an empty prayer on my lips that help may soon find her.

I could have been her help, her comfort, her answered prayer… but I walked away.

I will carry this shame with me always.

Once upon a time, in a world much like our own, there lived a creature both ancient and mysterious. It had been alive for aeons, and its origins were unknown, but it was imbued with powers that made it seem almost magical. It had the ability to transform into many different forms, though it had never taken the shape of a human.

One day, the creature was curious enough to try it. It had heard tales from humans about the wonders of living in a human body, and it was eager to experience them. So it shifted, and suddenly it was a human.

The creature had never seen anything like it. The sensations it felt in its human body were completely new. It marvelled at the strength and agility the body possessed, and the new ways it could interact with the world.

But the creature soon realized that living in a human body was not without its challenges. It was vulnerable in ways it had never been before and had to learn to adapt to its new form quickly. It was especially disconcerting to be in a world that had no understanding of the paranormal or supernatural.

The creature persevered, however, and eventually, it learned to use its newfound form to its advantage. It blended in with the humans and used its special abilities to help those in need. Over time, it came to understand the beauty of humanity and the power of its own transformation.

The creature's transformation was a remarkable one, and it will never forget the journey it took to become a human. It was an adventure that changed its life forever, and it will continue to take it its own way.

The bed in the guest room was comfortable, but wasn’t the same as home. Lying on her back, she willed herself to sleep.

A cat jumped onto the bed near her feet.

Oh, she thought, hello bedmate...

She felt the cat walk over her legs, felt its feline weight as it draped its body over her abdomen.

Friendly...

She soon drifted off to sleep hoping it wouldn’t begin that kneading thing cats sometimes do and wake her.

In the morning, she poured herself coffee and commented, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

Her host’s face grew pale, “I don’t.”

The best writing advice I've heard from multiple authors, teachers, and lovers of art- write unapologetically. Write from the heart, stories that are true enough to feel but false enough to make you dream, the things that would cause a ruckus at the family reunion...that is the kind of writing that moves the soul. The kind of writing that people dissect for decades, that people know how it makes them feel yet they can never really put it into words...

There’s a belief that “home” can be found in another individual. At first glance, this may appear to be a heartwarming, predestined happening, worthy of celebration (and it may very well be). However, you must first determine exactly what “home” means to you. This takes honest, intentional objectivity.

If home to you meant a place of acceptance, patience, humor, and unconditional love, then you are truly blessed. By all means, rejoice in your newfound connection and disregard what I am about to say. This is for the others: those that home had been a place of judgment, rejection, neglect, uncertainty, and pain. To those are the ones I write.

Your particular home environment inured you to abuse. We humans are designed to identify and follow patterns, regardless if they are ultimately to our detriment. It is easy to confuse that intense, familiar feeling for love and grant the person full access to you. Taking the step into emotional intimacy is a painful mistake. I wish there were a more kind way to say that, but there simply is not.

Just because someone feels like “home” does not always mean that is an inherently good thing. Please consider doing the work first to define what home means to you. Sometimes home is the very last place you should ever return.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

What do you see when you fall?

Do you see miracles?

Do you find yourself unbelievable?

Or do you just have the word ‘failure’ pierce through?

Trust me when I say, “I feel you”

’Cause I came from feeling miserable to slowly finding myself new

What do you see in a mirror?

Someone who has gone through the thought of seeing themselves as ‘imperfect’?

Someone who has been patiently writing their story chapter after chapter?

Someone who has and always will be that powerful person they are seeing right now?

Regardless of where your reflection is seen or from what perspective it seems to be on,

Whether it is through a window or someone's eyes,

Everyone’s reflection drags expectations and self-love down the crevasse of torture

Everyone’s reflection shares an untold story

Should it remain that way?

Yes.

Yes, it should.