I don't know how you did it but you found me. And I haven't been the same since.

I am nothing but the traces of a long-forgotten deity; the whispers of a religion lost to bloodshed and time. I know not where I am from or who I once took care of. But somehow, you found me. You gave me name and shape, turned me to more than a whisper in the trees.

Because of you, I am.

You are the reason I am whole.

So how could I not love you? And how could it not hurt me even more that this will not last, young one?

I had forgotten, for too long, how wonderful it was to be seen. And then you gazed into the depths of me with your dark eyes and made me a home for your prayers, your praises, your dearest sorrows. I have kept them. Labelled, memorised down to the very colour of the shoes you wore, placed carefully with the utmost reverence beside my heart.

But this will never last.

You will die, my saviour.

And I will fade away along with you.

But while we live, you and I, promise me this. That you will never leave me. That you will never stop gazing out into the aether for me with those lost, pretty eyes. I may be your deity but beneath, all I am is your humbled servant. You have my utmost devotion - I am tied to you; mind body and soul. There is no me without your existence.

And somewhere along the line, young one, it pains me to think that perhaps I may worship you just as much as you do me.

It is not supposed to be this way. Is it? I do not know the way of the gods of this age or any. I have always been on my own. I have been non-existent for as long as I can remember. You breathed life to me. You returned me here. I live for you. I am for your sake, alone.

Forgive me if this is not the way your gods treat their charges. You are the first person I've cared for in a long time and the devotion I have for you... It makes me feel like I am your child, your mother and father, your lover, sibling and friend.

Yet, I believe you are deserving of better than a guardian with no sense of self. I suppose this is why you may have chosen me. I cannot say for certain. But you did. Me of all the faiths in the world. You put your trust in me. You give me everything in you, hoping for the barest of kindness in return.

You are mine, then.

And I am yours, my little, mortal divinity.

For as long as you will have me. For as long as you may last.

Dear father of mine,

This is a letter you will never receive. I don't plan to plan it, I'll just let things flow which means there will be some salt with the sugar, of course. You don't need to see that part.

You and I have had a disconnect between us for many years, haven't we? I suppose it was bound to happen. Not very good with vulnerability, practically nothing in common, a bit self-isolating. I'd say not having you be too present in my life made me lose a lot but well, I only know who I've grown to become as I am now.

I know you tried, though. I know you try. I don't know you well, sir but I know that the only reason you pushed me so hard was a desperation to see me succeed. I know you grew up in the village in a time when you had to fight for your knowledge, you tell me how you had to hawk with pride in your eyes. You've done so much in your life. Began and ran a successful law firm for so many years, married, had us...

The quintessential family man. It's through the sweat of you and my mother that my siblings and I have the space to live without the weight of searching for money as you did in your youth hanging over our heads quite yet. But being a provider, as necessary as it may be, caused this chasm between us. One I thought would fill if I was finally good enough for you to garner your praise, your fleeting flutters of affection. I was terrified of you but I wanted you to love me, I really did.

And so, it began. The academic version of rat race. Try to be the best, as your father was. You even turned my twin and I against each other... Do you remember that? I don't think you knew but it taught us to hate each other for some time, that giant wedge of competition you drove between us. Not that it matters anymore. We both grew up and learnt certain things weren't as important as we thought they were.

I suppose you gave me more attention when I was little enough to be interesting and the slightly older me of then wanted some of it back. I don't know. All I know is that desire to please enough to be loved, although you didn't mean to help such a lesson weasel its way into my head, is still there today. And you aren't very good at encouraging it to end, either. You like when we do things to please you. I suppose everybody does. I only wish you had shown me that I deserved attention even when it wasn't because of a report card.

But I'm older now. We both are. You aren't as self-isolating or as distant or as suddenly aggressive. You're... Different and yet the same. I suppose that comes with growing up? And you're my father. I don't blame you for any piece of who I've been and am, anymore. I chose every step I've ever taken for my sake and safety. You not loving me enough wasn't the root of all my problems these past years.

It was me not knowing how to love myself. I was never really taught so I had to learn, you see. Build myself up brick by brick. In a way, I'm coming into my own. I don't think I could ever be as confident as you or mama but... I'm growing, still. You've had thrice my time of experience to ebb and flow and change.

Daddy... Try to be kind. I know you're trying harder now but... Don't stop getting better at it. Your wife never deserved those jagged sides of you. And neither do any of your children. I've learnt not to miss you when you're not around. But I can tell you what parts of you I miss the most when I haven't witnessed them for long enough.

Your laugh. That terrifying explosion of yours that appears at the most sudden moments. I love it so much. And your excitement when you watch football. It's ridiculous to me, the way you clap over a man attempting to kick a ball into a limited space. But it's amusing hearing you clap for people who don't hear you. I suppose middle-aged men deserve to fanboy, too. Your terrible (probably on purpose) singing, your love for garri, the way you seem to glow when you're with friends or "discussing" politics, despite your constant adamance that you are right and can never be wrong.

Shit. I got that from you too, didn't I?

It's weird, the way you are now. You started trying some years back but I'm still not used to it. The attempts to establish reconnect when there was once an empty, grey space. The little, sudden words of genuine kindness that confuse the hell out of me. Playing the provider role, the only one you really know how to play and buying the family food on every single special occasion haha.

I'm trying, too. I hug you once in a while. I never used to do that but hey, life is "short", right? I remember the day I called you on the phone, a breakdown too strong to handle alone for once. You were the last person I chose to call, no one else picked up but with all your panicking and trying to call my mother to deal with my panicking in your stead, it all made me laugh. The ridiculousness of everything. So thank you for that, you awkward awkward weirdo.

My grudge with you died the moment I realised my choices were mine regardless of your influence. Always my own. But even in the painful times, I know I have a fondness for you. I might hang out with you the least but family you are still and I'll never not remember you. Or feel some sort of affection for you, no matter what goes down between us in the future. Here's to many more fights and awkward moments to come.

Okay. That's that. Slow down with work and take care of yourself, please. You're the overachieving type, a trait I tried to copy for so long... Don't push yourself too hard. Stay a while with me before it's time to rest, alright? And I hope you're happy and proud of all you've done with your life. Because I'm happy for and proud of you, pop. Have a good evening.

I love my mother.

So, so much.

I see myself in her pain.

I see myself in her self-sacrificing and her exhaustion and her desperation for distractions with romantic movie after romantic movie.

I see myself in her caring nature.I see myself in her caring nature.

She taught me how to love, even if she taught me to do so to a fault.

It's because of her that I see the pretty and the pain in caring too deeply, because that's who she is.

She cares.

About everything.

And sometimes it's a gentle care,

It's a hug you tightly, protect you from your angry father care.

It's a let me take care of you and cut you fruit and do your hair and talk about anything you want care.

But it can also be a more painful, more violent type.

A boiling hot anger that spills over, barely provoked.

Because caring about things goes both ways, love or hate.

And when that woman gets angry...

You hear what they say.

Hell Hath No Fury...

She means so much to me.

Which is hard because

Like the rest of my family,

She has this power to hurt me

More than anyone ever could.

That's what happens when you love somebody enough.

It gives them an opening through your walls,

Allows them access to even softer, more sensitive parts,

The parts that are so broken they need love more than anything.

My mother has caused me to breakdown, time and time again.

I taught my mother to waltz right next to our kitchen one random, silly sweet night.

My mother has seen me at my worst and prayed instead of reaching out a hand to me as I drowned.

Oh God, save my child.

Bless my child.

I love my child.

My mother is her good days and bad days.

My mother is her empty and her fullness.

My mother is, in many ways, like me.

Fat and pretty in her sort of way and too loving and utterly exhausted, sometimes.

But no matter how much she hurts me,

How often,

And the fact that many of the wounds she has inflicted on my soul will never fade away,

She is mine.

Mine despite the complexities.

Mine despite her Christian-fueled hatred towards certain parts of who I am.

Ain't no hate like Catholic love, right?

And I wish her well.

Oh, I wish her well.

I wish she could see what I saw.

I wish she was kinder to herself.

Maybe I would've learnt how to show myself compassion if she knew what it meant to choose herself over others for once.

But she is learning.

And so am I.

We will always have the good days,

The better, prettier memories,

Our similar imperfections.

That is enough.

I know that there's toast burning.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can sense it with every passing second, smell its charred edges

It slashes harshly, a dull buzzing in my skull-

But it is not there.

I know there must be toast, though.

Somewhere in this kitchen there is a fire that I cannot stop or control

But it seems so far away when all there is to see is smoke.

I can't even touch the kitchen, anymore.

I can't feel the table I thought my hand was on, I can hardly smell anything at all now,

The smoke only grows thicker

And I am pulled into the gray,

A gentle tug.

The tug of a child's smaller hand wrapped around mine, promising me it will be safer this way

So I follow.

And within the smoke,

Rather than the toaster still teeming with fire, a flame that will likely begin to lick at the rest of my kitchen -

Tables, cupboards, so many compartments turned to ruin

Yet so easy to forget -

I am in a forest.

The smoke has become an inescapable fog

And I lay myself to rest,

Allow my eyes to go unfocused

And my limbs to grow still

Because

Who wants to be stuck in a room with burning toast, anyway?

I'd rather stay here for a while till the heat of the flame jars me back to life.

There's so much less chaos among the towering, winding trees that I might

There's so much less chaos among the towering, winding trees that

I might

Just

Disappear a while

Tired and mentally drunk at 3am, the voice calls out to the little child sitting in the corner.

"What the fuck are you?! Bi, ace, nonbina... You aren't supposed to be this way!"

Someone older walks in, glares for a moment, then sighs softly at the body in the bed, tucking both in.

"And who taught you that? Because I promise you. They were wrong. Them; not... Never us."

11am. Awake. Alive. Again. It takes the greater half of an hour to realise that the young and the old were both them.

Wrong...

There is no specific "right".

Never was.

When Onyx chose that random building to hurl bodies from, they hadn't expected much more than some terrorised, dramatic screaming and some running around. People were all ants to her... Still, this time, something was different.When Onyx chose that random building to hurl bodies from, they hadn't expected much more than some terrorised, dramatic screaming and some running around. People were all ants to her... Still, this time, something was different.

One of the ants wasn't running.

Opposite the building was a coffee shop. Within this shop was a woman (well, probably anyway) with long, dark curls and dark, dull eyes. This particular version of ant was tall, plump and bored out of her mind watching the show. Just like Onyx, she was watching the little creatures run too, letting the slightest hint of amusement pass her eyes when some random white guy tripped over himself running from the scene.

Onyx had made someone laugh. They blinked twice, finding a smile forming beneath the mask and hurriedly shook her head, hurling the last of their victims down to the ground even as he asked why this was happening to him. Good people, they would call themselves. God-fearing with a wife and two children, begging for one more chance, cried this particular kill.

One more stupid ant squashed. And yet, the woman in the coffee shop had stopped watching by then, returning her attention to wiping down the counters.

When Onyx returned to their home, she returned angry. Usually, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction with her kills. Even peaceful but not this. Not this weird nudge in her chest that they hadn't done enough. She'd never been one for spectacle but it called out to her now; in the quiet, uninterested gaze of an ant she didn't even know.

Ridiculous.

It would be foolish to return to the same spot for her kill. Utterly ridiculous. The police might be lurking about if she did. No, no, she had a much, much better idea...

With a little security camera hacking, they could see into the coffee shop perfectly. And there was the stranger, trying to detangle a bit of her hair, a light huff leaving her lips as she gave up. Onyx managed a giggle of amusement as the woman crossed her arms above her chest, muttering a threat of mass snipping to her long locks within the silent building. Beside her were three people; two men and a woman who shared terrified looks as the masked murderer finished what they felt was an unremorseful, villainous laugh.

The first ant-person was thrown into the street not moments after.

And the stranger's reaction? An arched eyebrow. Onyx felt a twinge of excitement fill their gut for the first time in... Ever. As stupid as it was, she couldn't help but hop from foot to foot, waiting for the woman to do more. And yet, they watched with a quickly deflating ego as coffee girl rolled her eyes and walked off, out of the camera's view.

Finding herself angry again, Onyx turned to their remaining captives, tears filling all their eyes. It made the inside of her mask feel incredibly disgusting but they kept a breakdown at bay, silently throwing both off the building instead as she hollered insults within her tired mind. And for a moment, they considered going down into the shop and showing that woman who was boss. She was the most interesting ant she'd ever seen, why couldn't she find her interesting in return?!

They were a little too shy to do that, though.

And then the door opened. Onyx had nothing to defend herself with but she was incredibly agile, already on her way off the roof when a gentle, sort of raspy voice called out to them.

"Hey. Wait up... Umm... Onyx, is it?"

They stilled, almost stumbling their way to a gruesome end. The woman reached a hand out to them, withdrawing when she caught her balance. Onyx flushed a little beneath her half-obsidian, half-azure mask. So... Perhaps she wasn't as invisible to the stranger as they had always thought.

She gave a silent nod. The stranger moved a little closer, stopping at the slight flinch the villain gave. Her eyes were even more tired up close, lined with fraggled skin underneath that told the tales of many sleepless nights.

No wonder she worked at a coffee shop.

"So... Umm... I don't know what I'm doing here. Don't get me wrong, I know it's stupid but- what's even more stupid is you coming here of all places to do this. I mean, I watch you on the news and - these people are looking for you. These sprees of yours- I was... Kind of hoping... You would take me as a hostage for a bit?"

Onyx's head nearly flew off. Yes, she was confused. But they were also bursting with glee and they didn't know why, struggling with the urge to stim in front of a new... Maybe... Friend?

The stranger scratched the back of her neck, chuckling softly... Sadly. "Fuck. That sounded stupid, I'm sorry, I just-"

Onyx shook her head hurriedly, gesturing with a slight hint of desperation in the overly dramatic movements for her to continue.

"Uh... Okay? Well... I just thought... I don't know why you're doing any of this. But I've done my research on some of the higher-profile victims... And I don't think you're a villain, per say. I think these people are worse than they seem on the surface. Am I wrong?"

A slow, reluctant shake of the head. The stranger gave a laugh, yet, the nervousness began to dissipate as she inched a little closer.

"Ah. Cool. I was worried you might actually be into murdering randos and I was offering myself up. Not that I've never thought of dying, I think most in our generation have given up by now. Assuming you're my age... So... Uh... Anyway. I'm suggesting you take me as hostage so they don't start shooting at you. Now, preferably, cos I can hear cop cars? And then we both win. I get a break, you get an escape plan. Win-win. Deal?"

Flustered, Onyx gave the tiniest nod.

"I'm Valeria, by the way. And I do wonder about some things... Like why come around this area twice when you always choose the most randomised locations? And why do you kill at all? Who are they? Do you have a connection to them? What's it like to murder people? Is it a... A rush? Are you addicted? Who is under the mask, anyway cos everyone says you're a guy but I'm sort of hoping it's more than that? Not that gender matters at all - you can use any pronouns for me, by the way - and I'm already rambling. Shit. Sorry. I guess we'll find out when you actually reply, maybe? Unless you can't speak or some- I'll try to shut it so we can escape, now. Pleasure doing business with you."

The stranger held out a hand, hoping to seal the deal and the young serial killer gave a frazzled gulp as she politely pulled off her dark gloves. The moment their fingers brushed, Onyx felt some fuzzy warm feeling they didn't understand trail across their small frame and immediately, instinctively knew she and this person were going to be great friends.

She would make sure of it.

And then, they began to tug at their newest abductee, suddenly remembering this was meant to look like unwilling coercion.

Icarus is swallowed by the murk of a blue-black ocean,

The sun forgotten.

Light is so far from him, now

That he has forgotten the feeling of its rays.

Oblivion has taken what made him dare to fly that high in the first place.

He only struggles to stay afloat.

He is dragged under again and again,

Sometimes so far down he's sure he will not make it this time.

And he doesn't...

And then he does and he does again.

On the surface, he calls out to a saviour.

To his father.

To the sun.

To god, man or devil.

He would give his life to feel alive again

But all he does is drown.

Endlessly.

For too many years.

He thinks it a punishment, at first.

He thinks he deserves it.

After all, who was he to disobey?

Who was he to want more and reach for a celestial entity, blinded by his curiosity, instead?

But soon, he will learn that the world and the gods and fate are not necessarily vindictive,

Nor are they kind.

It is only a matter of individual perspective.

And that, really, is all it takes.

A shift in perspective.

Icarus goes from fighting and clawing his way through the dark blindly to remaining still..

He becomes one with the waters and learns how freeing it can be to let go for a while.

How little things matter except the things that simply mattered to him.

The water was a mirror to his soul..

Dark, violent, terrifying, beautiful.

All at once.

His body is pulled and prodded but the exhaustion has seeped in so suddenly

That he can't fight with himself any longer

And one day, he is finally left to the surface by the bored, disappointed whirlpool beneath.

Slowly, painstakingly, the young one sows in himself the idea that perhaps the light and saviour was him all along,

Daring to swim ashore and begin anew once more.

I... Want to go for a pride parade.

It seems weirdly childish to me. I'm not sure why because I have sufficient reason for this desire. See, I'd never really cared as much for one before I watched this series called Sense8. Simply because I'd never really considered the positives as much as I did the negatives. I just thought of it as loud and too full of people and so colourful it would hurt my eyes. Who cares, right? I'm some random human living in an lgbt-phobic country where my existence is illegalised so it wasn't exactly an achievable possibility, anyhow.

Still. I watched the beloved fruity character Lito come into himself while he made his speech on that huge parade float, whatever it was. And I felt this strange wave of acceptance and love from a screen littered with people I didn't know. People who are strange, like me. Strange by our societal standards, anyway.

Apparently, I like the flashiness more than I could've imagined.

Despite the mental overwhelm, I have a sneaking suspicion I would feel safe and extremely overjoyed if I ever got to witness one.

So now it's on my "bucket list". Go to a pride parade. Once upon a time, my answer would've been to fly across the world to meet this person or that person. But now, it's just me and myself fulfilling a tiny little wish for the heck of it.

And who knows? Some day, I might just find a way.

I think maybe half my family is dead. Dead but alive, corpses in heaving, breathing skin that begs to be seen to be believed. An uncle, living peacefully on his own, silent and detached from the entire world. Another, going through the motions, struggling yet incapable of caring. An aunt who cries at her mother's funeral and asks you why you don't smile more on the same span of time.

Tick, tock.

I suppose we all live however we can. The only real qualification for it is breathing after all, right?

I only find it funny now, the quiet memory. It buzzes about gently, pushing, prodding, hard for me to believe. I remember as a child, watching a movie where a woman simply slipped in her bathroom and died on the very spot. An older one, tired, fragile. I told myself it couldn't happen to me, as terrifying and sudden as it was.

And then, it did.

Imagine entering a possible afterlife with the knowledge that your personal, forever death story was a single misstep. Well... Better than being murdered, I suppose.

A number of things ran through my mind as people began to crowd around me. I didn't understand why - that is, until the pain finally hit and I finally realised that the gentle haze at the back of my head was getting worse and worse and worse. I'd never seen so much blood in my life. Blood on my hands, blood on their hands, blood all over my clothes. I threw away those clothes after trying to wash away the memories.

Scarlet stains, traveller.

And - can I be honest? The trip to the hospital was such a funny thing, now. I was in a panic, then but I can shake my head gently at my past self today because tell me why I was bleeding myself to near-unconsciousness, yet I was begging them to please calm down as I cried, please don't stress yourself too much, don't make a fuss, this isn't important- I am not important. Even when you're thinking the lights are about to go out on life, somehow, you find your old habits never quite die.

I remember thinking this was it. And I remember when that finally hit me as I was put on a hospital bed. Existence was about to be extinguished. And at first, I thought about my family. About how my sister would feel. My parents who had waited a near-decade for their "disappointment" child to exist, at least by my overly high standards of then. And then, I thought of myself.

I thought of my life. I thought of how inconsequential everything was. I thought about the end. I waited for the black to cloud my vision, sinking calmly into the bed. And all of a sudden, it was gone. Blown to oblivion. Every anxious thought. Every person I'd ever lowered myself to accommodate. Every decision I'd made to please all but myself. Nothing mattered, anymore. And I was alone.

It was a peace I'd never felt before. Not in a church, not in my mother's arms, not hurting myself or sitting pretty in an air-conditioned room or reading a sappy fanfiction. It was peace and it was oblivion. And I wondered why every day alive couldn't have been like this. All we do is keep ourselves busy, waiting around to die anyway, right?

The end of the light show. What a lovely thing. To simply slip away...

I survived, of course. Got myself a scar that you can still feel if you press a finger to the puckered skin and was sent right back to my lodgings. Over and out. Alive, still. Nothing matters is still one of the most strangely comforting things I can ever think. The words sink into me, patting my head with gentle, motherly wisdom, promising me that that interaction and that horrible memory and that missed test will soon disappear into the aether.

Slacken up, a bit. We're too obsessed with being alive these days. Don't be too desperate for that existent feeling. I've been feeling borderline dead again for some time now, on and off, like so many people I've known. Relax into it. Remember nothing matters. Cut a few toxic strings out of your life and make a beeline for stuff that makes you feel something. There is no magical purpose or love or peace that'll fix everything, we're too human for a single cure that will end all the bad shit. But... If anything does make you feel a little bit more vivant, hold it for as long as it's willing to walk with you. And if the time comes that it ends - as all things eventually do, one way or the other - have the courage and kindness for your own sake to learn to let go.

Breathe... In... Out. That's the only requirement, and now, you are alive. Everything else is societally-constructed human bullshit. Just buzz around, little bee. It never feels like it'll start and it never feels like it'll end.

And as some (probably dead) person said once upon a time, when death finds you, may it find you alive.

I like to write sort of a lot.

A lot.

And I don't even know why.

It's like... Screaming out into the void.

Whether it's as a musician in front of millions of fans or as a comedian, joking into your camera or here.

On an app.

Typing.

Just... Typing.

It's all the same.

It's a rush.

It's like...

You know that thing that happens with oxygen?

How it breaks down food, practically setting it all on fire inside our bodies?

Writing is like breathing in pure flame.

Like sucking in all the madness and letting it go in one smooth, azure puff of dark smoke.

And its gorgeous and its tragic and its so insane you aren't sure if you're even on the ground at all.

You're floating.

You're far off.

Going, going,

Gone...

My body and I have had out issues, I suppose.

For too many years.

I guess it shouldn't be surprising that it got so bad I began to leave it completely, as if one piece of me was repulsed with the other.

Fighting for autonomy when you're stuck with yourself,

How weird and how human is that?

Maybe it's a way of telling my alien brethren to finally get me the hell out of here.

But here is home, even if it's never really felt like it.

And that's just how it goes.

Words of a broken record who will break and mend and break and mend again and again..

That's how it all goes.

What a slow, pretty, strange way to gradually, finally die.