I watch the butterflies dance around the oak tree,

Fluttering in and out, with the breath of the breeze.

But if I am silent enough, If the blood stops rushing,

I can feel wind from its wings, like waves in seas.

Let it be silent, in always reminding me,

That the leaves will fall, and I am like the tree.

The flowers are long gone, now I bear fruit.

And as the branches empty, my heart follows suit.

I think back to climbing trees, my knees always scraped

but my hands became strong, holding roses and thorns.

Soon, the butterflies stop dancing, they land one last time,

Falling like leaves, but the tree never mourns.

I suppose it knows, what we would all find out.

That butterflies will be born again, it does not doubt.

But I will sit, in the dead of winter,

And long to feel the tree, this ache much like a splinter.

A dim sun rises, over mountains made of mist,

And we became cold in the rain and dark in our towers.

Until the days become long, they whisper to me,

That the butterflies are dancing again, and I finally have flowers.

Drawing ever closer to the

Crematory, my hands

Shook and quaked,

My stomach tightened,

My eyes watered, and

My mind—raced

With images of babies

Engulfed in those

Infernal flames, of

Innocence gripped in

The hands of evil.

My mother, beside me,

Was reticent, for once.

Her face was shrunken

And pained,

Wrecked with

Grief,

Disbelief,

And

Remembrance.

Suddenly, there were

Only a few steps

Before I reached

The pit of doom.

Three more steps.

Two more.

Alas, one more...

I thought of

My little garden.

The passion fruit flowers

Thrived heartily

With everything

In place.

Now, my

Passion fruit flowers

Shriveled up,

My family torn apart,

And my customs

And beliefs all deprived

Of

My bygone days spent

Poring over

Music scores,

Playing on the

Piano,

The giggling and chatting at

Marketplaces with

My friends,

The stately

Family dinners,

And my dream

To become a professional

Pianist

Were all swept

Away.

Inside of me, it was

As if the "merry stream"

That ran

Through was frozen

Or parched, never

Moving again.

Slowly, I forced

My mind to shut

Out the noise of

Our trampling,

The noise of people

Dying, of the

Fiery pit, of

My beating

Heart

And just

Feel

Nothingness,

As if to embrace

Death

Once and for all.

All too soon,

I felt, smelled,

Heard, and

Tasted

Nothingness.

Beyond the edge of the trees and silver morning mists,

the ground lay silently, and when in darkness,

bound to come,

the ground sleeps.

The air is soft and cool

beneath blankets and sheets of leaves and branches I could see

a bird's nest with small brown twigs, leaves, branches, and granite rocks.

I saw apple boughs laden with blossoms,

and a breeze sighed silently in the night air.

The moon is full and watching the land

with silvery, ivory light

like a big bright lantern.

When the sun rises,

the light shines all through the forest,

a new day begins.

i exist

for one purpose.

ease.

i am meant to be cheap,

dispensed out in varying degrees of plastic

to elementary students

at lunchtimes.

they call it

convenience,

the way they can eat

soup or salad

with me.

i exist to be malleable,

shaped to the whims of the day.

soup, salad, pasta, soggy broccoli,

i must shovel it all

with gusto.

as the public school system

cannot afford

forks and spoons,

they must settle

for me.

the inexpensive alternative,

discarded after every meal.

used

but never seen, nor heard.

if they were to listen,

i could tell them

that my name isn't spork at all.

i do not fit into the label

they have chosen for me.

my name

is foon.

Your hands are often too rough. The skin at the edges of your nail beds is peeled back and hardened and has, on occasion, been known to bleed without warning. If I run my thumb along the inside of your palm, I know exactly where it will catch on raised callouses. And even when I’m alone, I can feel the spot where your fingers would rest in the webbing of my own. My skin is electric shocks at the thought of the places where your fingertips most often linger. Nerve endings, attention-wrought. Breath, hitched in tightrope suspension. And I can count your freckles without you in the room. I could draw a map of your skeleton from memory. Place each rib in its exact location. Carve the precise depth of your clavicle. I know the pattern your teeth leave on each of my hips and how your tongue feels restless against my own. My neck can recall each spot where your lips chap and how often your front teeth push past them. I am violently aware of the spots where your hair refuses to lie against your scalp and instead reaches skyward. The sighs and stutters that litter your speech patterns. I can feel the sharp intake of your breath when my teeth close just a bit too hard on your frame. And that slight leak of CO2 in nighttime stillness. I sleep, dizzy in your exhales as they fill up my inhales. I would swear I have been constructed from the realization of the space that you fill in relation to all of the emptiness I leave behind. And you forgot the color of my eyes.

*this piece is from my newest collection baby, sweetheart, honey coming in January and available wherever books are sold.

Gender is complicated. That's something we're beginning to realize. At first, we thought it was only a boy or girl. But now we have transgenderism and nonbinary in the mix, not to mention unisex. However, this isn't some new phenomena that's suddenly taking form in the last decade or so. This has been going back since the start of human civilization. Are you familiar with the story of the goddess Ishtar's descent through the underworld and how Ea, the god of wisdom, created an androgynous being named Asu-shu-namir to save her? If not, I suggest reading up on it. It's pretty interesting.

To define gender isn't as straight forward as one would believe. Normally, we would identify gender based on reproductive organs. However, I believe that gender is defined by how one feels about themselves. But even then, I'm not a hundred percent sure if that's accurate. Perhaps there really is no true definition of gender. I'm not entirely sure, but then again, perhaps it's really none of my business. If one identifies as man, woman, or nonbinary, then so be it. It is not my place to judge, nor my concern. As long as they're happy with themselves that's all that matters.

Unfortunately, there are always going to be those who don't understand or refuse to understand that demoralizes people who are different. These people use their governmental positions and their church sermons to decry and shame those that don't identify with their sense of 'the norm'. If you're one who identifies that there are only two genders, I understand your position, but unfortunately, it's not that simple. And to remain ignorant of that fact is sad. If you're the kind of person that believes that transgenderism is the result of some sort of physiological or psychological reasoning, that sort of thinking is what demonized innocent people for trying to be comfortable for who they are. Keep in mind that we believed (and some still believe) the same thing about homosexuality and the idea to "fix" them was conversion therapy, which led to many LGBT+ people getting abused both physically and psychologically.

The bottom line is whatever you identify as learn to love yourself and don't be cruel to others about it. And for everyone else show some compassion and humanity.

The world is ever changing and evolving. Time to evolve with it.

My Grandma gave me cosmetics for the holidays.

I loved my Grandma, and I shouldn't have been surprised considering we only see her once a year. I didn't hate wearing makeup, I was usually just too lazy to put it on.

Grandma did not skimp out that year. She got me a full (and possibly slightly expensive) bag for everything, despite not being able to fit it all, packed to the brim with eye shadow, blush, hair care, and a small container of mint lip gloss.

Because I didn't want it to just rot away in my room, I took a few minutes in the mornings before school to put on some eye shadow and lip gloss. Honestly, I thought it makes me feel more awake, just poking my eye with colors at 6:30 in the morning.

My friends noticed it, of course, because I only ever put on makeup for Halloween or special occasions.

On a day I had gray eye shadow on, my friend said to me "I like your makeup Jill! Wait are you wearing makeup or are you just tired?", which, although a fair statement, is not one I appreciate.

My life didn't rapidly change or anything, just sometimes received a comment from friends about not looking like a walking corpse.

But it was different in mid-February when a girl I had never spoken to came up to me.

"Mint?" She smiled as if she asked me something comprehensible.

I eloquently responded with, "Huh?", as one does.

She laughed and tapped her lips. "Mint lip gloss, right?"

"Yeah," I was shocked. By this time of day, all traces of it had usually vanished. "How'd you know?"

"Oh, you know." She waved it off. "Hey, you're in my math class, right? Did you understand Mr. Thompson's homework?"

Her name was Sally, and we started talking after that. She would find me at lunch, or whenever we had free time in math, and just start talking to me. It was a bit off-putting at first, but after three weeks I had gotten used to her presence.

The still cold March weather was getting to be one day, and I was shivering despite having on a thick sweater. Probably because they didn't bother heating the cafeteria.

"Hey, Jill!" Sally was suddenly next to me. The first few times she did that, it startled me, but I was expecting it.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Just really bored today." She sighed and laid her chin down on the table. "Do you want to come over today after school or something?"

I shrugged. I had nothing going on, and I had to admit I was curious about Sally's house. "As long as you have heating, I'm in."

She perked up. "Great! I can drive us there right after school if you're fine with that."

At 2:43, we were in her driveway. I remember the time so clearly because my mom texted me then if I needed anything from the store. I forgot to text her back.

Sally pulled out a key a opened the door, pushing me inside.

Her house was strange. Not like 'covered in blood and guts' strange, but it threw me off how fake everything looked. Like a house, you would see in a commercial for insurance.

"Just throw your bag anywhere, and make yourself comfortable! Do you want hot chocolate or tea?"

I sat down on the couch. It was stiff. "Hot chocolate."

She nodded and walked into the kitchen. Sally couldn't have been gone for more than seven minutes, but it felt like I sat there for hours. There was no noise from anywhere in the house, except for my own occasional breathing.

She walked back in with two mugs and handed me one before sitting next to me.

"I assumed you would be alright with whipped cream and sprinkles on it."

"Of course. I'll never say no to sweets." I laughed but felt weird having a tall sugar-filled cup while her mug looked so plain. I took a sip, and it wasn't as sweeter as I expected, tasting more bitter than anything.

"Do you want to work on homework or something? I'll help you with math if you help me with history."

Sally grinned and stood up. I had never seen her smile that wide. "Yeah," She set her mug on the coffee table. "Let's go up to my room."

I only had gotten halfway through my drink, but I couldn't say anything about it, because as soon as I had risen, I fell straight to the floor, shattering the mug.

"Oops." I could only hear her. My head couldn't move from the floor. "I was hoping you would set the mug down before the effects took place." Despite not having any recently, I swore that I tasted the strong after taste of almonds in my mouth.

Fingers grasped my chin and lifted up my throbbing head. Sally was blurry but clear as she kneeled in front of me, barely avoiding the spilled drink and shards.

She ran a finger over my lips and sighed. "Aw, I guess your mint lip gloss was rubbed off."

Anya sat by the river every day, watching the clear water flow on its own, traveling through the quiet valley. The sky was cloudless, the gentle spring breeze playing with the strands of Anya's hair.

Anya came to this secret place of hers, always bringing a bag with her. She took out the pieces of paper from the bag: red, purple, orange, pink, and yellow. There was no particular reason behind the choice; Anya just liked the colors.

Anya made flowers out of the paper she brought with her. Anya enjoyed her solitude, folding the paper gently to resemble a flower shape.

Anya's mother taught her how to fold the paper into the beautiful shape of a flower. It was a delicate process that required concentration and patience.

"It doesn't matter if you try and fail." The most important thing is the effort you put forth. The results will come gradually," is what Anya's mother used to say to her when she was frustrated about not folding the paper right.

"But, mom, what if I never get it right?" Anya didn't want to disappoint her mother, who always took the time to sit with her and play with paper.

"Oh, honey, don't worry. No matter how long it takes, I'm sure you'll do it. And even if you don't, that won't change anything. I'll always love you and support you; remember that."

Anya returned to the present. Those memories resurface when she's by the river, making paper flowers. It seemed like an eternity since Anya first started this little hobby of hers.

No, not a hobby. It was a ritual that she shared with her mother—an unspoken promise made between a mother and a daughter.

It was the only thing left that still connected Anya to her mother. She never gave up making paper flowers, even in the toughest of times.

The paper flowers that she let float on the water's surface were Anya's way to feel close to someone dear to her—to someone who's no longer physically there.

However, her mother's gentle touch guides Anya even now as she sits by the river in her own little world.

Anya's mother is there, in those paper flowers that Anya so lovingly creates.

As soon as the door opens, I bolt into the closet to avoid being seen. I do this every time Lilian comes home, but today it’s even more important. She’s mad. I can’t tell who she’s yelling at yet, but I can hear crying.

“Would you stop?! You know who I am!”

“No, I don’t!” she says, crying even harder. I can see her now; she's a little girl, and she looks to be six or seven.

“I am your mother! Stop playing around Ashlynn, or you’ll be going to bed early tonight.” I could tell how exasperated she was, but Lilian doesn’t have a daughter. She’s thirty-two, and has never been married, or been in a relationship long enough to have a child.

The little girl quiets gradually, and when she finally forces herself to stop crying, she says, “My name is not Ashlynn, it’s Eva, and I think you mixed me up with your own child. My mommy’s name is Helen, and my daddy’s name is Robert. I live on-” but Lilian cuts her off.

“Your name is Ashlynn, I am your mother, and your father died two months ago!” She screams the last bit, and Eva starts crying again.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It’s probably the landlord, coming for the monthly check. Lilian goes wide-eyed, but walks toward the door. “Go sit in the living room, Ashlynn.”

She smooths her dress and opens the door. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

When he comes in, I see that it’s a police officer. “Ma’am, we got a call a few minutes ago, saying that one of your neighbors saw something moving in here, and you weren’t home yet.

Would you mind if I take a look around real quick?” But he’s already walking in before she can nod her answer.

Doesn’t he realize that there’s something wrong with Lilian? She’s a wreck, and it’s only going to get worse.

I’m the one who was seen in here earlier. I sometimes come in here and try on my old clothes that Lilian never got rid of. It makes me feel real, since I died two months ago. I’ve been watching over her, making sure she’s alright. Lilian and I were together for two years.

Before I died, she told me that I was the only man she ever loved. There is definitely something going on with her, though. She didn’t used to be like this.

I always loved taking Lilian places, and spending time with her. She was a little uncertain of our relationship at first; she wasn’t very open with her feelings. But after a while, everything seemed so natural.

But Lilian never wanted a child. She specifically told me that when I would bring it up, hoping she’d change her mind. I don’t know where she found that little girl, but she seems to actually think her name is Ashlynn, and that I’m her father.

After looking all through the house, he goes into the living room, and sees Eva. She looks scared, so he sits down cautiously. “Hello," he says, "And who might you be?”

She just stares, and doesn’t say anything, probably thinking that Lilian was going to freak out again if she says Eva.

“It’s alright. You can tell me. What’s wrong?” Nothing. “Can you tell me your name?” Still no answer.

He takes out his spiral pad and a pen and hands it to her. She takes it, but doesn’t write anything down.

Lilian comes in, carrying coffee. “What’s going on?” she says suspiciously, looking back and forth between the two.

“Is this your daughter?” he asks, looking at Eva the whole time.

Lilian is silent for a moment. “Yes, of course, she’s my daughter. Why else would she be in my house, on my couch?” she asks him defensively.

“Ma’am, she looks terrified, and there is nothing in this house that suggests a child lives here. I’m going to have to ask you to go stand in the foyer for a few minutes while I talk to the girl.” He turns to Eva as Lilian walks away.

“Now, I want you to tell me your name, so we can get you back to your real parents. Can you tell me?”

She stays quiet for a moment, and then recites what she tried telling Lilian earlier. “My name is Eva. My mom’s name is Helen, and my dad’s name is Robert. We live in a neighborhood called White Springs, and I was at the playground when she-” She looks up at Lilian, who is now crying. “She came over to me and picked me up, calling me her baby, like I was her daughter. I don’t know her though, please help me.” She talks so quickly he has to scribble to keep up.

“Okay, Eva. Do you know your parents’ phone number? Or your address?” She shakes her head no.

“I’m sorry.” She pauses. “I'm still going home, right?” She actually looks scared that he’ll say no.

“Of course you will. I’ll be right back.” he tells her, and walks into the foyer to talk to Lilian. “Can we go outside and talk?” he asks her, eyeing the door.

“Sure.” She looks upset, like it’s actually her daughter who is about to be taken from her.

~

Before I died, Lilian was put in a mental hospital to care for her, and to fix her. They said that she was experiencing a break from reality, caused by the loss of a loved one. They don’t know about me; no one does, but they know that her dad died earlier this year.

She broke down at least once a day, being trapped in a small room alone, aside from her once a day therapy session. Lilian is considered one of the dangerous ones in this place.

I visit her everyday, and most days, I stay all day. She started talking to herself more and more frequently, which the doctors found concerning, but she was trying to talk herself through everything that had happened.

And then- well, then, she started talking to me, too. She told me she was sorry, that she loved me so much, that she wanted to see me- just one more time, if that’s all she could.

She just wanted a chance to apologize, to make it up to me for what she did. I never spoke back, but I listened, whenever she needed it.

~

About two months ago, Lilian was still grieving her dad’s death, and I came over to her house to comfort her. She seemed to be telling herself that he was coming back, that he just went to the store, and took a detour, that he got lost, that he was getting directions, on and on until I tried to tell her that he was gone for good.

Lilian had been my everything, so I wanted to help her feel better, to move one, even if she still missed him. But she shut down, stopped talking to me. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I left. She kept telling me I couldn’t help her, and that I was worthless, that if she had been with her dad more instead of me, he would still be here.

I had given up on talking to her for the week, but then I saw her walking in the park. Out of impulse, I went up to her, asked if we could talk. She tried to walk away, but I followed. She ignored me all the way back to her house, even when I tried telling her that I loved her, that I would always be there for her, that she could tell me anything she needed to get out of her system. But she slammed the door on me,

I could tell she wasn’t okay, and I still had a key to her house, so I went in. She was in the kitchen, starting to make dinner. “Sit down.” she said. I looked at her questioningly. She looked straight through me. “What are you waiting for?! I said sit!”

So I sat. She rushed around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and gathering ingredients that made no sense together. I stood up.

“Lilian, are you alright?”

“I told you to sit down!” She was screaming at this point.

“Lilian, listen to me, Please, just talk to-”

“No! I said sit down! Stop telling me that everything is fine and that it’s going to be okay, and that everything I’m feeling is normal! I lost my only living parent, the only person who ever cared about me! I! Am! Alone! But you wouldn’t get it, because everyone cares about you! Just get out of my life!”

“Lilian, you need help. You can’t live like this. I’ll go if that’s what you want, but then you would be really alone. I love you, Lilian. I always will, and I’m so glad I have you. I don’t want to lose you. I need you.” I’m crying but she doesn’t seem to care.

She pauses, silent, except for the sound of her breath hitching as she cries. “I love you too, Jack.”

I move toward her, and wrap my arms around her. We stay there like that for a while, just hugging her, crying, while I tell her how much I love her.

I whisper, “He may be gone, but you can still talk to him whenever you want to.” Her eyes go wide, and she gets mad again, shoving me away.

“He’s not gone! He’s coming back! He would never leave me!” She’s back to screaming, “I know he’s not gone. You’re both just pranking me. He’s on vacation somewhere. That’s where he’s been! That’s why he’s been gone! Don’t lie to me!”

She picks up the cutting board off the floor, washes it, and starts haphazardly chopping onions and other vegetables.

“Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself. Do you want me to do it instead?” I ask, hoping she’ll put the knife down before she cuts herself. I walk toward her slowly. “Honey, come relax for a few minutes. I grab her arm gently, trying to ease her out of whatever came over her, like I did before. “Lilian. Lilian, I need you to talk to me.” With my other hand, I gently take her wrist, the hand she’s holding the knife with.

She seems to cooperate, but then her eyes go wide, and she realizes what I’m doing.

“Lilian, please, just calm down.” I tighten my grip just in case, but she’s faster than me. She slips out of my hold, and walks around to the other side of the island countertop.

“Lilian! Please, Lilian! We can work through this. You will be alright. I’ll get you someone to talk to. We can even go together if you want. I love-”

But she charged at me, and everything went black as my head hit the counter and I fell to the ground.

When I woke up, I could float, and go through walls, and no one could see me. I don’t blame her for what she did. She was hurt- and something was going on. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t herself. I don’t think she ever will be again.

I watch her now, and she doesn’t seem happy, but she seems at peace. And I’m happy for her. She’ll make it. Even if I didn’t.