Azur, navy… no, cobalt the sky

Cyan the sounding sea.

An emerald forest

A forest meadow

A kelly green lime tree.

Daffodils lunge

At butterscotch suns

Canary gold flies free,

Into dawn’s bloody gushing

Into dusk’s crimson flushing

Or to the pale, rosy-blush of she.

But it’s only a ruse,

The colors I use

Are always black on white.

Yet they mix in a way

That needn’t turn gray

In the picture that you see.

Suddenly I came to see

what a treasure really is.

It twinkles brightly

shows its brillance

as a gift for others to indulge.

All my life

this time with you,

I never really knew that hidden works of art are wasted

only on a few.

You’ve kept me hidden

Locked away

away from the sight of others.

You treasured me in secrecy

because you never thought I’d ever discover:

This me of mine is someone

special

A treasured vessel-a masterpiece.

I’m valuable to me, you see

Since now I see the artistry

Of who I am-who I’ve come to

be.

I was lost, hidden away

In a land unoccupied.

And now I’m free because I see

The value that’s inside of me.

Most of the times, we human beings fail to acknowledge the silver linings in the clouds that rain on our parades, darkening our days down to muted grays and faded blues. Our hearts are burdened with such gut-wrenching grief and insurmountable loss that we are unable to think clearly and see the bigger picture; it's not as bad as it seems. I was once caught up in a toxic relationship that literally drove me insane. I was depressed, suicidal and left utterly broken after it ended. I thought I had lost my soulmate, somebody meant to love me for all of eternity but what I failed to see was that I had been suffering all along. He didn't love me. He never did. All he ever cared about was himself and all he needed was somebody to fuel his own damn ego. In the process of trying to win the love he wasn't capable of, I lost myself. However, as the Sufi proverb goes: "When the heart weeps for what it has lost, the spirit laughs for what it has found." Looking back on that part of my life, I now realize that the only thing that I lost was the baggage I was carrying around: him. After losing him, I felt so much lighter, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off of my chest. I am now at my best and have no care for the rest of the world. My spirit is at peace and that is all that matters to me. My happiness comes first which automatically ensures that I am never at the losing end and I have nothing to worry about anymore. I am free!

My father asked me, what do you want to do with your life? I didn't have an answer. I picked up a glass off the kitchen counter and dropped it. It shattered into a million little pieces. These are neurons. I haven't felt anything since 2007 and this is no exception. I thought of the pond down the street from my father's house. I run there. I sit on the wet swamp land and cry. I don't see anyone else and I'm not sure if this is what I wanted.

I have no purpose. I reread my poetry and panic seeps into me. It's bad and it's public. My father says, keep writing. But you can't pour from an empty glass. I am in the kitchen, I am fired up like a kiln and everything in me explodes. The pond still seeps into my skin. I am still on the banks of it, pressing my fingertips into my palms until they leave little half moons, or smiles. Virginia Woolf walked into a lake and never returned. I haven't felt anything since 2007.

I am at the airport now. I am drinking three glasses of white wine at 11am, eastern standard time. Time zones are like ticking time bombs. I am leaving home and everything I have destroyed is in the trash, to be taken to a landfill and never remembered. I imagine the shards of glass covering the ground like snow. It was winter when I went insane. It was December, but it doesn't matter. My flight is in two minutes and I'm still running towards the swamp with no stones to anchor me to the bottom. I wonder if the stones in Virginia Woolf's pockets held any sentimental value.

I want my poetry to be important to someone. Maybe that's why I'm screaming into a white screen. There's no wifi on my flight and I wonder what the point of living is without it. I am the problem. I am sitting next to a little girl who thanks me whenever I open the window; I am in the window seat because I told the flight attendant any other seat gives me anxiety. The little girl is small and curls up next to me when she sleeps. I want to make the world a little more illuminated. Maybe she will read something one day and wonder why writers put anything in their pockets at all, and remember the view out the plane window and think about glasses that are full.

More than anything, I want to write. When my father asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I didn't know I'd live to see another December where I am doing what sparks my neurons. Some of them are still sitting in a landfill somewhere, snow that covers the ground. Shards that cut like stones. I hope I am happy. I hope I will open the window and recognize the glass as something whole, something not to be broken.

I'm a teenage girl. But I don't try on dresses or spend hours on instagram or whatever everyone's doing nowadays. I play with plastic dinosaurs. I know it's something a first grade boy would do, but I still have a tub of them in my closet that I take out to battle sometimes. My favourite is the toy Parasaurolophus. I mean, yeah, it's a cool dinosaur, but there's a special reason it's my favourite. Now, it has a little label on it's stomach saying 'PARASAUROLOPHUS' in all capitals to teach little kids the name of it. That's the key. Because this dinosaur is not a Parasaurolophus. At least completely. Because the Parasaurolophus has a distinct head shape, which this toy does not. Basically, the manufacturer messed up the head of the toy, switching a Parasaurolophus head with a Pachycephalosaurus head, which basically is like a little spiny helmet. So it has a Parasaurolophus body and a Pachycephalosaurus head, making it the ultimate dinosaur to me. Trivial, but just comes to show that... actually I don't know. I just like dinosaurs. And manufacturing mistakes.

Just about every semi-rural neighborhood has those same types of kids; the bookworm, the jock, the pretty girl. Ours was no exception.

For instance, there was that one kid, Dwayne, who lived two doors down. He lived with his remarried dad, his stepmother, and his half-brother.

Tall, thin, knock-kneed, a little acne. He was that kid who wore the long, Robert Plant hair with a natural perm... you remember that kid? It seemed like that kid was always incredibly cool. Dwayne had an old dirt-bike, a ’73 Yamaha 125. It had two spark plugs, so that when one overheated you could switch to the other, and it sported a cheesy, homemade paint job. I loved that bike, and could do things on it Dwayne would never dream of... but I couldn’t make that old engine purr like Dwayne could. A natural mechanic, he was that kid whose garage light never went out, and whose fingernails were always blackened with grease and oil.

Dwayne paid for that old Yamaha himself, working odd jobs. Two weeks later his jealous old man bought himself a brand new Honda 250cc, and bought Dwayne’s younger half-brother a brand new honeybee colored Yamaha 75. Of course, there was no new bike for Dwayne. Dwayne was that kid. Cinderfella. But his little 125cc would flat out smoke that bigger 250 of his dad’s. It was beautiful to see. Almost as beautiful as Dwayne’s smile whenever it happened. Dwayne understood that it is not always the fastest bike that wins the race, so he’d hand it over to me whenever his dad brought his fancy new Honda out. I loved it when I was the one able to put that smile on Dwayne’s face.

A few of us kids were hanging in Dwayne’s garage one day when his old man came out, clearly pissed. ”Why can’t you squeeze it off so it doesn’t stop up the god damned toilet?” Mr. Mattson shouted.

We were all embarrassed for Dwayne. I mean, who says something like that? But Dwayne took it in stride. He got up off his stool and went inside, we assumed to plunge the toilet. A few minutes later he came out with a small duffel bag. He said, “when your dad tells you how to take a shit, it’s time to get the fuck out.” And he did. He walked up the street, leaving us sitting there in his garage. We didn’t see him again for more than a year.

I remember opening the door one day when I was sixteen, or seventeen, and there was a soldier standing there, a shiny shoe-ed, creased-pant, polished-button soldier. I asked if I could help him? “Chuck, it’s Dwayne,” the soldier said.

”What?” I didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t entirely my fault. The long curls were gone, and the acne. The chest was full, and the eyes clear. “It’s Dwayne.”

It was my mom saved me. She threw her arm around his neck, and invited him in. The two of them talked for about an hour while I sat there slack-jawed. Dwayne wasn’t the kid down the street anymore. I didn’t know how to talk to him? What to say? He seemed so much older than me. He was a man, now, and was learning to jump out of airplanes. He was itching to get his wings so he could go on to Ranger school, things I couldn’t even fathom. When he got up to go, he said, “C’mon. You always liked that old bike of mine. I want you to have it.”

That was the day I decided I wanted to be a soldier.

I rode that old Yamaha hard for a good while, but I still hadn’t turned eighteen yet when a shitty rumor spread through the neighborhood about a transport plane going down somewhere in Canada.

And that was it for the long-haired kid two doors down, that kid who became a man way too fast.

And what a great kid he had been! I knocked on his old man’s door not long after. My intent was to kick the old man’s fucking ass, but he was no longer the tough older guy who kicked it on the dirt-bike track. He just looked like a tired old guy. It was like Dwayne had already beat me to it. So instead, I just told him how I felt about Dwayne, and how Dwayne would still be alive if his fucking dumbass old man could have just felt that way, too... the old sack of shit. And yes, those were my exact words, and I looked him in the eye when I said them, adding to the challenge.

I half hoped those words would draw the man outside, but he knew better. I wasn’t as good a kid as Dwayne, for damned sure. But Dwayne’s dad got this one right, because while Dwayne was that good hearted, cool kid in the neighborhood that everybody loved, I was that one kid it was best not to fuck with.

I smiled at you.

It’s always my first reaction.

Trusting.

Innocent.

Stupid.

In response, you rushed at me, pushing me back; clawing at my shirt; tearing it open; scratching.

Like the world does.

Your urgent kiss pushed me against the wall. Your tongue invaded my mouth.

Internally gasping, I responded; weak; powerless; shocked and excited.

Taken by surprise as usual.

Innocence overwhelmed by passion.

Immediately.

I kissed you back, pushing my excited body to yours. You felt my response and gasped at my desire.

I tore off your dress and threw you to the bed. My own clothes seemed to disappear in a whirl of motion and I was naked on you.

Biting my shoulder, neck, nipples, you pulled me down. Our eyes flashed as I entered you.

In minutes it was over.

You lay gasping and shocked; shocked at the intensity; shocked at the rapid response; shocked at what lies behind my smile.

Like the world is.

You should have just smiled back.

But the damage is done.

For I am Scorpio.