I wrote this when I was a teenager. This isn't what it looked like back then. This is an extremely abridged version, with stuff added in. It's about how I felt back then, and how I feel now as well, sometimes. It's a bunch of thoughts thrown together. It's very me, I think.

On graduation day, you want to get up on that stage and cry real tears and say it’s been a long, wonderful journey and mean it. You want to gaze upon their expectant faces – because the future is, after all, ahead of them – and feel that bittersweet sensation which means you care and you’re sad it’s over and you’ll never have this period of your lives again. But you can act. Forget about drama club. Forget about class plays. In that moment, you’re the world’s best faker.

You will cry and hug and say those empty, gushy words that have become so familiar to you. Everything you say means nothing. Nothing you say means anything. It’s how you’ve always been toward each other. All smiles and light hearted conversation, but stabbing each other with daggers in your minds.

Your loneliness is a big thing. It’s so big it swallows you up and doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Some days you wake up, and your skin feels alive. There’s an itch just below its surface, an itch that worsens as the day wears on. You want to lash out, physically and verbally. You want to complain and cry. You want to be left alone. You want to be sympathized with.

You just want. You want everything. You want nothing. You want one thing that you can’t put your finger on. It’s confusing. It’s maddening. You’d peel off your skin and scratch the itch if you could, put an end to your madness.

You are a walking letter of apology. You go around apologizing to everyone, for everything and everyone, but nobody bothers to read you. And the part that makes you the saddest is the fact that you apologize, most of all, for yourself. And for what? What have you done that’s so bad? Why do you feel guilty for merely existing?

You want to be taken seriously and not mistaken.

And it’s so hard to turn the bad stuff into good stuff. It can feel like life’s being hurled at you sometimes. You don’t want to deal, but stuff’s happening and you can’t dodge any of it. And when you do manage it, it takes a lot out of you. It’s exhausting trying to turn negative situations around. Why is it so hard anyway? Because life and lemons and nowhere to make lemonade, I suppose.

The fucking lemonade. Say you do make it. What if it’s not sweet enough? Then you have to go find sugar or honey or something. It's not enough to just make the lemonade. It's got to be sweet, you know? I know you know.

It's exhausting.

Oop. Prose deleted the start of this. Damn. The audacity. Doesn't matter, tho, I'll give you the highlight of the paragraph I totally do not remember. Something awkward something something..

Anyway... Where to start. Not an easy question because what I'm gonna talk about is sort of specific? And sort of... Wrong? Oh, no, very wrong. Very, very wrong. I'd say I'm not a bad person... But I'm not exactly a good one either. Minimum level decent on the outside, I exist and I try not to hurt people and I try not to hurt myself these days, too.

I'm... Stalling. Okay, then. I wanted to talk about fear, at first. Because I am ashamed of how afraid I have been all my life. There's tons of stuff over the years of being a people pleaser... Not my fondest memories. But I guess the difference is that I'm not as ashamed of my fear because I do not hide it as much. Of course, I try to. But when it wants to come out of me, I don't often stop it. I don't pretend it doesn't exist so I feel less shitty about myself. It's always been there.

But I have layers. I'm still stalling. I'm still stalling. It's not a criminal thing, per say. I'd never do it. I'd never actually do it. In fact, if you knew me, you would never think I'd have that little thing anywhere in me. Except you'd seen me try to choke my sister when we were kids. Or that one time I threw something at my brother, hoping to cause as much damage as humanly possible.

I think the thing inside me that scares me... More than my fear of people and my fear of the future... I often fear myself. What I have dreamt of. It's a simple thing to talk about, really. I'm still stalling. I shouldn't have read the other post. But I did and it makes me feel... Worse? But you asked. And hey, since no one here knows me, since the worst that could happen is being further shamed, I guess I can try to talk about this thing that's lived in my head all my life.

I am not all softness. In truth, I don't know how much of that softness has been pushed to the front of me to prevent my otherness from popping up. Truthfully, I am also a violent creature. Warriors, soldiers, kings...

I've not only dreamt of my death.

I've dreamt of taking people with me? If that makes sense?

I don't want to make it poetic. I hardly want to explain it. I'm trying but it's hard because I've worked very hard to suppress this part over time. I pushed the violence into my fingertips sometimes, hurt myself to prevent the desire to do much worse to the person that wronged me. A desire only. A thought only. But one that gave me some relief when I was younger. Desire to cause harm.

I could tell you about the days I would imagine killing my schoolmates to pass the time in secondary school. I could tell you about that one time I "accidentally" murdered my Economics teacher in my mind, filled by a sudden anger I couldn't control over whatever stupid thing she said and being unable to look her in the eye since. I could tell you about throwing my father off a building in my head. Torturing this one girl in a silent vision. Even as I write this, I feel a peculiar kind of pain in my chest, telling me to seriously shut the fuck up. That thing in me has long been hidden. Talking about it is a general no-no.

I think it's my brain making up for how powerless I've felt all my life. Because I have. By my own hand, I deny myself the littlest decency. And something cracks a little more. So yes. When I watch shows like Hannibal or read a book like Native Son, that shit makes me feel something. When I witnessed Rhys Montrose on YOU, it felt like a bit of representation for my own thoughts. And I wondered and wondered and wondered...

I don't think I do want to kill anyone. I haven't got the patience or energy, I hardly give enough of a shit to get up in the morning. Murder is actually hard work. But I think the importance of my murder-loving side is to be a balance to that feeling. That I am nothing, that I am no one, that the world can walk over me a million times and I would smile and say thank you.

I recently wrote a seriously thorough murder fantasy-esque post on Prose about a certain roommate of mine, from the past. One that... Well, not to get into detail but she broke me even more. Amplified my discomfort around people with such tragic beauty. You see, after everything went down, I had to live with her for about a month. I had to have exams. I had to go to class and bathe like people do, I suppose. And I did. And I spent the entire time with her pretending that I felt nothing... But... Gratitude? I put a smile on my face and I let them do... Whatever they wanted because hey, fear.

Be afraid. You're supposed to be weak and meek and quiet and afraid; do that. Show that. You aren't allowed more than that.

I think deep down, I was scared to show my rage that day. It comes out in little bursts. I learnt, that day, that I would rather keep it caged than protect myself from actual genuine danger. That I would rather make the world an unsafe place for myself than risk letting that beast in me out. Risk showing that I, indeed, am capable of a violence beyond what I know. That I can hurt and I want to, sometimes. There is danger in my bones and I preferred to keep the mask of decent, good human than keep her from shattering me.

And it's been a year, now, since then. Thought I was over it and then I wrote that one post. It's funny how hidden I keep this feeling. It's funny how most of my self harm over the years was me needing a place to put the burning tar dripping down my stomach and not knowing where else to let it go. And it's stupid. And it's sad. And my vileness is a part of me that I am yet to accept.

I don't know if other people feel like this. I guess it's why I understood the Joker, in some way. Why I often relate to villains. I can understand that strange craving to let yourself go in such a dangerous, depraved way. It is such a small but important piece of me. I think if I listened to it and shook its hand, perhaps my violence and anger could be more than just a thing of shame. Perhaps they have better functions than sitting at the bottom of me like a quiet poison. But I don't really know what to... Do with it? Except... Keep it silent?

I wish I had lashed out that day. I should have. I've had multiple panic attacks since. I've spoken to family and had them... Well. Put it down as nothing much, let's leave it at that. I've done everything to brush it off, to make it nothing. And still, the anger remains, somewhere. Whenever I write about it, it still feels so foreign. I know it when I feel it but otherwise, it's so... Damn... Quiet. Safely shackled where it can't hurt anybody but me, I guess.

I was worried what would come next. Imagine. I had the power to save myself. I could have run away. I could have pushed her back. I could have screamed. Instead, I... Repressed. Instead, I went into a little corner of my mind and turned myself into that mask again, that ever-agreeable puppet robot with no feelings, only a "yes ma'am whatever you want can-do" fucking attitude. And I did it for someone who meant nothing to me. Because I worried about what my violence might do if it finally got to be free. If I finally let it drop from my fingertips and leak out of my skin through a more physical way than writing about it.

I began this silly little essay afraid of what people would think. I end it... Reminiscing. Feeling it. It's weird how I personify my emotions, sometimes. My fear likes to live in my chest, the most. Sometimes it enjoys spreading to my hands, just for the fun of having me shake. My need for solace is a pounding in my head when the rest of humanity gets too loud for me to exist among them, anymore.

My anger is deep in my stomach, somewhere. Forever lurking. If I hadn't taught myself that it was something to be ashamed of, I would have hurt her that day. I would've gotten ahead of myself and been lost to the feeling. I would have felt alive instead of being killed. I wouldn't have let myself be so fucking powerless. It's the most powerless I've ever felt. I was truly reduced to nothing. I'd always been scared of being so drowned in that feeling of utter worthlessness but my imagination never taught me what it would be like. Regret tells me I should have let it out. As does shame, the same fool that tells me keeping it in was probably the best choice.

I don't know what to believe. I don't know anymore if I should be ashamed of something that has spent its entire lifetime with me trying to make me feel better, as misguided as it... Usually is. I used to hate myself so much for existing. Hate it. In the tar, I tremble, I sink, I drown. And I love and hate the feeling a little too much.

I don't know what I've written or why I wrote so damn much and I guess I'm sorry but I guess I'm really not? It's itching at me again. I can feel it. That damn memory triggers so many of my emotions all at once, it's kind of incredible, really. Weak, dangerous, who cares? I'd rather turn my fists to my own chest than show anyone that thing. So it's fine. It'll die with me. But when it wants to rip out, if there's good reason, perhaps I'll let it next time. Self-preservation takes some head-bashing sometimes, I think.

Okay... That's all, folks. Judge me, relate, be confused... Feel as you wish. This was a lot more pouring than I expected. Don't know whether to be concerned or pleased that at least some of the black has been scooped up, splattered on "paper" far from the home it has carved for itself inside me. I am fucking exhausted, now. I feel delightfully ill from this level of oversharing, my forehead feels hot heh. Goodbye, stranger. I could pretend that this wasn't true, I could delete this before any random eyes descended and took a glance at this strange, usually buried piece of my soul.

Oh well. I am one self-revolved delusional fuck to think any of what I'm saying means anything at all to anyone other than me but

I am who I am.

And that won't ever go away. Don't even think I want us to, anymore.

We're stuck together till death do us part, me and myself. Might as well... Shrug and vibe with it, I guess.

Ps. Swearing is the best, sometimes. Je t'aime, merde.

The following was written by a dying patient, Orville Kelly,

for his wife Wanda.  It is from pages 143/4 of a

book by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross entitled "Death:

the Final Stage of Growth".  Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

worked with the victims of Nazi Germany, in Switzerland,

during WWII:

Spring, and the land lies fresh green

Beneath a yellow sun

We walked the land together, you and I

And never knew what the future days would bring:

Will you often think of me,

When flowers burst forth each year?

When the earth begins to grow again?

Some say death is so final,

But my love for you can never die,

Just as the sun once warmed our hearts,

Let this love touch you some night,

When I am gone,

And loneliness comes-

Before the dawn begins to scatter

Your dreams away.

Summer, and I never knew a bird

Could sing so sweet and clear,

Until they told me I must leave you

For a while

I never knew the sky could be so deep a blue,

Until I knew I could not grow old with you

But better to be loved by you,

Than to have lived a million summers,

And never known your love.

Together, let us you and I

Remember the days and nights,

For eternity.

Fall, and the earth begins to die,

And leaves turn golden-brown upon the trees.

Remember me, too, in autumn, for I will walk with you,

As of old, along a city sidewalk at evening-time,

Though I cannot hold you by the hand.

Winter, and perhaps someday there may be

Another fireplace, another room,

With crackling fire and fragrant smoke,

And turning, suddenly, we will be together,

And I will hear your laughter and touch your face,

And hold you close to me again.

But, until then, if loneliness should seek you out,

Some winter night, when snow is falling down,

Remember, though death has come to me,

Love will never go away.

I am single, and my friend talked me into a speed dating meetup where you get five minutes to dig into the wit and witticism of complete strangers and then pick your date at the end. I thought it was a stupid idea but the idea began to grow on me as I contemplated what to watch on Britbox as my weekend entertainment.

“I am root”, he said.

“It is really, ‘I am Groot’”, I said correcting him. His name was Arthur Cake. My mind already labeled him a fruit cake.

The next one had a hardy physic, and I could see a flowering romance develop until he spoke.

“I have frozen my seed and I am looking for some good eggs, if ya know what I mean!” He winked at me. I grabbed my water and started drinking quickly to prevent me from laughing hysterically.

The next one had a deck of cards and asked me to choose any card. “If it is a heart, then I choose you. If it is a spade, then we can stop right here”.

“What happens if it is a diamond or a club?”, I asked.

“Then we go dancing at the country bar across the street. They are having their Friday night hoe-down.”

A vision of a hoe embedded in his head was my only thought of a good “hoe-down”.

My friend then asked me at the end of the night if anyone wanted to go out with me. I told her that there were some offers, but till then, it would be too soon. She said that she didn’t understand. I just said that I was buying a lifetime subscription to Britbox.

A little of this, a little bit of that.

Sugar, spice, everything has a price.

A slice of pie, some greens, and teriyaki chicken wings.

Too much salt, depending on where you're from.

Too much spice for the weak-willed.

Too much sugar for those afraid of indulgence.

A seasoning blend of my own design, and a few things added while I wasn't pay attention. An explosion of Southern flavor with some influences from the East.

Washed down with a peach-pear sparkling water- because being healthy doesn't mean I need to be bland.

Touch me

Taste me

Bite me

Crunch my bones

Shredded skin

Bloody

Savory

Salty, sweet

Why don't you, stay a while...

Take an hour

To devour

Oh...don't look so dour

I'm really not sour...

Take my power

All of it

All of me...

Drink me up

It was meant to be

Melt into you

Oh, get a clue

And...

EAT ME

Memories bombard

causing my feelings to rise

and I slowly drown.

Ev'ry image like

frozen daggers cutting me,

reopening wounds

but ev'ry moment

passed has formed my character.

After each rain - growth.

I am incredibly saddened and disappointed at the responses to this challenge. I don’t think calling someone cisgender is a way to “hate on them” unless you believe the opposite—that calling someone transgender is a way to hate on them.

It is very straightforward term with no opinion and only fact behind it only meant to distinguish someone who was assigned male or female at birth and relates to that gender as they have grown into the person they have become. There is also Intersex or Eunuch, etc.

I am cisgender because I was assigned female at birth and it is the correct gender for me. But there are people born with both sexual organs whose parents arbitrarily pick a gender for them who could say the same. But if they were assigned female and identified as male despite having the biological anatomy they would not be cisgender. Cisgender doesn’t mean “biologically” male or female and I think that’s a really important distinction that it seems most of these challenge responses are leaving out.

What connotation someone places on the word matters (as any word), but the word itself does not mean anything offensive and only helps affirm people who are living a very difficult lifestyle.

It is so easy for someone not affected by a problem to say something like “we don’t need more labels”. No one is upset when someone calls them able-bodied. Cisgender is a similar distinction to wrap your head around. Adding your pronouns after your name might not be important to you, but creating the ubiquity of it it can be the difference between someone spiraling into a suicidal depression from being misgendered and made to feel like their own self and self opinion is unimportant and disrespected.

be better to eachother

If I were a food, I'd be a delicious cake,

With layers of sweetness, that nobody can fake.

The first layer is made of my kindness and care,

And a pinch of patience, that I try to bear.

The second layer is my sense of humor and wit,

With a sprinkle of laughter, that's hard to resist.

It adds a flavor to life, that's sometimes bland,

And lightens up moods, like a wave on the sand.

The third layer is made of my creativity,

And a dash of curiosity, that never gets old.

It brings color to days, that are dull and gray,

And makes hearts sing, like a choir in May.

The final layer is my determination and drive,

With a generous amount of passion, that keeps me alive.

It fuels my dreams, and helps me achieve,

The things I want, and the goals I believe.

tears flow down pavement

the world weeps for the unsung

whose home isn't here

rain plays detective

for the lost who are weeping

for lemon soda

for arms that hug back

for rocking chairs and snowballs

for the lie of hope

when you turn thirteen

grappling with all this life

no one will say why

when or how or who

you simply have you move on

even as you weep

the humanity

you have it better and worse

than your mind believes

if you never think

that you are going insane

rain will never find you