I adapt to shallow breathing beneath a heavy grey wool life. I go mad shuddering at the blood that drips like ice from the eaves of its shelter. The suffocation from the stagnicity is a metronome forcing my refused conformity.  In my troubled sleep I hear the human condition closing in on me.

I try to cover my ears from the torturous sounds of smeared emotionless voices inaudibly gossiping. Society's failure to the abandoned children crying in stale classrooms with their forced indoctrination ruins me. I close my eyes and can see the car whose tires are screeching at jackals crossing dark highways at night. My dry heart cracks at the pangs of a man crying at the deathbed of his lover. I wish away the diseased hypocrisy of fear being the hovering evil managing fate. I can see undernourished cats howling in fights with their neighbors, their sharp nails cut out their guts. And a lonesome tear falls in slow motion from my blood shot eye as destitute followers channel into a golden chapel for a fee, falling to their knees for a veiled destiny. The sadness of the human condition gathers around me closer and closer--it torments me.  

But then I hear your voice. The impending beasts that surround me freeze. You smile. Holes burn in the wool and the chance to breath is offered like clean water. Your eyes listen to me, and hope rises in me like a Phoenix. Sadness with its hunchback and dirty nails scatters away like a filthy rat. Light radiates from the corners of your eyes and the ice melts. I am resurrected, profoundly gasping as oxygen travels to the forgotten spots in my soul and it fills me up. My skin is moist, my face flushed, I feel strength expanding in my core. Flowers bloom from the warmth of our mutual understanding. And the animals gather to share in our purity. Your honesty nourishes my heart and my blood is transfused with peace. 

The white linens waving in the distance reflect the morning sun and I am home.

“how silly you are. did you think that knowing the truth will help you get closure? did you think that you would learn a valuable lesson and move on with your life? oh dear, no. some things are better left as a mystery, a puzzle with a missing piece. i warned you, remember? i kept locking all those secrets away to prevent any further damage, but no, your curiosity wouldn't let you go. so how dare you come to me telling me how you are chased by scary monsters when you fall asleep. you asked for this, now take responsibility for your decisions.”

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She was too strong and too smart for her age. She could paint the whole world pink and yellow and blue. She would do that every single day no matter how tired she felt. Wherever she went, the sun shone brighter, the flowers bloomed and the birds sang.

One day, reality hit her and smashed everything she loved and held dear to her heart. The gorgeous colors she painted were smudged and she couldn't beautify the world anymore. There were demons everywhere and they hated everything bright and beautiful, making the little girl tremble with fear. Could she fight those demons or was she too weak?

Finally, she decided not to mess with the status quo, gave up on changing the world and left it as it was.

I'm struggling, petrified of the dark, entwining branches of the tree of life

which are ambushing me, squeezing the red blood from my veins and the air that I breathe from my lungs. I am running, without moving, as I am crucified and impaled on the sharp threatening twigs. I fathom in my deepest center of my being that there can be no escape. The live oak tree is layered with Spanish moss, trapping mites which take hunks out of my skin with greedy little scissor mouths. It absorbs my nutrients by sucking my body fluids with glee and abandon.

The hovering crown of the tree absorbs dust and particles from the polluted air which I gulp hungrily but also prohibits the rain from reaching my thirsty open mouth. I am so parched that it compresses my bones and twists my organs. The leaves of the massive tree use the sun’s energy to convert carbon dioxide from the atmosphere and water from the soil into sugar and oxygen. I watch as the ominous tree greedily absorbs the sugar and stores it away without allowing me to get so much as a mouthful. I gasp as I attempt to absorb oxygen before it is released to the sky but am unable to claim its largesse.

I can’t comprehend why the tree is so reluctant to share its bounty, insisting on entrapping me in its web of roots and branches.

I remember from my science classes, which I mostly ignored, that the tree has heartwood in the middle but why is there no beating heart to support me?

I watch in utter horror as the cambium tissue grows another thin layer adding a covering to the tree, ambushing and enmeshing me in a thin skin. I slap and whack this quagmire but it won’t let me go. I sense the sticky encroaching sap which accosts my skin, gluing me to the tree. The sinister bark encapsulates me in its coat of armor.

“Please,” I beg, “release me from this torture and let me seek the cool earth which will blanket me with its warmth, allowing me to sleep the deep slumber. I no longer desire to be part of this intimidating world.”

I close my eyes and accept my impending death with gratitude.

i don't remember who i was last night, let alone who i was five years ago, when i merely dappled in anxiety and depression was too abstract to touch. sometimes i miss the stretch of months where i didn't feel much. of course, when i lost one sense, another strengthened; i could see clearer as i watched my world fall apart. the fractures were more vivid, more detailed, more poignant. lust, a cardinal sin. enter wrath. voices cracking, shattering the mirage of a once-revered man. i learned to be careful who i canonized.

i stopped giving away even the smallest pieces of me: hobbies, habits, feelings. i bubble wrapped my body, except for my hands, i needed some skin to destroy. but i wasn't satisfied with the bloody fingers i'd had for ten years, so i moved on to my knuckles, then my shoulders, then my thighs. i wasn't sure if it was self-harm but i'd been doing it too long to quit, and i never did have the guts to cut. fifteen years now, but at least i'm back to only my fingers.

when she noticed my shoulders were healing, she smiled and said i was getting better. i recall smiling back but i don't think i told her the scars scared me. i don't remember not feeling fear, i'm scared to recover and i'm afraid to stay unstable.

is better a place or a feeling? sometimes it's her arms or the heat in my chest but neither last long enough to keep me warm during the night. better is a fleeting, finite thing. it is only permanent when i am far from it, like puddles on the highway on a humid afternoon.

i fear i'm an illusion, too. i have spent so long reflecting my emotions on tilted mirrors in order to create the perfect vision. even when i put down the glass and open my mouth and try to let the truth come out, i fail. maybe i'm hypnotized by the lies i've fed myself for years and i really am a weight on the world, or maybe they're the truth. maybe my life will serve as living proof that some people don't deserve to live, some people don't have any worth.

my therapist told me to use logic. use science to prove how i'm worthless. so i've started a pros and cons list, and it's halfway done. burden, waste of space, sloth. i've created a hypothesis as well as trials to run, and i'm nearly positive that my twisted logic is correct. when i'm like this, i don't remember my intellect. i don't remember when i believed my last affirming thought. all i know is i amount to all my peeled skin and the platelets i've forced to clot.

I glance at her, all sunshine hair and sparkling eyes. Why does she have to be so beautiful? I glance away, color flooding my cheeks. But of course she can't see my soul rising up my chest when I look at her, of course she can't hear my heart pounding against my ribcage like a captured bird. She's clueless. She doesn't know.

I sit down and and open my chest and let my small, hopeless soul crawl out. It's blue.

She turns toward me, and her mouth turns down. "Are you okay?" She asks.

No, never. I'll never be okay until I can press my lips to hers. "I'm fine," I rasp, and push my soul back inside my chest. My heart starts beating again.

She kneels down and looks me in the eyes. She's so close I could have grabbed her hand, or touch her cheek, but I don't. "Are you sure?" She whispers. Her breath flutters against my cheek.

"Yes," I croak. My heart stops again. She gets to her feet and hold her hand out. Does she want me to take it? I don't, just stare at it. I want to take it. But I can't.

"Come on," she says.

"I want to stay here," I say, gritting my teeth. Why can't I just take her hand? She takes mine. My heart explodes and shrivels in my chest. She pulls me up, and I gaze into her eyes, trying to memorize how beautiful they are.

"Hi," I say, my breath catching in my throat.

"Hi," she says. She drops my hand. "Tell me what's wrong."

I look away from her pleading eyes, her pursed lips. "I'll never tell you what's wrong," I say. My fingers twitch. I can still feel the ghost of her hand in mine, and I don't remember what it's like for my heart to beat. When I bundle up the courage to glance at her again, her eyes are wide with sadness. "You can trust me," she says softly. "I trust you."

"That's the problem," I say. "That is the problem." I wonder what kissing her would be like, and quickly push the thought away. 'No, no, no...'

"You've been acting strange," she says.

Yeah, well, does she know what it's like to fall in love with your best friend? To dream of taking her hands in yours, to press your lips--no. I must not think of that... "I've always been strange," I say, and flash her a quick, awkward smile that makes me cringe.

Her eyes crinkle up as she smiles. My heart dies for the third time that day. "I know that," she says lightly, her voice sounding of sunshine and rain and the ocean. My voice just sounds like me. "But stranger than usual."

She's so clueless, so her, that I want to cry, to... "I guess..." My voice trails off. I'm caught mid sentence by her flawless beauty. I need to stop staring at her! I hide inside myself, look at the ground.

"Hey," she says.

"Hello," I say quietly. My blue soul has turned a deep shade of magenta. She steps to stand beside me. Our arms brush. I stop breathing.

"You," she says, "are funny." She laughs.

"Okay," I say. There is nothing funny about this. She is standing way too close to me. Oh--she's closer. Our cheeks brush. My cheeks are on fire, and I pray she can't tell.

"Hi," I breathe.

"Hello," she says, and my soul bursts out of my heart and crawls through my body. I am warm all over. I love her so much, way too much, but I can never have her. My soul crawls back into my heart, and I sigh. It's blue again.

A long time in a galaxy far away, there lived a girl. She had chestnut hair and laughing eyes. She liked to gaze up at the stars, and on sunny days she would sing.

Not so long ago in a galaxy not so far away, there lived a young woman. She had ran away from home, and lived on the verge of nothing. She walked a line between good and wrong. But she still looked at the stars, and she still sang, her voice rising in the air and gathering in one man's heart. She fell in love.

Years ago in a galaxy that is neighboring to us, there lived a woman. She had a house, and she lived with her husband and two kids. Sometimes they would go outside in the nighttime and the woman would show them the constellations. On sunny days, she taught them to sing.

A month ago on the other side of the world, there lived an old woman. She had watched her children grow up and have children of their own. Her husband had died. She was still able to look up at the stars, but she couldn't sing anymore.

Yesterday in a the small town I live in, there was a dead woman in a coffin. It had been a small funeral; only family members and a few friends. She couldn't sing. And her eyes were closed. The night before had been the last time she had seen the old, ancient stars.

Is there anything else that you feel is significant?” I asked George.

“Well,” he reluctantly replied, “I noticed that she seemed to be flirtatious with the younger boys and I felt she was too seductive. My wife said that I was crazy because such a young child would not be doing this. She said that all little children played ‘doctor’ and that it was a normal part of growing up. But one night, both of us went into George’s bedroom to kiss him goodnight, as was our ritual with all the children. We were both absolutely horrified to find Jasmine, naked, rubbing up to little George. We did discuss this with their pediatrician who advised us that we shouldn’t put too much significance on this act because it would just draw attention to something that was probably a temporary thing. He told us to explain to Jasmine that we knew that she was a good little girl but we did not allow this experimentation in our family. George was only three at the time and too young to understand. And, Dr. Engel, can you guess what Jasmine said to me when I reasoned with her?”

“What did she say,” I asked with curiosity as I was taking my notes.

“She said, ‘It wasn’t me that did it. It was my other part that I can’t find. If I find her, I will tell her not to do it anymore!’ ” Tears filled George’s eyes as he related this to me.

Ghost eyes stare back at me

The young man I was, dead.

Screaming, I have stood here

watching time rake its claws

to leave valleys and scars

on the landscape of boy.

I reflect. Days engorged.

Adventures without care,

bluntly optimistic

endless summers. Hazy.

Countless mayfly corpses.

Fearful I turn away

from the reflected lies

and look back. I look back.

Alone look it up in Webster's dictionary and it gives you the words to describe how it feels but words like separated and lonely, forlorn, and my favorite desolate. All fail to really capture the feeling of alone. Your mind in utter chaos of the whirling dervish of emotions of woe and longing for the hole to be plugged so you don't lose all of you through the sucking vortices of grief, longing, sadness, and desolation. No life raft in this place, so you drift in restlessness inconsolable grief for the loss of something or someone held  so dear. My mind is trapped and isolated in this place with no one to talk to not outlet for its emotional upheaval. Alone five letters strung together to describe a feeling that is a conqueror of even the greatest minds but these letters this word really can't convey the feeling of being alone. The vortex is steadily sucking my mind down into the oblivion of isolation and loneliness down down it goes and will it ever return to me? Someone please break the chains that are dragging my mind into the void of alone. My body is here but useless against all that is bombarding my mind in this island of dejection I am stranded on. Isolation is a torture that can happen in the middle of a crowd. And the vortex of alone whistles and moans as it pulls your mind down further and further into the vastness of Alone.