I'm too good at pretending. I don't even know how to take off the masks.

- -

I can't hide it anymore, it hurts, I can't pretend, but I can, I have to, a little bit longer...

- -

That day will never come.

- -

If she feels the same, then I am complete.

- -

But I can't, I'm drowning... forget this.

- -

Te quiero, te necesito, mi corazon.

- -

I want you, I need you.

- -

She's pretty, but you're beautiful.

- -

If only I was half the things you deem me to be, I would feel justified in loving you.

- -

I'm scared it's over. I loved you. I loved loving you. I loved that warm, excited feeling when I was with you, and now I'm scared that it's over... I'm scared that I stopped loving you.

- -

Never mind. I still love you. More than I did before.

- -

Do you know why I love you?

- -

You're the only one who's accepted that I'm not perfect. That I'm not the angel or the demon that everyone makes me out to be.

- -

You've realised that I have flaws too, that I make mistakes.

- -

You've accepted that my cover-ups aren't as graceful as other people see them.

- -

But I haven't even gotten to the real confession yet.

- -

Here goes nothing.

- -

I'm a horrible person.

I lie and cheat and steal.

My brain naturally calculates things based on how much they're worth.

Even people.

But for some reason, you're at the top of the "worth it" list and you're not worth a damn important thing.

Why are you at the top?

Why can't I spend a minute without you without feeling lonely?

Why are you the first person I talk to, the person my schedule revolves around, the person my mind revolves around?

Because I'm in love.

That's the only logical answer, and I want it to be real.

I want someone to hold me in their arms and tell me it's alright, that they love me and I have nothing to fear.

I want to hold someone in my arms and tell them that it's alright, that they have nothing to fear, and I'll love them forever.

I'm so fake, even to myself.

I feel like laughing.

A weight's been taken off my shoulders, but I'm just saying that to be poetic, right?

I should move to Mars.

...

Oh, and I love you.

I love you so much it hurts to hide it, to hide the feeling inside when I brush your shoulder.

It hurts when I brush away every compliment you give because how will you react if I told you the truth?

And all the time I don't know if I'm lying or not and it hurts when I cry because it's all fake, why am I even crying?

Even the reason's a romanticized lie I made up, right?

Is it?

Am I mad?

Are you?

My lies are so believable that they're second nature to me.

Even I believe my own lies and I don't even know if they're lies or not.

Sometimes I'm scared to feel, to think, because WHAT IF IT'S ALL A LIE MY MIND CREATED?

I lie, I lie not.

I lie, I lie not...

Oh look, a double petal. Is this flower a lie, too?

I'm gone.

I love you.

At least I think I do.

- -

All these words are from my heart.

All these words have broken my heart, once.

It's up to you now.

Will you mend my heart, or shatter it further?

I was tired, exhausted, but anxiety dominated and rendered the escape of sleep redundant. My feet, cold and crippled on the floor of my concrete cell. I was so used to the pain that I'd discarded my cries after an eternity of being engulfed by darkness. I could hear the whimpers of others rising up into the already dense fog of despair.

I tried at first, when I still had a soul, when I still felt life; I tried to connect. I remember it once felt natural to be affectionate, it once felt natural to trust. I learned though, quickly and brutally. I saw whenever I dared meet the eyes of our warders, that there was no connection, no friendship, no compassion.

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then, you're invisible.

My pain scorches.

My fear swamps.

My screams pierce.

And my skin bleeds.

I saw a fraction of humanity once. The day I momentarily jolted back to life. Seeing that stranger walk into the prison, a day I'll never forget. That stranger who looked a lot like me, except, he was free. He strolled past our cells with an air of joyful innocence, kind eyes, and a pure soul. He stopped briefly as he passed my cell. He stopped and looked, right at me. His smiling eyes in direct communication with my own. He SAW me. It was the closest thing to affection I ever remember and the jolt it gave me was like a defibrillator to the heart.

The warder came in almost immediately and I feared for the stranger's life. I shouted out to warn him, and that's when I saw it. The relationship. The warder ran straight over and launched his hands towards the stranger’s neck. I winced, awaiting the violence. When I heard no scream I looked up to see the hands thrown around the stranger were in an embrace, of love and tenderness.

My head thudded in an agony of confusion. If the warder could SEE the stranger and was capable of such gentle kindness, why was I treated so differently? Why was I invisible? Maybe soon, he'll see me too… and then I'll be loved like the stranger. It gave me hope. For a while. But it didn't last.

Soon came the dark day.

I'd been allowed outside and I was walking around inhaling the freedom of fresh air, when two men dragged me into a narrow hallway. I couldn't move. I was so choked with fear that I couldn't breathe. They straddled me and rammed something hard inside me.

Twisting.

Tugging.

I screamed out.

They laughed.

That's the day it began and was repeated, more than I allow myself to remember. I killed myself that day, emotionally. The extinction of light, led my mind to black, and I blocked out this hellhole of a nightmare.

Sometime after, I don't know how long, I was brought into this cell. Confined. Unable to move. Pain. Blood. Agonising pain. My mind was so fucked up I had no realisation I'd gone into labour. I can't remember much about it. They took my child, I know that. Of the tiny fragments I recall, that was the most painful.

The attachment you feel after giving birth is so fierce. Mothers around the planet will generally risk their life to protect that of their babies and when that's taken away from you, the grief of loss, the mourning, is desperate despair.

I wasn't the only invisible soul trapped in inescapable torment. I watched as they dragged another girl out onto the floor, whilst she convulsed in agonising seizures and spasms. "Hurry up and die." the warder sneered.

I sensed death. It was near.

We'd heard the rumours, but you can detach yourself from a story. When you read of horrors you don't want to believe, you divert your consciousness so reality remains veiled. Like all diversions though, at some point it must rejoin the road, the intended direction of travel, the highway of your subconscious that remains ever aware of the terrifying truth.

The stories that echoed in locked-away thoughts of being shackled, of tongs being attached to their heads, of huge electric currents passing through their brains until unconscious. And, of the times when the warders fucked it up, watching as the poor bastard writhed in a hopeless, miserable struggle.

Agonising electric shocks.

Paralysed.

Unable to move.

But still conscious.

Regardless of the outcome, conscious or not, both resulted in the same sequential destruction; blood vessels in their throats slit and then left to bleed to their mortal demise.

So, here we are, born on death row. I don't know why we are here or what we did wrong. I don't think there is anything I could do to change this outcome or to escape my fate. It would seem my life has been overlooked, translucently insignificant, and my death commissioned before I was born.

I never understood the anger. The force of which was so torrential I could only imagine it came from a heart of disturbed evil, but then, I'd remember the stranger and the embrace of genuine love.

I once heard a warder scream, "Shut the fuck up! No-one gives a shit about your squealing cause you'll taste so good when you're dead!" He said they'd cook our flesh and feast upon our lifeless bodies.

The stranger: a dog.

Me: a pig.

So very alike with four legs, equally affectionate and intelligent, capable of feeling love, fear, hunger, loss, stress, and pain. One adored, the other ignored.

There's something worse than being hated and detested, something far more wretched. To beg for mercy and it be cast upon deaf ears, to plea for your life when it plummets upon padlocked hearts and visionless sight, when you're irrelevant and people look right through you; then, you're invisible.

I looked at him, the suspicion rising and the ice waxing hard over that thumping red monster that got me into so much trouble.

You always had to be careful when a man was being so nice. That meant that they wanted something. Whenever they were at their sweetest, you needed to be at your keenest, or else you were going to end up burned.

At least, that’s what I thought until six months later.

It’s easy in this world to become course and hard-hearted. We live in a time of instant gratification and unbelievable self-absorption. We are the kids that have arrived at adulthood after years of relentless indoctrination into the world of divorce and “take care of yourself first”. We were coddled by mothers and fathers who told us we were the center of the universe, the best out of all the babies. We were educated by the teachers and tutors that told us “Trying is enough. If it’s not, quit and move on to the next thing.”

Find love in this modern age is a direct result of these lessons. People use people for just a few hours of entertainment. They reach out to them, open up to them, expose their most bare vulnerabilities, only for a night, then disappear, leaving behind broken dreams and wounded hearts. We find what we want, acquire it as quickly as possible, and then move on at the first sign of trouble, at the first sign of temptation.

This world had taught me that love wasn’t real. Relationships where nothing but a rental transaction. You would meet someone, get what you wanted from them, be that sex, attention, companionship or just sheer distraction. When you found something better, or things became “work”, the best thing to do was split and run - before they split and run on you.

When I met Heath*, I knew it was the same. Sure, he was handsome and foreign and smart, but that was only more dangerous. We talked for hours, and we liked the same bands. We had similar views on society and similar views on religion. But, there’s billions of people out there; billions of people with the same attitudes and views, the same grasp of reality and the true condition of the world - that’s just a statistical fact. Just have a few things lined up does not “true love” make. I didn’t expect this to be different.

But even from the beginning, it was.

It started small, pulling out a chair, holding open a door, bringing a tiny trinket on our first date. Then it got bigger.

Showing up at my flat at 7pm with cough medicine, ginger ale, soup, bread and cough drops - all because I mentioned a cough. Showing up to watch movies and finding a pair of warm slippers waiting by the door so I didn’t have to walk around with cold feet.

It was being told on a daily basis, “I love you.” It was finding little hearts hidden under my pillow at night as I went to bed. It was being told, “You’re beautiful” when I was lounging around in sweatpants and oversized t-shirts. It was surprising me with dinner on the table after coming in from a long day of work. It was showing up randomly and bursting into the room just to say, “I just wanted to tell you that I love you and I’m so happy that you’re here.”

Slowly, my heart began to melt, and I was force to realize that, at least somewhere in this world, in some tiny recesses far away from where we would ever dream to be, we can find love. There were your typical gifts, flowers, clothes, etc. But there where little things every day, things he went out of his way to do to show he truly loved me.

Day after day, Heath was teaching me that not only was I worthy of love, but that all of my flaws, all my little imperfections were actually beautiful little pieces of me; tiny little sparkling pieces that came together to create a person that shone brighter than a star in the eyes of someone else.

I could feel the tiny pieces of ice melting away. Slowly, I was realizing that I was not the mistakes of my mother. He chipped away, day by day, at the wall of stone and ice. He didn’t run when I tightened up in his hugs. He didn’t “change his mind” when I didn’t call or text. Through Heath’s love, patience, understanding, affection and tenderness, I was discovering that I was free to be loved, deserving of love, and greatest of all - I was able to love, deeply, passionately and openly.

I did not have to be something else or someone else. I did not have to change who I was or what I wanted. I did not have to check my thoughts or my words at the door. I no longer had to “dumb” myself down or keep myself “numb”. I no longer needed to look for opportunity. I no longer needed to be validated by many; I no longer needed to be validated at all.

Most of all, I learned that I was not the people around me, the people who paid attention to me, or the things that I owned. I could not be loved until I learned to love myself. No one could fill that whole deep inside but me.

Through this love, I learned that to be alive is to be validated. Just to be a living person is to have a right to love and be loved. We do not need to look at the world with suspicion and mistrust. In order to gain the most from the tiny time that we spend on this planet, we must live with our hearts open and our minds clear. When you are ready to leap into the arms of the universe, she will greet you with treasures and love beyond measure, but only if you learn to let go.

I sit here now a believer in a world in which not every lover is out to hurt you. The world I see now, while sharing in great misery, is also one that is capable of sharing great love. There is serendipity in this life, if we only have the courage to pursue the heartbeat of our dreams. When we shed the skin of our past and realize that our mistakes, and the mistakes of our peers, are not our future, we can truly form relationships that change the world for the better.

*My partner’s name has been changed from his actual name to Heath for the purpose of privacy.

Close your eyes or

put up side blinders.

A paper bag over your head.

Brown.

Crinkling.

Chafing your neck.

In another room

you can hear running water.

The air is just a shade

too chilly,

but your feet are

warm in fluffy slippers.

Your stomach is full.

Your heart is still.

There is no aching.

You are lucky.

Your mind sends signals

back and forth

to your fingers.

They are cold,

but in control.

Set your focus

on the gentle

tic tic tic tic

of the zipper.

Teeth clicking together.

You close your sweatshirt

clear up to your chin.

Somewhere along the path

of early adolescence

you started to think

about the way you think.

Metacognition makes us human.

Allows us to compare

the sticky feeling of blood

where limbs bend

and stick together

to the way a wayward love

seems to stick around.

To see ourselves as tiny.

On a skewed axis

riding around the sun.

A metallic taste in our mouths,

to the way things exist

so far away.

If you’re smart enough,

you realize how little you know.

How limited humans are.

Just the dust mites

on the eyelashes

of some larger beast.

Simple electric impulses

reliant on oxygen.

We cannot control all things,

just some.

Bug bites will make us scratch.

We can slather stuff on

and try to forget.

Blemishes take time to clear.

Healing takes energy.

We waste time scratching our skin.

Damaging neurons.

Light pressure can sooth us.

Slow gliding of smooth fingers

on the inner arm.

Hand massages.

Fingers gently tugging on hair.

The delicate stroke

of one finger

over the sole of your foot.

Sustained touch releases oxytocin.

We pull each other close.

A chemical for holding on.

As babies we can’t thrive

without another’s skin touching ours.

Adults can survive alone,

but are built to interact.

To react.

To sustain each other

with our brains and bodies.

To mingle our ideas.

Our skin cells slough off

when we shake hands.

We wear one another.

Our most treasured acts

require coating ourselves

in the products of other bodies.

We are born bloody.

We feed at the breast.

Our tongues touch tongues

and torsos

and soft folds.

Sweat coats our backs

as a quiver of muscles

deposit the liquid of life

into the warm and damp

swamps

of a woman.

We are rain forests.

So dense that

light is needed to

find the way.

Unknown creatures

in brilliant colors

swing through the canopies

of our hair.

There are fierce things full of poison.

Curious primates.

Large birds

with songs that sound

strangely like human laughter.

Even from far away,

we have a sense of which direction

the sound originates.

A humidity that will soak your skin.

A deep and damp odor.

We each smell things in a different way.

Molecules float

into our nostrils.

Codes to break.

For a moment you can smell roses.

Spearmint candy.

Sharp onions in the kitchen

making your eyes water.

Pheromones of a certain shape

will light your brain on fire.

The scent of

your lover’s hair

and sweat

that exists

just behind their ear.

The food we taste.

Memories.

Like the way the smell of

cedar and berber carpet

remind me of those things

that happened.

I can hear in my ears

the sound of shuffling cards.

Sound in the absence of

sound waves.

The way nausea is felt

in the stomach

and the head.

Vertigo make us vomit.

Our balance boils down

to calcium crystals

clinging to tiny hairs.

Try walking after a

playground spinner stops.

Walk off of a boat

and onto shore.

You will still feel movement.

We are input and output.

We are reasoning.

We miscalculate.

There is that line

between a craving

and eating too much.

Eat a giant chocolate bar

until your throat burns

and your stomach feels

filled with

a thick liquid.

A line between sated

and gluttony.

The seven deadly sins

are all feasts of the senses.

Get used to it.

Passion fades over time

and love becomes

comfort and camaraderie.

The warmth in your chest

after a cup of hot tea.

Muscle relaxation.

Zero in on the way

light passes through

the white blooms

on the Christmas cactus

in the window.

Through the golden leaves

outside.

I am glad I am shielded

from the cold wind.

Grateful for the warmth

of the dog on my lap.

Even if I can smell

her sewer breath.

Six days after my eleventh birthday, I was shuffled into a van by a social worker for the state of New York and brought to what would be my home for the next two years, one month, and eleven days. Located in (relatively) upstate NY, Mount Pleasant Cottage School is a residential treatment center that houses some 150 children between the ages of 9-18. Most of us were wards of the state. Some taken from their parents for numerous reasons, others, like me, given up. If you’re unfamiliar with a residential treatment center, think group home on a massive scale. A couple dozen “cottages,” where we were separated by age range and gender. A school on the campus. A small medical clinic. An activities center, a football field, swimming pool, and surrounded by a sparse forest.

As with every place that has lots of children, there must be a system in place to punish children for misbehaving, and reward those who follow the rules. We had a level system, with one being the lowest, four being the highest. Most people were at two or three, and the levels fluctuated based on how well you did in school, whether you followed all the rules, how helpful you were, and the mood of the counselors there. I was not a model student, nor a model resident, and therefore spent the bulk of my time at level one.

The important thing about being at level one was constantly being on “Restriction.” Basically, I was grounded. I would go to school, come back to the cottage, and sit in the dining room until dinner, and then sit in the dining room again until bed time. Pretty much every day. Those of us on restriction weren’t allowed to do anything, bring anything with us, play with anything, etc. There was however, one exception. We were allowed to read books. I was a fairly advanced reader for my age, but I had never been a bibliophile. That all changed when I started reading to stave off the incredible boredom of sitting around for hours with nothing to do.

There was a basement in our cottage, with thousands of books. We had a veritable library that was covered in dust because I was the first person in a long time to be on restriction long enough to gain access to it. The vast majority was fiction. And the bulk of the fiction was fantasy. At the tender age of eleven years old, I discovered that even though I hated life, and hated everyone around me, I could lose myself in a bound copy of someone else’s words. My life was forever changed.

For those of us who know the joy of living in another reality through reading, it’s enough to say, “Yeah, I love to read.” There’s a world of communication conveyed through those words, but I’ll attempt to elaborate on just how amazing it is.

Have you ever met someone who couldn’t pronounce a word properly? But their response was, “I’ve only ever read it?” That means they love books. Have you ever run across a pre-teen who sounded more eloquent than your college professor? Yeah, they love books. Have you ever heard someone say they just can’t seem to put their book down? Well, they probably love books. There’s a marked difference between someone who enjoys reading, and someone who loves to read. It’s impossible for life to be unsatisfying when there’s an unread fiction novel somewhere that can transport you to a completely different world where you’re not yourself, and your life is exciting.

It also conveys a whole lot of other, slightly less positive information. Let me explain. At recess, there are kids who play outside, and there are kids who go to the library to read. Some people have children who don’t play outside with friends, but instead spend hours holed up in their rooms reading. Have you ever seen someone sitting by themselves at a park reading? How about meeting someone at a party, and when asked what they do for fun, they answer, “Oh, I like to read.”

I’m that kid who even when I wasn’t on restriction, would still sit in the dining room and read. I’m the person who never got into computer games, but I’ll sit in my room for half a day and read. I’m that guy who will go to a party with a friend, be polite for ten minutes, then find a corner and read on my phone until it’s time to leave. Those of us who love to read, we love to read for a reason. Books have never disappointed us. Books have never made us feel less-than. Books have never called us names, made fun of a stutter, or hit us. Books have never told us to suck it up, to stop complaining. Books have probably made us cry, but that’s because good books make you identify with the struggles of the protagonist, and sometimes the horrors and difficulties they go through hit a little too close to home. But even when it feels like the whole world has abandoned you, a book never will.

My love affair with books started at a very low point in my life. But I’m grateful that it happened, and I’m grateful that I was put in that situation. I wasn’t a voracious reader before the age of eleven, but I can certainly say that without picking up the habit of reading then, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And whenever I meet someone who tells me they love books, well, it’s almost a guaranteed certainty that we’ll be real good friends.

First comes the surprise when they meet: catching each other's eyes across the room, bumping into the other, assigned to each other for a project work. Then comes the confusion. The constant battle in their heads. Afraid of taking the risk, afraid of rejection, afraid of commitment. Then comes the anticipation of a crush. Counting the days until they'd once again meet. Reading old text messages. Making up imaginary conversations in their heads- by that time, they'd know each other well enough to know how they'd respond in conversations. Finally, one will give in, fighting their nervousness as they confess their feelings.

Feelings that are reciprocated by the other.

Happiness. Relief. Confusion. "What do we do now?"

The romance then takes flight as they decide to start dating. Phone bills pile up as they become glued to the screen, texting sweet nothings, promises, virtual kisses. He never allows her to spend money on dates. She, in turn, helps out in the non-financial areas. Cooking, sewing, listening to his rants every now and then. Their blooming romance brings hope. Bliss. Unwavering doubt. They could conquer the world with just their love, for neither of them would ever stop being a pillar of support for the other.

Their romance, now at full bloom, escalates. He gets down on one knee, pulls out a ring. She tears up, nods her head and they both go to bed with smiles stuck to their faces. There it is again. The anticipation. The torturous wait for the day they would officially be pronounced family. They imagine their lives together, their future painted in nothing but bliss and unwavering love.

The day arrives. She walks down the aisle, her beautiful wedding gown makes her look the prettiest she's ever been. Her arm is locked with her father's, whose eyes are brimming with tears. He stands at the altar, his eyes widen the slightest bit and he for once, thanks the Lord for giving him the most beautiful woman on earth. They say their vows. The groom kisses the bride. Overwhelming joy consumes them as they start to cry. They are afraid for the future, but they know they will survive. They would conquer the world with just their love, for neither of them would ever stop being a pillar of support for the other.

They soon find out that pillars are not indestructible.

Not many couples can handle the change in their relationship from romantic to platonic. They are now husband and wife, but also mother and father. They devote their attention to the child. Responsibility threatens to throw them into financial crisis. He works day and night to support the family, while she cooks and cleans and waits for his return. Doubt starts to settle in. She wonders if he is truly at work. She questions his growing lack of romantic attention. The pillar starts to crack.

Exhaustion settles in. He tells her for the millionth time that he's not coming home for dinner to work overtime. He reassures her once again that she is the only woman he will ever love. He hangs up and sighs in exasperation, wondering if she'd always been this insecure. Another crack in the pillar.

Envy deals another blow, and so does indignity, and so it continues until the pillar is broken beyond repair.

She now goes out when he's at work, in search for the romantic attention she so foolishly believed would always be showered upon her. He eventually finds out. Catches them in the act. He is angry now, and so is she. They fight all day and all night, their child silently holding back his tears upstairs in his room. He wonders what was going through his mind when he proposed, and she berates herself for accepting the proposal.

The pillars are now unstable.

A few weeks down the road and they have yet to fix their relationship. They now turn their backs on each other, on the romance they once shared, now withered. They file for a divorce despite their child's pleas. Neither wants custody of the child- he reminded them too much of each other. Of the relationship they once thought was unwavering. They give up on their relationships, both romantic and platonic. She swears never to love again, and he does the same.

A child sobs quietly as he picks up the pieces of rubble and tries to put the pillar back together.

He now knows that what blooms will eventually wither.

I see you. You don't think I can but I do. Your pale hazel eyes are rimmed with salty regrets. Your auburn hair slick with oil and so intricately tangled that Alice herself could not navigate her way out of that wonderland. You're ill darling. Let us help you. But denial and acceptance rage relentlessly inside your body. The innate instinct to preserve your very existence is screaming for recognition inside even your smallest capillary. But denial has burrowed a hole inside your head and has nested there next to your cerebrum. He's feeding off of gray and white matter, whispering sweet nothings and telling you it's okay to let go. Injecting a powerful hallucination serum into your head and creating romantic fantasies about what dying truly is. Denial has another name, his friends call him Al. Al comes in bottles and bags and even boxes. He'll give you a good time but he's not free. Pay the piper he says. He'll accept payments in forms of youth, health, sanity, and happiness. Once he enters your blood stream you feel release and ascend to a place where reason and logic cannot trouble you. But gravity, lucidity, whatever you may call it, is gently tugging on your heart, extending an olive branch of sorts. Come back to the ground, to the earth, to the soil. Furrow your toes deep into the chilled, powdery, dirt. Root yourself here with me because darling I know how Al helps you escape. I know it's hard to submerge yourself in the icy waters of assent, but that is the only way to breach with a renewed sense of rehabilitation.

The human body is only capable of combating so much intoxication at once. You flourish under the pretense of existing in a world where you don't have to acknowledge the despair you wallowed in before the depressant kicked in. But when the hour of sobriety dawns upon your meager cowardice, it's time to ingest an unholy amount of acetaminophen and prepare to engage the barrage of afflictions that is the human life. Annulling Al is imperative, but who can resist the kind of freedom he provides? Ever since our childhoods we have been taught that it's ok to pretend and that pretending is a fun game to play. Of course there is always a point where a chiding parental figure encourages the cessation of these games. However, once one dabbles in these for a bit more than not much and a bit less than too much, they become a life-long reality. You know this. This is your reality. But for some irrational reason, you think that your reality is as opaque as a brick wall to outsiders looking in. Or maybe you're just telling yourself that.

I wish you had never gone down that dark, musty hole. In chasing after Al, you ran away from responsibility and from sanity. But maybe, just maybe, what they say might be true after all.

All the best people do.

I'm not a parent, so there may be a few parents who'll have that knee-jerk reaction in their head (after reading the title and the first four words) telling me I shouldn't be writing this, even though as they read, it's clearly already been written. The thing is, this isn't a parental perspective. It's the truth of a parental chain reaction, that has spanned three generations, to inspire me to be the person I am today; a child of their relationships and the domino effect of those interactions. This is my linage, my blood, my curse and my blessing.

I'm almost thirty now, and a world away from the person I was as a child and youth, to the point I don't even carry the same name. I was violent, borderline psychopathic, manipulative, and inconsiderate back then. I vocalized plots as to the order I would kill my own family. I maimed myself--carved Latin into my forearm, branded myself with a copper coil and a candle, branded with a fork and stove, strategic scars with a razor blade, and sand paper on plywood as a punching block. I lied and cultivated evidence to support it. I manipulated people, their emotions and actions. I stole just to see if I could, to pass time, and then just to get by.

Until the day I started wondering "why?"

At first it was, "Why did my parents do that? Why can't they see? Why don't I matter?" It was in those questions I found a string of answers I wasn't really ready for. It took me years to process it all and come to this line of conclusions:

My Father didn't really know how to be a father because his Dad shot himself in the head before he even hit puberty, and the men in his mother's life after that... weren't exactly "Fathers" themselves. It was also these experiences in my Father's life which cultivated the heart and will to be different from them, different from his own father, despite the challenges of battling his own emotions. My Father is still alive, and there for his children in his own way, so I'd say he succeeded; and is interestingly enough, where I inherited my compassion and the (his) temper that comes with it.

My Mother, unfortunately, is where I inhered most of that darkness. Not because she's a dark woman herself, but it's in her blood. Norwegian blood going back to Viking, Minnesota, by way of Ellis Island. Her Grandfather, according to official reports, killed his wife and then himself-- while rumors in the family say that her Uncle killed them both. Her Father molested and raped her "so she wouldn't be frigid like her mother" and "because she was already having sex with others" so he thought he'd "get in line." Her Mother knew about it, and so did the other two Wives he had after her, yet none of them said anything, or did anything about it. My mother learned their silence, and didn't quite know how to be a mother herself because of all of it.

In the end, I respect my parents more now than I ever did before, because I know more about what they went through. I know I felt uncared for because neither of my parents knew how to show love the way you'd imagine a "good family" would. I know I was fighting the wiring of my brain and my limited understanding of the world and my own emotions, with parents who'd never fully recovered from their own parental tragedies.

I was born with the ability and understanding of the darker natures of humanity, yet also the compassion not to become what my elders where. As my Mother says, she and my Father were meant to be for the time they where so they could produce "four for the good side." I'm one of those four, and I wouldn't be who I am if not for who they where and who they are, any more then they where and are influenced by their own parents, and they before them.

The "moral" if you will, of this story, is that you may not want to know what skeletons lay in your family closet, but knowing may provide a greater understanding to your family's individual perspectives. I did, and I'm a better person for it. To them, to others, and to myself.

|| another_proser ||

He gently kissed her on her dry lips, running his tongue against her teeth, tasting her honeyed nectar and wanting more. He caressed her palm and drew his fingers along the creases. Stroking her hair, he remembered when it was rich and full and shining in the sun. The silver threads in her hair felt rough and sensual to his calloused thumbs. He looked with love at her slightly rounded body and caught her as her left knee gave out in electric pain. She was even more beautiful than she had ever been as the present blocked out his memories of the past.

She gazed up at her man and saw his bony shoulders supporting her and giving her warmth. The wrinkles on his face were evidence of the joys and travails of their life together. Wistfully, she remembered his old fashioned proposal when he got down on one knee and asked her to share his life with him. He was there for her at the hospital, anxiously awaiting the birth of their first born. He didn’t care whether it was a boy or a girl since he just wanted a child that was part of them both. He brought her fresh picked flowers from their garden and told her that her vision of loveliness surpassed them all.

He recalled that she was always there for him, with grace and support, when he lost his job, taking two months to find another one. When he became sick, she wiped his brow and bathed his fevered body. She always had little surprises for him such as his favorite meal. Often she would complete one of his chores to save him the effort knowing he worked so hard to support the family. She was kind and giving and loved their little brood. When it became necessary, she found a job and worked alongside him to ease the financial burdens.

Lovingly, she thought of the times when she was troubled and he encouraged her to talk out her problems. She worked on stretching their budget to afford all of them life’s little pleasures, knowing that he appreciated it. She remembered the two of them, encouraging their children to do their best without scolding them if they were imperfect. She emboldened her girls to ignore female stereotypes. She taught her boys to be kind and thoughtful and to treat women well.

She knew that her husband had set a wonderful example for their children as he endeavored to bring them all happiness. He chose his words carefully in order to build on all of their strengths. He held their children, played with them, helped them with their homework and demonstrated, by his own high standards, how the boys could become respectful and successful men and the girls could have self-esteem and aim for the sky.

Both of them set excellent examples by demonstrating their love to each other and their tenderness to their children. When it came time to let their children go, they assisted them in flying into the horizon. Their children were ready, knowing what to do after watching their parents live their full and rich lives.

Both of them took their grandchildren into their bosoms, loving and nurturing them. They tried to also set high ideals for them, although it was hard not to spoil them.

Sadly, they recognized that they were getting to the end of their bell-shaped curves as they gazed lovingly at each other. She accepted the fact that she did not hear so well and he could not walk as far. The two of them were having memory lapses, although in their state of mind, they really didn’t realize it. But the wonderful memories of the past were still with them.

He woke the next morning to find his wife still and without life. He tenderly kissed her cold lips one last time. Curling his frail body up next to her, he felt the life forces ebb from his body as he held her, thinking of her beauty and the milestones they had passed. As he took his last breath, he felt in his heart that they would remain together forever. The legacy would live on in their children.

The sound a mechanical hum echoing off walls

with a gentle crack or two during the day,

yet somehow always thunderous at night:

random groans and cracks booming throughout the house.

Eggshell white for forty-some years,

ageless if not for the scars –

scuff marks from children scratching for the cookie jar strategically placed at the top,

fingerprints a smudge that scrubbed off

but managed to leave an impression.

Frigid to the touch,

we huddled at its feet all-year-round

pressed against the solid lines and steel covering,

reaching for cool comfort and

a fraction of its calm.

Permission to peek inside was a great privilege –

five levels crammed to the top with every kind of delicacy there is,

from freshly baked Barbari bread

to boxes of pistachio-smothered baklava

and cream puffs the size of my fist.

All the contents were carefully catalogued through a system only she knew

with a hidden inventory kept under lock and key.

She brings it out during the nightly check-up and update –

a thick leather bound ledger in pristine condition,

the chocolaty leather as supple and soft as ever

with pages that crinkle like her skin and smell like her lilac scented perfume.

For all her military-grade security,

Grandma shared her trove with those intrepid enough to ask

and spread fear in the souls of those greedy enough to try without:

stories of getting locked inside,

squeezed, compressed, and pulverized like a can of paste

never to be seen again.

Sharing a wall with her room on the second floor,

the ancient fridge came with her dowry –

it spanned from floor to ceiling

looming over everyone,

with doors so heavy that two people were required to open it.

When she needed to retrieve something

Grandma recruited one of us grandchildren as her little helper,

promising to surprise us with some awesome dessert as a reward –

who was to be the day’s chosen one became quite the debate as our numbers increased,

generally resolved by an impromptu rock-paper-scissors tournament.

Opening it was quite the adventure –

the doors unhinged like the yawning mouth of some snow-monster,

breath a visibly icy blast unrelentingly pouring out,

but always worth the treasure I was retrieving.

The celebratory tea-parties were delicious

and groggy,

with the warmth of the kitchen thawing me out

as I dozed off to the sound of grandma humming

as she began to cook.

It was the rhythm of some ancient Persian poem or another,

I don’t recall exactly.

There were different tones for different dishes,

forecasting whether it will be a day of

sumac coated kabobs nestled in a hill of saffron-tinted rice,

green aash overflowing with reshteh noodles,

or fesenjan permeating the air with the fragrance of chicken

drenched in tangy pomegranate and finely ground walnut sauce.

My favorite were the days Grandma baked raisin cookies.

A visit to the fridge was required for those ingredients,

for she naturally made everything from scratch –

only the best for her family,

and of course, herself.