She looks like me, I think. Thick, black hair parted to the side bearing her calloused, violin bow fingers, perfectly even skin from a lack of sun exposure, small, delicate features taken from a mother who looked too young to be in her late forties, too conventionally foreign to be regarded as anything but exotic. She looks like me, I think, in spite of the obvious height difference that dictated the loose fit of my hand-me-down jeans and sweaters, in spite of the more mature, filled frame that gave the impression that we were more than only one year apart in all of our years of schooling together. In spite of our shared bathroom and consequent shower utilities, she was the softest, most lemon-and-sage-smelling person I'd ever come into contact with -- though arguably that was a given, considering that she was the only person I knew who bothered to go through handfuls and handfuls of lemon and sage lotion by the week -- and even now I can imagine the whiff of her perfume-like soap and shampoo just barely passing me by, unnoticed and caught all at once in her constant urge to hurry here, there, anywhere. Always rushing, rushing, rushing. The pudgy underside of a chin that I remember so fondly had already blossomed into that of the practical, busy young woman that I'd always known she would become before I'd graduated to a higher schooling, its definite, nearly sharpened lines demanding attention and respect from its viewers. She'd look more like herself if the rest of her appearance were formed to follow suit, I'm sure. That practical, busy topknot had been too carefully undone to cascade past her shoulders against the cotton lining of the casket, the simple daily application of medicated lip balm elevated to another level of beautification: cheeks a false, rosy pink, lips and eyes nearly drawn on in an imitation of what our mother had always wanted her to look. My sister beneath the glass looks a little too much like me now, with femininity pasted upon her features like a child playing grown-up in her mother's clothes, and I can barely force myself to think of the body as someone who had once held so much vivid, raw life force within her veins. Enough to shock a post-cardiac arrest victim to life, were she still in the working condition to perform such actions. But this stranger beneath the glass carries neither the scent of lemon and sage lotion, nor the telltale callouses of a habitual musician upon her fingertips, nor the plain and undone features of one who had spent innumerable hours poring over medical textbooks and research papers, dozens upon dozens of factoids that she used to tell me before the pills, before the smoke.

I stare down at this caricature of my sister glumly.

My mother -- our mother, actually, in spite of the fact that she had all but abandoned her after my sister's ventures into unspoken things past her dictated medical things -- clasps her fingers around my shoulders in the duration of a moment before releasing me, an intended gesture of comfort that does anything but. Isn't she lovely? She seems to whisper, smiling tearfully. Isn't she beautiful? She traces the glass in an impression of my sister's perfect, demanding chin before pausing over the gash hidden under the blue dress, thoughtful. My sister had gone through nearly a decade of medical school; she'd known where to injure herself quickly and efficiently with as a little of a chance of being saved as possible. My mother murmurs something again about the pleasing aesthetics of her formulated appearance again, and I quash the hint of anger and annoyance that threatens to rise in my chest. I had been the one to find her, after all. Even on the bathroom floor she had looked more like herself than this beauty of a dead body lying against cushioned slats.

Breath in. Breath out. There is absolutely no possible way, I tell myself, that this beautiful stranger within this beautiful box could have ever been anything close to resembling my sister.

All I remember is lying on the couch and crying in front of my family; the Mobile Crisis lady watching as well. Her stare was more piercing than my confused mother , and her sounds more heart wrenching than my sobbing father. She told me that they were looking to find me "a bed" . I didn't understand what that meant for a while. What do you mean? I have a perfectly fine bed in the next room over. She told me I was going "away". Once more I felt confused. What's so bad about where I am now?   My mom chimed in, told me I had gone to far this time. I wasn't sure as to what I had done that was " too far" . It was a normal day; at least normal for me. I waited on that couch for 3 days. I wasn't allowed out of my parents sight. I used the rest room with the door open, mom sat in the bathroom while I showered, they watched me vividly as I wrote my poems. It sounded like it would be nice , having my parents undivided attention. I was wrong, it's only nice when they want to give you the attention. My parents made it so obvious, they didn't want me in sight. I was beyond restless. I needed to know where they were taking me. Why were they treating me like this?, like-like some sort of child!  I didn't understand. I wanted the anticipation to be over. I remember that night, the night of the third day on the couch. The woman that had been at my house called. She said they had found me a bed. My mom told me it was time to go, and I got in the car. I asked "where are we going mom?": and she replied with " they found you a bed ,finally ",she stutters, " at valley grove psychiatric institute." 

It's hard to pin down one time that I was restless. I have anxiety so I can say I'm restless a lot. I am the most restless when I am lying in bed waiting to fall asleep at night; when my brain doesn't want to shut up and there's more going on in my mind than my body will allowI like equating it with a hamster on a wheel it just keeps going and going and going… The best example I think is when my best friend came out to me, I think I was up all night because our conversation kept running around in my head until I fell asleep. I feel like my mind always has to solve problems when I'm restless or at least is trying to like I have to solve a million problems before I fall asleep. I hate that! I don't really have a good way to deal with restlessness it's just there until I can replace it with something else. Usually I start writing stories in my head like the next in 1 of the stories I am writing, or I will make up a completely new story. Sometimes I wake up from dreams with stories in my head.

My head is too crowded and noisy,

I can't hear the truth through the throng,

Throbbing the pathways in my thoughts.

Reflected in my throat by a lump,

So colossal I can hardly breathe.

I'm bombarded by the bustle,

That resonates with the cramped cluster,

Easily comparable to a food market in Gloucester.

One with freebies.

The river flows down the dock,

I don't know where it sprung from,

I've tried many a map,

But I don't have the resources.

So I force this flow to stop.

I tell everyone to go home,

Hide away the unknown,

And return to the un-peaceful,

Quiet of on my own.

I worry that the boy I bury,

Is all alone and I can't tell,

If the tears are his,

Or if there is more of me to learn.

I have to shut it down.

Shut it down and stand firm,

So I don't catch myself dying again.

I try to keep my brain in the room.

The room I am sitting in.

Keep my hands by my sides.

I need to be weapon-less,

But disarmed feels dangerous,

So I jiggle my foot or rock,

From side to side and then a scramble,

Of tears convey the tide.

It's just a second but I keep it in,

By slapping my eyes,

I am dreaming of knives till my head collides,

With the side till I get up and pace it off,

But I find myself at the fridge or a shop,

With a snack in my gob,

Far from the feeling that started this off.

Without even knowing I have run,

So far but it is never quite enough,

To escape the bazaar. It's a long way from the start,

But it feels like I'm stuck in the thick of it,

Surrounded by the noise. Surrounded by the fire.

I don't know if I have ever been any more saddened than I was in that one game against Santiago high school. It was the eighth football game during my freshman year. I wasn't good enough to start the game, but luckily for me, there was a 5th quarter. The 5th quarter is designed for the kids who don't get much or any playing time. This game was made extremely significant due to the fact that it was a rivalry game and I must say, I was extremely nervous to go into the game, I could feel the hairs standing on my arms, and that horrible sensation in my gut that made me feel like I needed to puke. However, my time was up. I ran out onto the field with my defense and waited for the offense to get set. When the offense came out into their formation, I saw my opponent. He was about 6'4 and 235 pounds. At that time, I was about 5'9 and 190 pounds. I did not fear him and I couldn't have been more ready to compete. Unfortunately, nothing went according to plan. He completely dominated me! He pushed me to the side like I was a child. I was TERRIBLE, to say the least, and I have never felt more embarrassed, angry, and most of all saddened.  I remember crying after the game, the way I felt walking back to the bus was almost unbearable. I had a hard time sleeping that night. I was restless. my body was physically tired from all of the hard hitting that I had to endure. my soul felt damaged, like thousands needles piercing through me. I couldn't get my mind off this horrid performance. Thanks to my teammates and coaches, I was able to bounce back and focus on the next game and the next challenge.

Never was it thought before

Never did it came to mind,

however,

something went missing at the back of mind,

then it was realized,

the fact that what's going on in present is nothing else,

but the same old thing,

which happened somewhere in the past is happening all over again in the present.

Strange are the ways of life

Strange seems life,

however, that's life and life continues along with the present moment in time.

While in present every effort is made to find something unique,

something different,

something refreshing still something relevant with regards to the present moment in time.

Something distinguishingly different so as to make sure that the same sort of medioricity does not become a part of life all over again.

As of now in the present it's time to make sure that the restlessness that has seeked into the mind, body and soul finds a way out with the passing moment in time.

The sooner it happens,

better will be the way of living life,

not only with regards to the present,

but also with respect to the future,

since everything will be safe, sound and everything secured.

Definitely everything will seem sensible,

if not completely wise,

then at that point in time in life.

Routine is boring,

since routine ruins life,

if a mistake is repeated twice.

So better way of doing things is be what you are,

do what you want and in doing so remember you have got only one life and quite essentially that is enough if everything is dealt with properly in that one given life.

throughout this world, there's a bunch of the other girls but are any of them like me?

from the stories in my eyes to the thickness of my thighs, you found someone as unique?

no?

so if one of a kind, why do you lie?

saying I'm a copy and I follow other kinds?

what type of drug did you have in your mind to tear down a person who already runs and hides?

to the one that I once loved,

was my love not good enough? 

is that why you threw me away like a diamond in the rough?

do you know how much it hurt to feel like I wasn't worth it?

how do you think I felt when you tell me I don't fit?

just like peanut butter and jelly, so different but opposities attract

instead you broke my sheild and left me vulnerable for attack

yet I kept falling back

"you're gonna change!"

"it won't be the same!"

giving excues for you cause I couldn't own up to the fact that you're playing a game

lead me to think that I was the problem

hm, what could I do to solve it?

was there a piece not fitting like tetris

cause I never thought I'd get this far with you

my thoughts grew worse as I clouded my mind with the negatives

I'm fat, I'm ugly and I don't fit in

maybe it's cause my skin's too dark or my hair isn't of the latest trends

I hated myself and it was all my fault cause I wasn't what you wanted

after I teared myself down, you took what was left me

pieced me back together with false needles like you resurrected me

they'd tell me to leave you cause you would be the death of me

 but I closed them out and pulled you in and for sometime we were happy

but there's always things that aren't meant to be 

you were one of them 

Stillness, staleness, silence crawling under skin. Want to scream, break the silence but they are asleep. Can’t wake them. Splash paint on a canvas? No, too messy can’t regret art no. Write? No, the typing tick a tack a tick of a keyboard, words spilling out that mean nothing in the morning. Stir crazy. That’s what it is. Creep outside, skin chilled by the cold. It is snowing, soft flakes that kiss skin. Change out of shorts? No time. The road is silent but open, free. The car’s clock claims it to be 3:00 am as the radio begins to blast Christmas music. Turn the music down a bit. A bit more. Much better.

Onto the road.

Light under the lamp poles, darkness tinging the edges of vision. The light blinks red over and over. Check the road for oncoming cars. None to be seen. The snow is picking up, still slow and safe. Breathtaking. Keep driving. All the lights are green. Storefronts are blackened. Pass a twenty-four-hour donut shop. Pass a twenty-four-hour McDonalds. QFC. The itch has soothed but the nerves are there. The air is cold but strangely clean as if the night cleansed the city.

Inside the store. Long faces with dreary eyes moving items, turning labels, grinding the grave yard shift.smile at them. Browse the store. It is a store like any other, all the fixings one expects at the grocers. But there are no other people there of their own volition. Pick up chips. The crinkle of the bag is grounding, the weight keeps the moment present. Go to the register no one is there but a frog shaped dog toy saying squeeze me for service. Squeak. A woman shuffles out. Pay in cash. Leave.

Onto the road again.

Lyrics thrum, something religious mother would sing. There are other wanderers on the road but the adventure is done. Back to the stillness. Back to the quiet. Keep the energy of the moment alive.