Have you heard of Mr. Finch? 

Nobody actually calls him like that, of course. He's Eddie for most students and professors. For the lucky enough to earn his disdain, he's just Finch. Just as his name suggests, his appearance is much like the small bird. Bulging eyes, square glasses, a hunch on his back, a mop of blond hair. According to the school program, he was supposed to teach us literature, but even now I'm still not quite sure what the class was about. Some days it was hour-long monologues about the way cameras moved behind actors, others it was about simmering in frustration over a government no one wishes to touch. He might not have been a patient tutor or a tutor at all. He might not have even liked us (I know for a fact he didn't, we were huge brats at the time and he was never afraid to voice his opinion). But the man was a whirlwind, a pileus. In words of the immortal John Mulaney, "He was the weirdest goddamn person I ever saw in my entire life".

Full of oddly specific opinions and idiosyncrasies, Finch paraded around a classroom full of entitled 15-year-olds and showered us with the wisdom you'd find inside a drunkard's mouth or a fortune cookie. His moods were as eccentric as his shirts. He was prone to melancholy and more than once left the classroom in a fit of rage. But on the days he felt like life was worth a dime. Oh, you'd want to see him then. The man sizzled with passion, exploded into a million sparks of something akin to, but that wasn't quite, hope. He was a monster put together with mismatched freedom speeches, protest songs, surrealist 80's movies. Finch breathed and moved like art in its purest, most pointless form. Void of any real purpose, enthralled by the mundane and the extravagant, speaking in tongues we were too afraid to listen to. In those moments he was the orchestra, and Leonard Bernstein raising the baton. He was the original sin, as well as the disgraced soul who in the process of biting an apple, created the first fuck-up in history. Both art and artist, and the irony born from trying to separate them. He was exclamation point, he was neon light, he was little town revolutionary. 

Finch was inspiring as an amalgamation of every hurting, disappointed, and perhaps misunderstood artist I've been taught (I know, I know. Happy artists exist. But this one is not about them, so don't get worked up over it). In the movement of his hands, in his long monologues, I found big names (Bob Dylan, Whitman, Buñuel). But the smaller names, those intrigued me far more. Names that won't go down in history, will burn as quick as they were lit up. Those stuck inside alleys in conventions, inside notebooks that will be thrown away or inside a first fanfiction. Names that are cinder as much as they're gunpowder. Names that I'll never know and neither will the world. 

And perhaps on a more important note (the cynic lenses of art are silently pried away, the show lights are shut down. It's all quieter once you look past the mask, isn't it?), Finch was much more than what fits inside me. He was wonderfully, shamelessly, painfully human.

"Well, I'm just one of those assholes that only complain but do nothing to change the situation," he confessed between laughs once. 

"I wasn't any good at school at your age. And now? Now I haven't got the brains to learn anything anymore,"

"Please don't handle any legal businesses in my class, it gives me a headache to see people your age speak like congressmen," 

And my favourite one, "I hoped for more, from all of you... I'll see you next year, then" And it was neither caring nor funny, but even then there was a flicker of naivety. Not quite hope, but close. I couldn't help but make a face and laugh. Not many people believed in us those days. Not that we gave them much to believe in. Bunch of stuck-up cherubs. Bunch of bottled-up devils. A joke on everyone before or after us.

And yet, as lost and helpless as everyone seemed to be in the classroom, as much of a sleep paralysis of a year that was, Eddie Finch always rose up with the right words to inspire something, somewhere inside me (and once the play is over and I'm alone behind closed curtains, I dare to call it hope). 

Days passed by similarly

until I started seeing differences again,

in browner water filters,

spoons of cinnamon. It was an unclenching of jaw,

a slow unsquinting at any sign of sun.

Until I could encounter someone else

with your name & feel the same calm

I had moments before our meeting.

An unfurling, an opening, a delicate

unraveling of wind.

I thought I had outlived it,

the waiting, that now I serviced light

& its offerings. That the wanting

moon you made of me had finally stopped

moving & settled, & this was it, then,

this was the after: a clearing crusted

with crushed leaves, a gap between

trees & their branches so big that I could spot

a hint of sky, the first & only beautiful

blue thing I’d ever really seen.

The color in a context so unreal to me

that I came back home, dying

to be in the before again, the times

when I was recognizably blue, as in sad, as in down,

as in I didn’t know the end yet & thought

the inevitable was still uncertain,

that I was petaled & perennial,

& it was summer forever like every song you hate

& I had not yet written your name on a slip of paper

& dropped it in tea & drank.

Light slips through the blinds, slivers of gold illuminating the room. Chains engraved with dates and memories bind him to his bed, eyes open because there are less flattering things to reminisce about when they're closed.

(Remember that one time four years ago?)

Groggy composure contorts into a grimace. He groans, wiping a sluggish hand over his face at an attempt to clean the memory from his conscious. It does nothing more than cover his vision with temporary darkness, and the memory resurfaces, a hot mess of familiar faces and an embarrassing past self.

Long hair and a terrible fashion sense. Graphic tees and camo pants.

He's found a better style.

(Though, anything could be considered better than the graphic-tee-and-camo-pants combination. Even his birthday suit, because at least he loves his body more than he did all those years ago. He likes to think that it shows with how he carries himself. And the fact that he actually has some meat on his bones, now.)

He shifts, thinking that the smaller movements might give him the energy to actually wake up. His weighted blanket covers his waist, but not his chest, and after an eternity of about two minutes (in disassociation time), he realizes that it's fucking freezing, and lifts a (not actually) fifty pound arm to pull the blanket up to cover him in a coccoon of what he wished was an actual person. Or maybe a cat.

(But oh, the voice he's beaten back with a stick starts to mock, you know who you wish was here with you, cuddling and warm in this cold room of yours—)

Another eternity of cringing, flinching away at awkward interactions with her, because who the Hell knows how to act around attractive women? His face burns, but at least the blush warms his body in his room, frigid from winter and a fan left on for gray noise.

The fan. He focuses on it, the noise of the three blades working in perfect mechanical synchrony to pull him back into the lazy river of a thoughtless mind, streams of words that lead to a void that he will never truly recall when he returns from his place in space. An empty canvas painted with invisible ink, and—

And thud goes something outside his bedroom door, and his soul falls back to his bed.

(How poetic.)

The birds sing outside his window, and he lifts his head to watch dust trickle in the sunlight, the occassional shadow of a sparrow greeting him.

South-facing windows were a terrible creation, he thinks absent-mindedly, eyes half-glaring at the sun and its position directly in front of his comfortable bed. Extra pillows piled up in front of the side closest to the window, so when he was completely horizontal, he would (usually) be perfectly hidden from the blinding rays.

Nothing more painful than a south-facing window.

Nothing—

—a quiet puff of laughter, not humorous but awkward, confused; eyes flicker everywhere around the room and you are oblivious, blind because of infatuation, because a confession could never be rejected, not by you—

—alright, maybe there were things.

Guilt grabs and twists his gut into a nauseous concoction, because he was an asshole when he was younger. Being raised by a narcissist does that to someone, but it's not like he isn't an asshole now. It's just different— he's a bitch because he doesn't let people push him around.

He's a bitch because he speaks his mind, and since he's AFAB* (he wished it meant A Fabulous, Arrogant Bastard), people like him aren't supposed to speak their mind. But he does it anyway, even if the repercussions make him add another terrible memory to cringe about late at night when he's trying to sleep.

(Who needs sleep?)

After all, that's what coffee's for.

Coffee. What time is it? The thought repeats, echoesechoesechoes until he finally has the energy to push himself up. Slow, perhaps to delay the inevitable for a few seconds longer. He grabs a sweater, sweatpants, slips them on.

Feels like that's used up all of the energy he has, and he blinks slowly. Moves like a sloth, because don't they move slow to save energy? But he curses at himself, because dumbass, you're not a sloth.

Manages to (finally) get out of bed, finds his phone. Looks at the time.

Then he hauls ass back under the covers, because the inevitable can be delayed for a little while longer.

_

*AFAB = Assigned Female At Birth.

Yes I'm questioning my identity. No I don't care about pronouns, this just always happens when I'm PMS-ing and I felt like writing it out. Yes this is about me.

“I don’t wan’ ‘em on my ship,” Solara says. “Just throw ‘em overboard tomorrow morn’ ’n we’ll be done with it, yeah?”

“Maybe we ought to think about it a bit, Cap’n,” Lieutenant Lei answers, leaning against the desk mildly. “It’s why we called everyone prone to making’ good decisions here, ain’t it?”

Tuffy perks up, raising her hand.

Solara frowns. “Aye, everyone important and Tuffy.”

Tuffy lowers her hand.

“Zelle's taken a liking to the jay bird,” Lei fills in. “Even though all they do is sit up on the crow’s nest.”

“Zelle takes a liking to anything with a bit of a scowl and ears to listen to music,” Solara shoots back. She huffs, pulling her feet up onto her desk grumpily. “We’re talkin’ smitten if Jaybird can play a fiddle.”

“I play the fiddle,” Tuffy says.

“Tuffy, one more word out of you…”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Give them a chance,” Aurelie starts, soothing. She puts a hand on Solara’s shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Like you did with me.”

“All due respect, lass,” El breaks in, crossing her arms. “Capitaine took you into the crew ’cause yer pretty, ye sing well, and yer a dang mermaid. The stowaway’s just…a stowaway.”

“Maybe the stowaway can play the fiddle with me,” Tuffy says. Solara reaches towards her sword, and Tuffy backtracks. “A-aye, I meant, no stowaways on our ship, bilge rat.”

Solara sighs, pinching her nose bridge. The navy was already after her and her crew every day, and they were still tracking their bounty. Could they even afford more weight on deck?

“Jaybird could know a thing or two about the treasure map, Captain,” Lei points out, gesturing to the papers strewn about the desk. “They sounded like a dyin’ seal when the water started fill-in’ in, but they don’ look all that naive.”

“And we’re still looking for Cleor’s Chamber,” Aurelie supplies. She absently tucks a lock of Solara’s hair back into place. “Come on, Solara.”

“Uh,” Tuffy says, watching the two of them. “Are we all just, er, okay with this, or…”

“I could use another hand at the cannons, Cap’n,” El backs up, shrugging. “Jai doesn’t look half bad.”

“And if they know something about Cleor, we’re one step closer to our bounty,” Lei finishes.

“Oh, good God,” Solara says, throwing her arms into the air. “Fine. Fine! You’d think we’re nuns takin’ in strays instead of pirates on the Interstellar, blimey. Eugh. Tuffy, go get me a drink.”

“Ha! Excellent joke, Cap’n.”

“Tuffy.”

“Aye aye, right away, ma’am.”

Aurelie smiles, her canines winking like pearls. “To Cleor’s Chamber?”

“To Cleor’s Chamber,” Lei nods, grinning back as she hops off the desk. “And the treasures that lie with it.”

“And the hopefully decent looking men, too,” El sighs.

“And the glory,” Solara says, standing up from her desk. She draws her sword, smiling broadly at her reflection, “that it will bring to our names.”

If a list had to be made of two things that irritated Captain Solara the most, it would be made of two understandable items: easily avoidable issues with her ship, and men. And there were no men in her vicinity as of now, so.

Solara's jaw twitches. "Repeat yourself, Lieutenant."

"Our cabin boy's insisting there's somethin' nasty caught in our nets," Lieutenant Lei supplies. She shifts from foot to foot, sheepish. "Cap'n, I really think it's oughta--"

"If Tuffy got caught in one of the cannons again, I don' wanna hear it. Just tell one of the powder monkeys to get 'er out, yeah?"

"No, Captain," Lieutenant Lei answers, shaking her head. "It's really somethin'. The bos'n thinks ye'll wants to see it."

Solara frowns. The bos'n was hesitant to entertain Tuffy as is, so if they thought it was important...

Solara sighs, fixing the brim of her hat. "Let's head over to 'em, then. Best not be wasting my time, lieutenant."

Lieutenant Lei gives a tight nod. She hoists herself over a wooden ledge, leading them over to where a majority of the crew is gathered on the deck. A net full of...something--it's too covered in bilge and sea filth to really make it out--struggles against the ropes.

A collective murmur rings out through the crew, and Solara's jaw ticks. But that's before she sees it.

Or--sees her.

"What in God's good name," Solara says, hand flying to her sword, "is that?"

Tuffy bounds over to her side, excited. "Dunno, Cap'n, but it certainly ain't God."

"Tuffy."

"Yes, Captain?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, Captain."

"It's got scales," Lieutenant Lei observes, eyes wide in wonder. "Looks like a lass, though?"

Solara makes her way through the crowd. She crouches down, peering through the net, and sure enough, the creature stares back at her with eerie human eyes. It gives a small flail, a pathetic aborted motion like a fish caught above water.

"It talk?" Solara asks, still observing the thing. It was shrouded in gold--gold scales, gold collar.

"Yes, Cap'n," Tuffy supplies, dutiful. She hesitates, clearing her throat. "Says her, uh...says her name is Aurelie."

The creature--Aurelie--stares back at her, eyes narrow and alight with something like...defiance. Solara snorts, drawing her sword. She gives a lopsided smile as the creature flinches at the sight of it.

"Get 'er some clothes, Tuff," Solara says. She tilts her head. "Sit her down in me cabin. I wanna hear this thing squeal."

classically poetic: you throwing your sorrows

out of the window of a moving car. you write

a to-do list in your sleep & number one

is to leave me. i turn into luggage, your

favorite t-shirt, the mixtape i made,

so you might take me with you. it’s easy:

grabbing the music inside myself and fleeing.

not looking back. darling, i think there’s a monster

behind us, but it’s alright, we’re in the train now,

and you’re listening to your favorite song. drum-

beat and guitar riff. piano and lonely woman

who sings like she’s the only one in the world.

the windows don’t open in here but we don’t

have anything we want to abandon anymore.

whose face is that i see beneath

the scorching desert sun?

a silhouette upon the sand

shadowed in the burning light

robed in white and golden silk

eyes bright and round as pearls

their scarf so long flows in the wind

curling and twisting like a tendril

they’d made this journey many times

they’d do it hundreds more

through burning sand and blinding sun

through curse left by the ancients

they’d push through violent winds and snow

a hundred times again

they make it look so simple,

the mountain not so steep

i want to join them in their steps

to follow one so wise

there’s nothing else so painful as

a journey by myself

but they act as if it’s easy

a mountain oh so steep

they wonder why i stumble

in the overwhelming heat

they wonder why i tremble

in the violent freezing winds

they turn to me and ask

why its so difficult a task

but i do not respond

beneath the scorching desert sun

"and i don't want your pity, i just / want somebody near me,

guess i'm a coward, i just /

wanna feel alright."

--nobody by mitski.

today, i do not know who i am. today, i cannot

tell heartbreak from my own left hand. i have no

body to tell me if i'm doing this right, cutting you

out ever so gently and not being surprised

that you don't notice. makes me wonder if i was ever home

at all. your words just made things worse, but it's the thought

that counts, right? maybe it's a good thing i have no

body to ask if it hurts.

i didn't want to make a big show out of things, i just

wanted someone to care. hold me by the face and tell me

i was real. push a little bit beyond the cold formality of

how you usually freaking tell an unstable person what you

think they need to hear, because i thought we were more

intertwined than that. but in the end, who do we have?

maybe i'll stitch us back.

but back then, you made me feel like i had no

body. nobody at all.

(October is so long gone now; the leaves are down in my neighborhood and

it is cold cold cold)

   I think I'll apply to Harvard I think I'll keep it a secret

 so then when I don't get in I'm not the failure or the punch line       

       of some long time family joke.

        Hilarious.

I've always been that dopamine snort but now I sit still still still at e-church sermons

that have long stopped being gone to.

She touches my arm and it tenses. I hope my hair grows by next Christmas,

this year's my free pass--don't touch me,     

   I beg.

         God, don't touch.

My show got turned down for something called "When Santa Lost His Ho Ho Ho"

and I wish I could say that I'm lying; I'm not.

And I wish I could say I'll put on my show but I probably won't, I won't let them

  keep it for January it won't even be Christmas anymore and--

Brief. 

    God, I'll keep my letter of thanks and resignation brief brief brief

           so I can shove it in my pocket and keep it for when I need it,

           brief. So brief, so

           deep deep deep, so

I can't help but wonder if God is waiting for me at college. I laugh with my

constant state of fear of the future but maybe She walks the hallowed halls.

Her walls are enthroned in feminist posters and ivy,

and She is just waiting for me to come so we can have tea and talk like old friends.

When you grow up do you want to go to law school? 

You always were so smart.

(November) going bad bad bad

   Put little candies in my lunch and dress like a skater LIKE HELL.

     Learn the Romans loved their structures like they loved their own selves but

   what's toppled over is oh my heavenly hosts I'll have to tell Aunt B--

              if this is a warning sign I'm an idiot for not taking it.

But we haven't spoken in months, she'll just laugh, call me cute and ever-changing.

I'm the angsty teen niece but it isn't bad--I just wonder how much she still knows,

and she posted her old wedding photos on facebook.

Aunt B made a beautiful bride.

And when a Roman structure toppled the marble was hard but the Romans 

          were fine.

     The place was not salvaged, but they rebuilt it on the ground

       and kept it holy.

I'll be the one who made it out--the compass faces North to the Lord of the sun

              She waits for me at college,

     She threw the paintbrushes out the window but I didn't even notice.

                      I was reading again.

(December will shine like the day,

I was promised.)