Not once have we met. Not once have we talked. Not once have we seen each other or exchanged a word. But, all I know is I like everything about you. Todo de ti. Your eyes, your face, your smile... everything. I take in everything I can get. I know a lot about you, yet you don't even know I exist. So, here you go: we are the same age (but you are older by a few months), we both speak more than one language, we share similar interests, and we are both strangers to each other. The basics. I hope we can cross paths one day. You never know... the butterfly effect, right? You know, I've pictured it before: a small town outside Barcelona, on a random sidewalk. We're walking in opposite directions. We bump into each other (a typical meet-cute, huh?), but apologise and keep going. Later, we run into each other again. This time, it's in this somewhat empty coffee shop. I'm sitting down, on my phone, most likely. You go to order and out of nowhere, we make eye contact. We realise we know each other from somewhere. But where? You realise you bumped into me earlier. And then, I 'figure it out'. You're not unknown, especially in those parts. I say your name, in a tone that makes it seem like a question. You say yes, thats me. I don't ask about you or your career. Instead, I take the 'unconventional' route: initiating a talk, as if we were friends. We exchange information, and go from there. A sort of snowball effect happens. We become close real fast, and my own career intertwines with yours (I promise, this isn't intentional. I've actually had this career picked out for years). We undeniably have romantic chemistry. I'm patient. Just being near you is enough. We come to our senses (feelings-wise) and decide to give it a shot. It goes really well. Our relationship is a work conflict, though. If you knew, you'd understand. I decide to switch to another 'team', so we can be together. It would be the best decision we would had ever made. We end up engaged, then married. About a year and a half later, we bear children. I even have their names picked out. You'd love them. I don't have much else after that. We are 'dependent' on your job. Where you are, we are. You know, the future is unplanned. Who know what will happen. All I know is how you make me feel - como me haces sentir. Es que, contigo quiero despertar. But for now, all I can do is dream. Fantasize about our meet-cute and how our relationship will develop. But hey, don't worry. I'm crossing my fingers for us.

(Spanish lines are from Rauw Alejandro's song, "Todo de Ti.")

i guess they're right when they say

lovers live a lie.

no relationships' foundation can consist of only truth and happiness,

there's always lies. secrets.

manipulation of the mind.

leading you on with false statements and testimony

until you fall

hook, line, and sinker.

and how could you not?

don't discredit this statement, for you have done it before.

everyone has.

perhaps it was just a white lie,

but it was a lie nonetheless.

deceit comes in many ways,

and it all starts with reflection and a statement.

you see, deceit is a tricky thing.

maybe there is some truth,

some part that isn't lying and doesn't want to hurt you.

or is there?

is everything fake?

a lie created to persuade and change the mind?

yes.

you know, it very easy to do — as this whole poem is a lie.

or...

is it?

TW: murder, suicide (razor blades), mentions of blood

It's no wonder John Milton named the capital of Hell "Pandæmonium" — I can see that now. I had planned meticulously over the past week on how to rid myself of her, it's like the universe knew it was coming. After the birth of Giovanni, she had started losing it. About a month after his birth, she started crying every day and sleeping less. She started to be possessive of Giovanni, too. A month or so after that, it was clear she was depressed. She was also angry. She just couldn't connect with Giovanni in the way she wanted to. I guess she had this whole ideal scenario envisioned where she and the baby were inseparable. Her fault, I guess. It hurt to see this loving and affectionate person become distant. But, it wasn't only her feelings that were changing either. As this went on, I lost love for her. Soon, I became infuriated with her. She kept the baby from me because, "He loves me, he's just reluctant to show it. Trust me." I would stand in silence, getting angry. It'd been a while since I was able to spend time with my baby. She would notice my facial expression change and cry, "I'm serious, Philippe. He loves me!" Her insecurity was eating her up. One day, I went to comfort her while she was having an episode when I saw her wrist. Multiple scars were lined across. I mentioned it would be good to see a doctor, as it became increasingly obvious she had a severe form of postpartum depression. Turns out, that was the most wrong thing I could've said because her episode became worse.

I got fed up real fast. I was helpless. Then, it clicked. How did I not notice it before? The universe was giving me the answer all along. It would be hard, but I knew what I had to do. I already had a great excuse, but I didn't have a way to get her where I wanted her. I couldn't use aconite, it would show up in her toxicology results. I couldn't slip anything into her food either, for the same reasons. Somehow, I needed to paralyze her without poison. Then it came to me. A quick encounter. I had been gifted in the field of anatomy — to many people's surprise. I knew the quickest way would be the brachial artery, but it was too deep and would take a while to cut and do the job. Without a paralytic, it would be impossible to accomplish. But, a quick and powerful slash across her carotid artery would do the trick. It would be fast and efficient, completing the job in almost the same time. All I had to do was set the stage.

I told her I was preparing a dinner for us, to which she refused. I told her it was for our anniversary — when we first met. Everything was falling into place. But, it was easy. Too easy. It was suspicious, but I shook it off.

Soon, the day came. I made us spaghetti arrabbiata with an arugula salad on the side, her favourites. We ate in silence, except for when she complimented my food. After dinner, I asked if we could talk. She wasn't up to the idea, of course. I told her it would be quick and she reluctantly agreed. I told her how sorry I felt for her and how she didn't seem to be able to connect with Giovanni. "I don't need your pity," she said. "But he's my baby too," I said. I could see the tears start to well up in her eyes. "Don't cry," I pleaded, "I have a proposal. Take care of yourself. Go run a bath and relax. I think we still have some bath salts, which could be a nice touch. While you're in there, I can watch Giovanni. I know you don't like it, but it might just help you relax. You haven't done much of that since you became obsessed with the baby." She was fuming, but she saw the desperation in my eyes. "Okay."

I could hear the bathwater start to run. I went up to the nursery to set Giovanni in his crib. When I laid him down, I whispered, "I'm sorry, Gio. But, it's for the best. Your mom wants to keep you for herself and I can't have that. I just love you too much. Have you seen her? She's not okay enough to provide for you. I am. Don't worry, daddy has a plan. You wouldn't notice if she was gone. You don't care. Why would you? All mommy does is take you with her and lock herself in the room with you. You must hate it. Hate her. And it's okay. I do too. That's why I'm doing this — so she can leave us alone and let us spend time together. She will never take you away again." I put his blanket over him and walked towards the bathroom.

Call me diligent, ultracareful, psychotic even, but can you blame me for wanting to get away with it? Simply put, I needed her gone and somewhere to place the blame. And what better way to do it than to blame it on herself? Clearly, she was struggling with her mental health. I can say she was trying to better herself — or so it seemed. After being suspicious of her stay in the bathroom, I walked in to find her dead. Call the police, and go on from there. The thing is, I had to time it perfectly. Nothing can go wrong. She needs to be dead for a reasonable time, forty-five minutes at least. Anything over an hour would make it seem suspicious. If I needed to, she could be left out a little longer, but she can’t be left to the point of rigor mortis. Then, I’d be screwed. I also needed an alibi — which was going to be the hard part. I decided to be washing dishes. I would, and then watch television while Giovanni was sleeping. Soon, I’d walk back up and notice she wasn't out. I get worried, walk in and see her dead body. People knew she was struggling, so it would be a reasonable story. I never hurt her — though I wanted to sometimes. Nobody would be the wiser.

She was already in the bath when I walked in. "Philippe, didn't you say this was my relaxing time?" I did. Her eternal relaxation. I walked closer. "Philippe, get out." I made it to the edge of the tub. I went in for a final kiss. "Fine. One kiss then you're out." She tilted her head towards me and closed her eyes. Perfect, I thought. I took out a small razor blade I had picked up from the bathroom sink counter. I brought her head in closer, and with the blade, slit deeply and quickly across the side of her neck. "Philippe!" she cried out in agony. I stepped away, but she leaned over the edge of the tub, letting the blood onto the floor.

***

Fuck. This is complete chaos. My personal pandæmonium, if you will. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. I gently move her head into the tub and let her blood infuse the water. I quickly go and open the cabinet under the sink and take out the bleach. I pour it into a bucket we have in there and I eyeball around a quarter cup. I add about 60-ish ounces and dip a spare cloth in there. Somehow, she had managed to let out a lot more blood than expected when she was leaning against the edge. I clean to the best of my abilities. After cleaning, I plop her arm on the edge, to make it seem more realistic. And then I remember. "Shit!" The razor blade. How did I forget? I took plastic bags from the cabinet and wrapped them around my hands. I moved her right arm and placed the blade in her right hand. If they ask, I'll say I used it to shave earlier. I switch out the old blade from my razor and set it aside to throw it away elsewhere. I clean up and get out of there. I shove the razor blade into the bags that I placed on my hand and shoved those into our regular trash. Suddenly, I hear my name. "Philippe!" It's her, but how is that possible? I killed her. "Philippe!" I close my eyes. I must be going insane, I think. "Philippe?"

I opened my eyes, afraid of what I would see.

***

It's her. What in the world? "Philippe, are you okay? You're the one who suggested this dinner." I must have been imagining the whole thing. I quickly snapped into reality, and responded, "You're right. I'm sorry. I lost my train of thought." She got up. "I said, I am going to take your advice." "What advice?" I questioned. "To take a bath and relax. Hopefully, it helps with Giovanni." I was confused. Did she seem open to the idea? No, it couldn't be. This is just a ruse to get closer and then suddenly take Gio away from me. I can't fall for her tricks.

She walked upstairs and I could hear the bathwater start to run. I go place Giovanni in his crib, and tell him everything will be okay. "Daddy's here." I place his blanket over him and walk into the bathroom. She's already in the bath when I walk in. I make a stop at the sink, and pick up a razor blade. She doesn't notice it. "Philippe, didn't you say this was my relaxing time?" I did. "You're right." She gives me a look. "So," she says, "Why are you still here?" "I'm sorry, Eleanor." I walk closer to her. "So very sorry." I lean in for a kiss, and I bring her head in...

It's no wonder John Milton named the capital of Hell "Pandæmonium" — I can see that now. I had planned meticulously over the past week on how to rid myself of her, it's like the universe knew it was coming. After the birth of Giovanni, she had started losing it. About a month after his birth, she started crying every day and sleeping less. She started to be possessive of Giovanni, too. A month or so after that, it was clear she was depressed. She was also angry. She just couldn't connect with Giovanni in the way she wanted to. I guess she had this whole ideal scenario envisioned where she and the baby were inseparable. Her fault, I guess. It hurt to see this loving and affectionate person become distant. But, it wasn't only her feelings that were changing either. As this went on, I lost love for her. Soon, I became infuriated with her. She kept the baby from me because, "He loves me, he's just reluctant to show it. Trust me." I would stand in silence, getting angry. It'd been over a week since I was able to spend time with my baby. She would notice my facial expression change and cry, "I'm serious, Philippe. He loves me!" Her insecurity was eating her up. One day, I went to go comfort her while she was having an episode when I saw her wrist. Multiple scars were lined across. I mentioned it would be good to see a doctor, as it became increasingly obvious she had a severe form of postpartum depression. Turns out, that was the most wrong thing I could've said because her episode became worse.

One day, after dinner, I asked if we could talk. She wasn't up to the idea, of course. I told her it would be quick and she reluctantly agreed. I told her how sorry I felt for her and how she didn't seem to be able to connect with Giovanni. "I don't need your pity," she said. "But he's my baby too," I said. I could see the tears start to well up in her eyes. "Don't cry," I pleaded, "I have a proposal. Take care of yourself. Go run a bath and relax. I think we still have some bath salts, which could be a nice touch. While you're in there, I can watch Giovanni. I know you don't like it, but it might just help you relax. You haven't done much of that since you became obsessed with the baby." She was fuming, but she saw the desperation in my eyes. "Okay."

She was already in the bath when I walked in. "I come for a kiss," I say. She tilted her head towards me and closed her eyes. Perfect, I thought. I took out a small razor blade I had picked up from the bathroom sink counter. I brought her head in closer, and with the blade, slit deeply and quickly across the side of her neck. "Phillipe!" she cried out in agony. I stepped away, but she leaned over the edge of the tub, letting the blood onto the floor.

Fuck. This is complete chaos. My personal pandæmonium, if you will. Nothing was supposed to go wrong. I gently move her head into the tub and let her blood infuse the water. I quickly go and open the cabinet under the sink and take out the bleach. I pour it into a bucket we have in there and I eyeball around a quarter cup. I add about 60-ish ounces and dip a spare cloth in there. Somehow, she had managed to let out a lot more blood than expected when she was leaning against the edge. I clean to the best of my abilities. After cleaning, I plop her arm on the edge, to make it seem more realistic. And then I remember. "Shit!" The razor blade. How did I forget? I took plastic bags from the cabinet and wrapped them around my hands. I moved her right arm and placed the blade in her right hand. If they ask, I'll say I used it to shave earlier. I switch out the old blade from my razor and set it aside to throw it away elsewhere. I clean up and get out of there. I shove the razor blade into the bags that I placed on my hand and shoved those into our regular trash. Suddenly, I hear my name. "Philippe!" It's her, but how is that possible? I killed her. "Philippe!" I close my eyes. I must be going insane, I think. "Philippe?"

I open my eyes, afraid of what I would see. It's her. What in the world? "Philippe, are you okay? You're the one who suggested this dinner." I must have been imagining the whole thing. I quickly snapped into reality, and responded, "You're right. I'm sorry. I lost my train of thought." She got up. "I said, I am going to take your advice." "What advice?" I questioned. "To take a bath and relax. Hopefully, it helps with Giovanni." I was confused. Did she seem open to the idea? No, it couldn't be. This is just a ruse to get closer and then suddenly take Gio away from me. I can't be falling for her tricks.

She walks upstairs and I could hear the bathwater start to run. I go place Giovanni in his crib, and tell him everything will be okay. "Daddy's here." I place his blanket over him and walk into the bathroom. She's already in the bath when I walk in. I make a stop at the sink, and pick up a razor blade. She doesn't notice it. "Philippe, didn't you say this was my relaxing time?" I did. "You're right." She gives me a look. "So," she says, "Why are you still here?" "I'm sorry, Eleanor." I walk closer to her. "So very sorry." I lean in for a kiss, and I bring her head in...

I steadily pour my work into a bowl,

In a room so bare, it has very little stories to be told.

Light only shines for 14 hours a day.

I work as much as I can.

My life has become routine for me,

As day after day I work with the cows.

Simple, a word fit for describing me.

I feel as if I am one with my surroundings.

I don’t have much, similar to the walls.

But unlike them, I have care.

The walls, slowly leaving

are the one thing we do not have in common.

Its messes show proof nobody has been here.

Much like the room, my companions are around me

In the same place they’ve always been.

Mine pass, the rooms’ stay.

The room stands, confined to one area,

While I can walk free.

My surroundings are just like me,

Yet I am not like them.

peter waves goodbye as i

descend.

no emotion is on his face, but i know he's scared.

everyone is. my journey is dangerous. it's unknown.

the only angels to see the dark are ones who gracefully

fell

and joined those down there.

on my way i say a prayer, knowing He will protect me.

soon, it gets hot and hard to breathe.

"you'll get used to it" a voice spoke.

i was scared. making my way through the never-ending hell, i questioned everything.

soon, he was there.

"so, you are the beloved holy spirit gracing us today."

i held my head high.

"yes."

i wanted to leave, to run back home where i belonged. but

something in me also wanted to stay. i tried to opress that urge, but it kept getting stronger.

the voice from earlier was right. i did get used to it.

the more time i spent in the dark, the more i could see.

see that the people here, they weren't sinful — they were lost.

i didn't want to see Him as i was like this. but He already knew. so after my visit,

i returned.

it was hard, but He understood. He always does.

"go."

and i went

back down

to hell

which wasn't hell anymore, it was home.

the air was cool against my face. i greeted lucifer and his people, and got to work.

i helped them learn. i was their map, leading them to the light.

their eyes hurt adjusting to the light, as it was sharp.

"you'll get used to it" i said.

they made it to the light, and i felt happy. i served purposed.

He was proud. lucifer was glad. he was home.

"thank you," they both said. "you are our little angel."