standing knee-deep in the river watching the water curve around me as if it doesn't want to touch me either. wading through a world of snow, cold. stay soft, stay gentle, fresh like a petal on ice, whiskey on rocks, soft, gentle, sweeter by the spoonful. wind blowing past like i'm not there. whistling through the gaps in me. soft, gentle. honey down dirty bark, where i can't see it. stay lovely like birdsong in an empty forest. eat me up, lap at me as i stay soft, gentle, lovely. sweeter by the spoonful.

i’ve got her

and i’ve left her behind.

and so the cycle completes itself once more,

and i set out again.

maturity bordered on severity and a childhood

was lost in time.

aphasia flowed from his mouth and his fingers and

apathy and empathy vied for power.

change happens quickly and slowly,

sands of time are ground and swallowed.

the metamorphosis has begun and finished

at the same time and every time.

the soul, separated from the body at last,

starts to wonder and peek into the darkest corners.

(it saves the brighter ones for dessert.)

it searches for friends and lovers,

mothers and fathers.

the child cries and the parent hushes,

while the body sleeps.

he no longer wants to frolic in the grass

or play with the other kids in his grown, awkward body.

he simply wants to sleep until he can wake up, birthed anew.

my eyes

are closed.

but still i am looking.

the garden - it smells like a fragrant pale rose, tastes like a winter morning.

gently wafting, flower petals whirl and settle like the songs of birds and the faces of time.

I feel light on my face, against my eyelids, touching softly my lips and cheeks, casting pulsing rays through my entirety. warm and full, maroon red.

it engulfs wholly, a glow of energy, slow, lasting.

a rose breathes sparkling white dust onto my fingers. its petal feels soft, purple velvet and yellow silk under my touch.

the birds sound like tinkles of blue and silver and chocolate, flutelike and rounded, floating high above the toffee-brown smell of pine and the crisp blue air dotted with patches of satin warmth.

a voice, calling out from somewhere in the green expanse behind me, sounds low and a dark violet. it thrums softly, thin, reedy, but whole.

I touch a hand, gently. it is soft, small, dainty, and it feels like the molten white gold of home. spared the callouses of life, touched with snow, thin and beautiful. it feels like pearly white, pastel pink, the softest silver glow in the world.

you don't need to see to feel, and

love feels like pure gold.

Tere walks quickly down the sidewalk, ten dollars crumpled in his tight fist, sneakers sopping wet from stepping in the various puddles strewn on the sidewalk. He tugs his hood down further, effectively covering his eyes, hiding his face from anyone who might recognize him.

This also effectively obstructs his view, allowing a lamp pole to go unnoticed and smashing right into his face.

The caramel blond reels back, hood forgotten in favor of clutching his face in pain. He hisses a curse under his breath and rubs at the left side of his face, which is bound to be bright red by now. Tere closes his eyes for a moment, hoping it would help with the red-hot pain bursting into his left cheekbone.

It doesn’t.

He spends another few seconds wallowing in his agony, then opens his eyes and nearly has a heart attack. “Um. Can I help you?”

A tall boy stands in front of him, a worried look on his face. He doesn’t much older than Tere - maybe twenty, at the most twenty-one. “Are you alright? I couldn’t help but notice… Do you need an ice pack?” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a disposable ice pack.

Tere blinks at him. “Um. Sure?”

The boy smiles, but the effect of the warm gesture is immediately displaced by the way his fist slams violently into the pack, starting the process of cooling by breaking the bag of chemicals inside.

Tere can’t help but stare. He had never seen anybody bust an ice pack with one try. 

He takes a wary step back.

The boy seems pleasantly unaware of his trepidation and hands the pack to him. Tere feels it in his fingers - nice and cold - then presses it to his cheek. Ah. Soothing relief.

After a while, the boy shifts on his feet and smiles again, more awkwardly this time. “What’s your name? Do you live around here?”

Tere pauses for a moment, then gives the boy a glance. “… ’M Tere. T-E-R-E. And yes.”

“Oh! That’s nice. Tere… a unique name. That's cool.”

He’s obviously trying to make friends, one of the voices that has always been inside his head tells him. That’s good. Because you don’t have any friends, Tere. Tere looks at the boy again, then looks away. He feels bad for the boy, because he’s so obviously trying to be nice and make conversation. Too bad Tere is unbearably bad at talking to people. The boy opens his mouth again, and Tere braces himself.

“I’m Adalius! I have an interesting name too. And I’m in Steinbeck’s homeroom class.” He’s shifting on his feet again.

Here it comes, Tere thinks. He grips the ice pack tighter.

“Do you think you would want to be friends with me?” Adalius asks slightly nervously. He’s staring right at Tere, which makes him uncomfortable, but Tere doesn’t dare look away. His eyes are a startling… whitish grey. Tere doesn’t think he has ever seen something like it.

Besides, nobody ever asks to become friends. They just... do. Right?

You owe him for the ice pack, a new voice says adamantly. Willette. Besides, he looks strong. Maybe he can chase away all the rogues who come after you sometimes. A punch to the face never hurt - I mean, it hurts. Quite a bit.

”Okay,” Tere hears himself say. The ice pack feels bruisingly cold against his cheek, so he drops it for a moment, letting his arm dangle at his side. “Nice to meet you, Mister Adalius.”

Adalius looks like he isn’t sure whether Tere is joking or not with the "Mister", so he smiles again and pats Tere’s shoulder gently. “Well, see you around, Tere!” He turns, shooting Tere a final wave, and leaves.

Tere looks at Adalius’s receding back, then at the ice pack in his hand.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Okay.”

You’re standing alone, soaked, on an empty street. Please, Tere, shut up, Sunny begs.

we were thirteen

and younger than ever

choking on candy pop

designer drugs

champagne pouring

that good devil's stuff.

death makes you come alive

a wolf in sheep's lingerie

struck the ground so now

the fountain of youth lies

pretty, ugly truth

fighting nail and tooth

as we wallow in the depths

of nightmares loose.

but if we were dreaming

why does this feel so real

and more importantly

how did we end up painted teal

in the old cemetery?

neighbor died last week

but i don't remember following

was i really dying to get there?

stabbed through the heart

and now i've come alive

but really, is that true?

semantics! smiles of plated gold

what a perfect grave, nothing 

stands between

us fallen angels

and the world.

the human soul, being of majesty

is unconquerable. the projectiles of destruction

add only to its strength, since a simple soul can

withstand the power of a thousand suns

and a thousand moons.

but a brilliant soul

will weave them into a sparkling galaxy.

a star can only be defeated

by death.

no matter what comes close

the soul will be unbowed

tall, a flame

burning deepest in the void.

the hands of the devil grip somber.

eccedentesiastical, fangs peek and

wave a hello. damned souls.

they wait in line, made of the

translucent tears of flowers. wilting dahlias

erased by time. slow.

skeleton heart - the heart has no bones.

sighs whisper. a flute of liquid,

angels' blood. ichor trailing steps with gold.

the voice of treachery, intermingle.

snake twine. a firkin of hesperides' apple,

death is not permanent if the spirit trudges on.

clutch. hold on. tight, the fingers of hope

release.

life falls on raven wings.

the spirit has left - the boatman has departed

passing into a slow, silent river...

god's hands roll bone dice.

the devil's hands grip somber.

"It is a pity that the state of human existence,

Has shrunk down to so much and swelled to so little

This was the not the vision our forefathers and foremothers

Foretold for us. This was not the thought that came to existence

When someone, fruitful in age and fruitful in wisdom

Sat down to think about what the meaning of existence truly is."

He thinks.

His head is dulled by the images

Of ghosts, dark lights flitting around in his mind

Invisible to everyone. but all too clear to him

Since you are what you eat and he has

Absolutely no idea how that relates to his state of existence

But he inhales words, bleeds sentences, creates lives, eats souls

Like the ravenous monster he is

So he supposes that that's the reason why

The sentence popped into his head.

He considers himself a kind man. It's been a grand total of

Sixteen years since anyone has died by his hand

And, as a member of the society of the underground, everyone knows

That that's not something to be laughed at. The gun gripped

In his calloused fingers seems old and dented, but the bullets inside

Haven't been fired. He likes to think that

It means the purity of his soul is still there, the purities of the souls

That will come to life under him will be guaranteed.

He kills a woman.

Not that the gender matters, since her body is dead,

One body dead is one soul gone, and her soul is gone. He has eaten a soul,

But this time it is for real. There is no more pretending

The demon of the streets is out to get him, she was out to get him, and the

Boy crouched in front of him, asking if he is okay,

Is most definitely a spy from them.

He raises his gun, hand shaking, body shaking, the adrenaline

Coursing through him as his finger tightens on the trigger, presses down, and

The bullet goes right through the boy's head.

Disappears without a trace. The boy brings his hand forwards from where

It was twisted behind him, and holds out a bullet to him, clean

And devoid of blood, similar to how the boy's head is devoid of holes.

His hand doesn't stop shaking.

Instead, it trembles harder, like a leaf shattered by bullets in the raging wind.

"Hello, sir. I believe you dropped this. Do you need help getting up?"

The boy's voice rings through his head like a chorus of fallen angels

He's convinced, now, the demon of the streets is

Seeking vengeance, wanting him to

Take another life. Feed the bloodlust of the monsters like him

Who roam the streets of the underworld.

He sits up, the fog clears slowly from his mind.

The boy smiles wider, and waits, the hand with the bullet outstretched in front of him

Like a sacrifice.

He pushes the bullet aside

And takes the boy's hand.

The boy smiles widely, angelic

It doesn't match his face, but he accept it as the boy

Pulls him up slowly, with more power than you'd expect

"I'd be glad to help you, sir. Follow me, please."

He closes his eyes and lets his tarnished soul lead him.

it sounds like sirens

piercing, high

bleeding ears, the storm

before the deadly calm

of silence.

it tastes like dryness

like iron, permeating through

parched taste buds

stinging every inch of

icy exposed skin.

it smells like air

clear, bitingly fresh

whistling painfully through

noses and mouths

too much --

     can't breath.

it feels like prickles

spikes of brush, hard

unrelenting, inflexible

tracing painfully

over hands and knees,

blood rivulets thin

streaming down.

and the sight, oh

cruel, it is cruel

there is no blood

or prickles, or sirens

or rusted iron chains.

there is a white wall

clear, blank in its fury

waited to be painted

with the colors of 

the right, the wrong

the brave,

the dead.

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bonus - comment what you think this is