Metallic.

As I gulp the gray poison from the cup I feel it seeping between my teeth and clawing its way down my throat.

Its cold flame soaks into my flesh,

it fills me.

But now I'm hungry.

Hungry for a target;

for a big, flashing sign to direct my searing breath.

And there you are

looking for me in the dark, reaching to take my hand.

But instead of my hand in yours, you feel my-its cold hand, pressed against your chest.

You push forward, confused, searching my face for an explanation,

a reason.

But there is none.

Your face contorts in agony as the cold, angry hand shoves through your ribs,

snapping ferociously for your beating heart.

I stare as this hand that is connected to my body as it pulls backwards and raises your bloody heart to my face.

I can't stop it now - as much as my brain is screaming at it.

You fall backwards in a heap, gasping in the cold dark.

I can still hear you in the distance as I find a quiet place to sit.

I raise the still-warm, gulping heart to my lips and take it in one bite.

As soon as it hits my stomach the cold poison seeps out of my body and I feel like myself again.

Looking around, I find myself alone as your breaths become softer and softer.

I wipe my bloodied fingers on my pants as I stand up and start walking in the opposite directon from where I can hear your lungs finally collapse and fade.

I walked for what seemed like days, weeks until I was hungry again.

Just when I thought I couldn't take the sharps spasms in my stomach an longer I saw a cup

placed on a table in the distance.

Suddenly, I tasted my dry, sore mouth and forced my heavy feet to move faster.

As I got closer I could see that the cup was filled with gray, muddy water,

but my parched lips parted as my hands grasped the cup.

Tipping it against my mouth, the bitter liquid splashed forward and down my throat.

My eyes widened in horror as the familiar metallic taste seeped through my teeth and I felt its cold rage grab me by the neck again.

Dropping the now empty cup, I look around for your face knowing you'll be running through the darkness soon,

looking for me,

only to be mangled and left in the cold, dark

the same dark that welcomes me, comforts me.

I knew a guy - a friend - for a few years that I called "brother". We shared everything in our lives even when we were thousands of miles apart. I would have crossed oceans for him because I loved him. He was a important in my life but I was important in his life for different reasons. He was telling people he was going to marry me: I was perfect. News to me. I was in love, engaged, to a man, not him, but that didn't stop him. It didn't stop him from nervously stirring something into my drink before carrying me out of the bar, down the street in the opposite direction from where the car was parked. Thank god the cops stopped us. I mean, they just figured I was some pathetic slut that drank too much that night; that I was just some lightweight that couldn't handle my drinks and my good friend was dragging me down the street to take me home and tuck me in with a glass of water. They didn't even think that maybe he slipped me something. That maybe I couldn't walk because I was tripping on something that was paralyzing and poisoning my body rather than just taking too many jell-o shots.

I realized what happened the next day as I spent it curled around a toilet pouring my guts out. Sick from the drug he had no problem watch slide down my throat but also from the thoughts of what could have happened. The worst that ever happened to me was drinking half a drink filled with poison from a man I trusted. That's not so bad, right?

It's not as bad my sister being pinned down and ripped open by a man that invited himself over and then disappeared. It's not as bad as my friend being stalked and harassed by a guy who lived in her dorm and left threatening notes before trying to break into her room. It's not as bad as another friend who was assaulted by the intoxicated male friend that she was just trying to get safely home. It's not as bad as the countless stories I've heard from the women in my life. Mine is pretty PG compared to the horrors that they've endured.

It's not so bad.

Here.

Present?

Why am I here.

For the past several years I have tormented myself with this question.

Torment

because we, as a species

(humans)

don’t need to be here.

We consume

consume

consume

and never contribute.

We don’t

need

to be here.

We desire

to be here,

thus,

we are.

We reproduce and take up space,

destroy.

I see the things (places) I love the most destroyed by us,

by me.

In this vast world my existence does not benefit

it hinders the natural progress of the beings that

deserve

to be here.

Humans are written about in regards to intellect and

morality.

How?

Humans ruin.

Through their great intellect and morality they take the world around them and

poison it.

No thought or regard to the salamanders drowning in polluted streams

or bears and cubs being shot to death in their dens.

Just thoughts of dollars and profits.

I water the flowers of those who shoot and skin giraffes

and it sickens me every time I walk past the windows and see

their skin trophies stapled to the wall.

Why have bright, vibrant flowers just outside the doors of

beings

that have suffered at the same hands?

I ask,

as I kill monarchs on the windshield of my car filled with free plants.

Dollars and profts.

Tolkien was an absolute wonder. And his ability to breath life into tortured characters has been a characteristic of his work that has always spoke to me.

Growing up, this scene always brought me to tears, but it wasn't until I read The Lord of the Rings that it really spoke to me on a personal note. Sam and Frodo's friendship - if you could even give their kinship such a lukewarm word - went beyond any emotional bond that I can even relate to in this world, and it is this kinship that fuels such an emotional response in me. These are two souls that have journeyed to the end of this world together. Through every terror imaginable they have climbed hand-in-hand, sleeping in one another's laps, nursing wounds - both physical and beyond.

Sam's Speech occurs in both the books and movies before the worst of their journey, which is still unbelievable considering how much hurt and suffering they have already endured by this point. Despite all of the unimaginable horrors they have witnessed, and are actually in the middle of during this passage, Sam finds the one ray of light shining through the clouds. He grabs hold of it and hands it to Frodo, who is starting to slip below the waves of pain washing over them. With tears in his eyes and sorrow gripping his throat he pours these words over a hopeless Frodo. Sam takes what remaining courage and love he has and wraps Frodo in it - pulling him to his sore feet and guiding him, despite the rocky path they are stumbling down.

And it's not just Frodo that Sam is saving - it's me too.

I suffer too. Not nearly to the degree that Frodo did, but enough. Enough to make getting out of bed hard. Enough to make me question my existence in this world. Enough to make me not like who it is that I see every day.

The words in this convince me that I'll wake up one day and not feel an anchor dragging behind me. Sam's words give me hope that one day it'll be worth pulling myself out of bed every day. That one day I'll know why I exist in this world and it'll put into perspective every single day that I chose to keep putting one foot in front of the other despite how much it hurts.

"Folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn't. Because they were holding onto something."

I'm holding on. Some days it feels like I'm clenched onto a rope of fire. It burns my hands and scorches my skin - it hurts. But at the end of it are all the things I want from my short, small life, so I have to hold on with everything I have; down to the last nerve, the last layer of flesh on my tightly coiled fingers.

Because I want to believe that my life is like one of those great stories, the ones that really mattered.

At the end of the day I have me, myself. If everything were to cease existing there I would be clutching myself until the end of my days.

Is that supposed to make me like myself?

Because

it doesn’t.

I’m a trash person.

To the core.

I treat those around me worse than I treat myself -

and I’m an anemic, depressed, polyp with an aptitude for whiskey.

When people ask me how I actually am I look them in the eyes and say, “Oh, I’m fine”, as if life is a gumdrop-rainbows-and-fluffy-kitten filled world with happiness and giggles.

Why would I want to spend a lifetime with a person who can’t find the energy to finish a book these days?

or clean their room?

or pay their bills? Not even pay them on time...just pay them.

I’m lazy.

People say, “you are what you do”.

Well, then I guess I’m nothing.

I’m not even sure why I look in the mirror because as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing there.

I was raised just outside a small town, in a house full of family, and a backyard full of cats. The majority of my childhood had been spent on an acre of land surrounded by agricultural fields and open sky. Black clouds of birds soared among the treetops, raccoons scurried into scraggly bushes, and badgers curled up in warm, dark corners on this seemingly large acre of land. I spent my time running barefoot across the gravel driveway or laying in the sun with a cat, or three, curled up on my chest. With the abundance of nature’s distractions on this single acre of land, all squiggling, and scurrying, and squawking, my childhood was anything but dull.

I watched almost ten years pass as the methodical process of conventional agriculture occurred around me. Each spring almost endless lines of trucks, tractors, and farmers would appear on our acre, humming and pointing before climbing up into their booming, noxious machines to roar across the terrain. They would drag the sharp slender fingers of their plows over the earth, scraping deep furrows to pour in delicate yellow seeds. My sisters and I would be mesmerized as the fragile shoots of pale green cornstalks would push through the dark soil of the Midwest, reaching for the sun with outstretched hands. One day they were barely tall enough to brush against our ankles, but a good rainfall was all it took for them to shoot up to our waists. Eventually their saffron heads stretched far above where my hands could reach and their vibrant yellow would block out the sun.

My sisters and I spent long afternoons exploring that corn field, running and yelling for one another, despite our parent’s attempt to scare us from going in. They always told us that the field was like a maze and we would never make it out if we lost our way. We ignored their warnings and still managed to emerge from the field every night, right before sunset when our mom was yelling “Dinner’s ready!” from the kitchen window. We would tumble through the doorway and our parents would ask what we had been doing all day, even though the bits of tassels stuck in our hair and red rashes on our necks and arms would always give us away.

Summer brought with it hot winds and brittle grass; bronze shoulders and bleached hair. In the cooler mornings my mother and I would be bent over a patch of soft tilled earth in the yard, digging furrows of our own to fill with small, smooth seeds. Before long, sweet corn swayed in the warm breeze and we were plucking swollen tomatoes, slender green beans, and pea pods that were ready to burst. Juicy wild strawberries danced around the boundaries of the garden and pastel red apples hung low on the branches. As the summer evenings dwindled away, we diligently canned and preserved as much of the surplus as we could. These precious cans would last us through the harsh winter months when making the ten-mile trip into town wasn’t safe.

By the time fall emerged, the cornstalks in the field around us had turned a crisp gold hue and chattered and swished in the wind. Soon the trucks, tractors, and farmers returned in an even bigger frenzy than before. I watched the golden stalks slowly disappear until all that remained were the crushed leaves and a sprinkling of corn across the earth. The tree leaves transformed from greens to yellows, reds, and purples, before curling up and drifting from their comfortable positions among the sky to the thick grass below. The cool fall winds picked the leaves up and spun them across the yard before shooing them into still corners. My boots crunched through them, stirring their light bodies to flutter and drift away. Colorful beds made of leaves dotted the yard and I dashed across the grass to take turns jumping into each one.

Cold winter gusts promptly whisked the leaves away and instead replaced them with four-foot snow drifts. Ice dribbled off the roof and puffs of frost spread across the windows. The freezing winds howled and the house groaned and creaked from the strain, but we hardly noticed. Hot chocolate simmered on the stove and Christmas lights twinkled on the tree laden with ornaments and tinsel. Once the last snowball had been thrown we all tramped back inside, stomping our boots and shaking free the flurries that had gathered on our heads and shoulders. The sudden heat caused our cheeks to flush and our fingers tingled with satisfaction.

As I matured from an adolescent into a young woman, I found myself packing up my childhood into neat little boxes before they were loaded into a truck and sent to a new home. The magic of the one small acre had run its course and soon we were nestled into a three story home in the middle of town. There was no longer a backyard full of cats or black clouds of birds among the treetops, but instead a backyard full of hostas and streams of electrical cables stretching across the sky.

It’s odd to think about The Move now because I don’t remember being overcome with emotion as family friends loaded boxes of my clothes and stuffed animals into trucks and cars. I don’t recall tossing in my bed to pass sleepless nights as I mourned the land that I had grown up on and fallen in love with. In fact, I don’t remember feeling many emotions at all. I remember the dread of having to move boxes all day but it was quickly diffused with the sweetness of donuts. I remember the golden streams of sunlight stretching through the emptying house.

Were there tears rolling down my cheeks as I kissed every single cat and kitten we had raised since birth one last time before handing them to their new owners? Did I run my hands through the tall, swaying grasses or wiggle my toes in the dark muddy soil before pulling out of that driveway for the last time? Maybe my childhood naivety had spared me that sorrow because even writing these words now, eleven years later, I feel the sickness in my stomach knowing exactly what I had given up when we left that small acre.

Many seasons passed before I ever visited that place again. I usually spent my summers back in that small town helping my dad with his contracting business by cleaning and painting apartments. It was hot and dirty work, but he paid me twelve dollars an hour so I didn’t complain. I drove to and from the apartments every day for weeks and every time I crested over that last hill I felt an old habit pulling at my hands on the wheel. There was our old acre of land sitting alone on the hill overlooking the rolling farmland around it. I always had to catch myself from slowing down and pulling into the driveway, as though I was home.

Pieces of that acre had been vanishing over the years since we moved. The beautiful eastern red cedars and tall spruce that used to outline the property had long ago disappeared and in their place were rows of corn. I remember climbing up their sticky trunks just to sit among their full heads of needles and poke at busy ants, crawling to and fro as though they couldn’t recall what they were doing up their either. The massive hundred year old silver maples had long ago plummeted from their status among the clouds to be hacked and bit apart, to be stacked in neat rows for firewood. Our precious, ever-full garden became choked with weeds and thick crab grass, never to feel the curling vines of pumpkins and watermelons again.

As I scrubbed and brushed the apartment walls into a clean shade of white my dad mentioned the old house and spoke of the same habit I felt every time I passed it. He told me that it had recently been purchased by the farmer whose fields of corn had always wrapped around the acre of land. I asked him what would become of the house, even though my heart knew the answer. He looked at me with sad eyes, “It’s coming down”. My stomach dropped but I didn’t say anything. What could I say? We both felt the inevitable loss of a place that was more than just a house and some land; it was a home, a way of life.

As I drove back to town that day I found myself allowing the habit to take hold of my hands and feet, and suddenly I was parked in the driveway staring at a now empty home. It looked almost exactly the same with the dark green trim and piles of rock lining most of the way around the house that my dad always said he was going to use for landscaping; my mom and I always knew different. I could almost hear the sound of my mom cooking in the kitchen or smell the tabasco sauce we had to put on all the wood banisters to keep our dog from gnawing them to shreds. I could see my sisters and myself dodging around in the backyard as we hurled rotten tomatoes at one another and the violent snowball fights with my brother and sisters which always ended with someone crying.

Here I sat, as a twenty-one year old who had been many beautiful places and seen many amazing things, but realized that, suddenly, those moments didn’t even compare to the beauty of my childhood. It had taken me eleven years too late to feel the sorrow I had never allowed to take hold as a child. My heart broke like a worn seam and with one last strain the stitches came undone.

I pulled out of the driveway for the very last time, wiping the lone, confused tear from my cheek. As I descended from that hilltop I adjusted my rearview mirror to watch my childhood time capsule grow smaller and smaller before disappearing from view.

The next week I drove past again but this time the habit didn’t pull at me. This time the house was gone and in its place was just more farmland, as though nothing else had ever been there.

We broke up. Four years now. But we weren’t lovers - at least not in the traditional sense. We lived together. Cooked together. Failed and succeeded together. Laughed, loved, lost, learned at each other’s side. I called your mom “Mom” and you called my sisters “sister”. I cursed the boys who left you and cried on your shoulder while you cried on mine.

Our kids were gonna grow up next door to each other. Laughing, loving, losing, and learning at each other’s sides. But then this funny thing happened - we stopped talking. We just argued. We got new people to talk to and cry with and we forgot the names of each other’s family. But we didn’t forget each other. I still wake up with fresh tears in my eyes when I dream of your face, your laugh. I can’t imagine anyone else’s face in the crowd on my happiest days and I can’t forget your number on my worst.

This is why breaking up with your best friend is the worse kind of break-up. You invest in friends, knowing they’ll be there on the saddest days. You don’t ever prepare for when they aren’t there anymore.

Why am I still crying over a person I haven’t even seen in 3 years? Why do I still feel the urge to text you the most random thoughts during my day? When will your ghost leave me be? Will I tell me kids about the best friend I ever had, and lost? Will I dream of you when I’m laying alone in a home one day when my children have children and they have children who don’t even know my name?

Is it too late?

I forgot to tell you that I was shit. The whole time our story was ending I could only see it through the first-person lens and didn't see your heart breaking, yearning for the same things mine was until a year had passed and our line was dead. I forgot, until just now, 5 beers deep, that you were, are, the only person on this whole plant that saw me. And loved me. And I was shit.

I forgot to say, "Sorry".

Looking in the mirror. Running, pulling my hands through my hair. Twirling my golden locks around my fingers. The soft tangles wrap themselves around my shoulders like a cape. I walk outside and the strands stir in the breeze, tickling my nose. They shine in the sun and I forget the broken, brittle mess they once were. I feel secure under my sandy tresses and let the sun warm my cheeks as I turn my face to the glinting sky.

But I trip over my feet, stumbling to my knees as the golden wisps darken my vision and hang on either side of my cheeks like curtains, robbing me of the sun. I hear laughter. A cold cackle that reverberates around me and, suddenly, instead of hands I picture hair clippers running, pulling their shiny, metallic teeth through my hair. The teeth mow through my hair with such a ravenous greed and gleefully spit it on the floor.

The teeth pulse against my skull, ringing between my ears like a swarm of flies. I yank the clippers through my hair to rid myself of the hum, the bites, but no matter how hard I press against my scalp the flies are still there. They take my notions and pervert them into foul corpses that rattle with the rasps of doubt and insecurity.

As the last of my hair flutters to the ground I peer down at my hands but I see no clippers. My hands are covered in clumps of hair and under my fingernails are chunks of bloody scalp. I am hit with the revolting revelation of what I have done and feel a ball of shame work itself into my throat, gagging me.

I burst back inside but this time I do not look into the mirror. I stagger past it and shed my clothes before stepping into the shower. I yank on the handle and close my eyes as the scalding water assaults my head. My scalp ignites with searing pain and I run my hands over the prickly remnants of my hair. I sink into a curled ball on the shower floor and huddle under the burning droplets until the water turns to ice.

Drowsy, I retreat to the comforts of my bed and dive deep under the covers into the gloom where She greets me like an old friend. My body finds a familiar rut and settles into it comfortably as the darkness folds around me fondly and whispers Her deep rumbles into my ears, silencing the flies. Her hands inch up my throat and coil around my face as I slowly fade into a stupor.

Eventually, I feel her cold tendrils being washed from my eyes and an array of golden hues dance across my eyelids and stir me from sleep. I gingerly blink away the gloom and am greeted by the warmth of the sky as it pushes itself through my windows and splashes onto my face and shoulders, embracing me. Sitting up, I swing my legs out from under the blankets and over the side of the bed. The fresh air fills my lungs and I raise my hands to my scalp. My fingers hesitantly graze through the new fuzz that has encompassed my skull. Breathing deep, I hoist my body out of the bed and rest securely upon my two feet before turning to the mirror. I see my face; my eyes; my hair. And I smile.

The gusts of winds push me closer to the edge but my heavy feet drag through the coarse sand. As my eyes veer over the edge and see the valley floor below dread leaps up my throat and desperately latches to my spine, paralyzing the entirety of my body. Every inch of my being is crawling with raw terror but no matter how loudly I scream in my head, my body doesn't budge. Frozen.

I can't.

The valley turns into a ravenous pit. It pulls me towards the lip of the cliff with a primitive ferocity and my paralyzed body does nothing to save me. No amount of scraping or clawing or screeching can keep me from being flung over the edge and careening into the pit. 

Now flailing through the open air above the pit, my body comes to life, but all too late. My stomach joins the dread and terror still lodged in my throat and suffocates me. Mouth open in a sickening silent scream, I plummet towards the scraggly-faced pit below. 

Help me.

I know I'm close now. Mere moments from splattering across the rocks. My scarlet blood contrasting against the tawny ground. Desperate hands claw at the air as I curse my flightless human body.

White.

Nothing.

Darkness shrouds my eyes as the frigid fingers of terror weave around my body, my broken body. Fading. What a terrible way to die. Laying in a bed of my own immobilizing fear, feeling it slowly smother what is left of my mind. Fading. I can't escape the terror. I can't escape the suffocating feeling of falling even as I lie sprawled across these unforgiving rocks. Fading.

Help me.