This series is rather old, so I am sure that no one cares if I put any spoilers in here. But I am going to put a warning right here, right now, saying that if ever you plan on reading or watching the Dexter series, now is your chance to leave.

Dexter: New Blood has recently been released. In the process of it being advertised, I, as I often do, decided to check to see if Dexter was a book. In my research, I found it! Jeff Lindsay’s first novel, Darkly Dreaming Dexter was released in 2004, nine months after I was born. Oh, hey, that’s pretty cool. It’s as if… you know what, I won’t connect those dots. That is weird. But I will leave this here so that you clever ones will figure it out. It also won an award in 2005: the Dilys Award. No clue what that is, but, I mean, there ya go. On October 1, 2006, a day before my third birthday (dang, this book really revolves around me all of a sudden. I swear I didn’t know this when I sat down to write about this…), the first episode of its television adaptation was released.

The book was absolutely amazing. You sympathize with a serial killer, you see where he is coming from, and you feel what he feels. Jeff Lindsay did an incredible job writing Dexter. All of his thoughts are perfect. His biting sarcasm gives you a few laughs throughout the book. Reading about his attempts to blend in and to act normal, you almost begin to think the same way he does. You get attached to characters while hating characters as well. Jeff Lindsay offers an insight into police work, as Dexter is a blood analyst for the Miami Police Department.

Yes, he uses alliteration in the book in a few instances. It’s rather beautiful, isn’t it?

I remember when I was younger my father watching the series. We own most of the series because, in the words of my father, “It was cool to buy a TV series the moment it came out on DVD.” We own seasons one through six, so I have been thinking about watching it for a while. I was just waiting until I had permission to, and when I finally asked after not doing so for ten years, I was told that I could. I excitedly began the series after I finished the book, and I must say: this is the best film adaptation that I have ever seen.

I reached this conclusion relatively quickly into the first season. Not only did they do an incredible job bringing it to ‘the big screen,’ a phrase that does not work unless you are referring to a movie, but they did better than the book. You see that next to never. Actually, I don’t think you see that period. Feel free to let me know of any shows/movies better than the book it is based off of.

The sarcasm and internal dialogue of our dearly dreadful Dexter is kept, and they fit it into the show perfectly. His fascination with the ice truck killer’s work is perfectly presented by the thoughts and facial expressions of the actor, Michael C. Hall.

Not only this, but we spend more time with the characters. We learn more about them than we do in the book, and we grow a deeper connection to them. Along with this, we see more from the Dexter and Rita relationship, seeing them grow a little as a couple (or, at least, she grows. Dexter doesn’t because he is Dexter. Though there are small spurts of growth that he makes). We get to learn more about Paul and we get to meet him. The subplot with Paul is spectacular.

We meet the ice truck killer, which is something Lindsay couldn’t do in his book, as it was a first person perspective. Though this is that as well, TV shows have more freedom to leave their main characters behind and focus on someone new. We learn how his brain works, we see him getting his victims, and he has thrown himself into Dexter’s life in a way that just fits so perfectly into the show. The book did not have this. His identity was one hundred percent a secret until the very end of the novel.

Another thing that the show did better: Deb doesn’t know. At the end of the first book, Deb finds out who Dexter really is. She kind of just accepts it, and it is weird. Deborah doesn’t figure it out in the show, and that will make for more drama in the remaining seasons. It also fits her character better.

I wasn’t a big fan of the ending of the book. Dexter just barely keeps himself from killing his sister (which is a powerful moment that was incorporated into the show as well), then LaGuerta bursts into the shipping container, and he kills her with his brother, Brian, the ice truck killer. That is what the ice truck killer wanted the whole time: to get Dexter’s attention and kill someone with him like brothers again. This scene, the scene where Dexter and Brian kill LaGuerta, does not get brought up at all in the show, and I think it was wise for the producer to not include it. It stays truer to Dexter’s character, and Deb remains in the dark.

We get to see more victims, and we even get a small subplot with one of his victims (who, spoiler alert, wasn’t actually a victim, but committed suicide in prison later). Though this is a positive, it makes sense that Jeff didn’t jam his book full of Dexter’s kills.

More character growth, more victims, better ending: the first season of Dexter was incredible, and much better than the book. The only cons to this is that it is a Showtime series, which is basically synonymous to us calling something an HBO series today: there is nudity and sex in it. More than I would have thought there would be.

I have come to the conclusion that we have been handling books the wrong way. Rather than making movies out of them, we need to go the Dexter route and turn books into TV shows. There is more time to include character development, you can add and enhance things… all in all, it’s just a great idea. I mean, look at what Marvel is doing now on Disflix. We are getting well crafted stories that are more satisfying. Not because we are being put in suspense for a week, but because they have more time to build the story, develop characters, and go on side quests.

If you are below the age of seventeen, I suggest asking your parents prior to watching this series. If you are below the age of fifteen, don’t watch it.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a book to read before I can move on to the second season, and I would like to watch the rest of this show, so… I’ll see you guys later. Probably write something on No Way Home before I go back to writing short stories. I will see you guys soon! Oh, and, Harry, I’m not trying to steal your thing. No Way Home will be the last time… I swear! Also, if you do find this, tag me in your No Way Home post. Thanks.

I should probably go. My burritos are probably burning.

Once

upon

a

time

I tried to

sell

myself

for

money

and by this

I mean

get

paid

for

sex

my

14

th

lover

was

an

old

man

I

was

so

disgusted

when he

said

I can’t

believe

I’m ready

to

go

again

and I laid

there

or

maybe

I

straddled

him

honestly

I don’t

remember

got all

those

tests

after

like I dodged

a

bullet

cause I felt

shot

through

the heart

if your vagina

leads

to your

love

like a fatally

eclipsed

ring

finger

hey,

I got one of those.

too.

just a body

going

through

the motions

I didn’t

even

have

the

energy

to

fake

payment

I lied about this

for the

longest

time

longer

than

a climax

but not

long

enough

for

shame

name of the game?

He was a renowned

doctor

here to give a speech

married

three kids

and I was the

vessel

he poured

his own

insecurities

into.

I ran.

I ran so fast the

chef

of the same

hotel

said

didn’t I just see you?

and he woo

d

me

bought me

black and milds

and I think I

fucked

him

too

#13

count it

though I don’t

remember

he fed me

sushi

too scared to

admit

I’d rather die

than eat

fish

but

so scared

I had no voice

left

except the

whine

except the

dine

and

I did not take

the money

laid out

on the

table

thank you

for your

services

could have paid for

all

those

tests

to tell me

that even as I ruined

myself

I was

at

least

still

pure

as

the

driven

snow

as

pure

as I’ve

ever

known

the next man

I fuck

is

#

17

I don’t count the ladies

like we don’t count

the baby

daddy

s

once I said

I’d

keep it to ten

then I fucked

your

best

friend

and now I don’t know

should I stay

should I

go

wear that

scarlet

letter

and it would make more sense

if I had taken those

cents

but even whores

know

they

know

better

Gentlemen,

Do not fuck with a woman who walks alone

She’s not listening to music, she’s listening

to Jack Reacher novels. She’s listening

to the sound of cracking bones and splitting skulls,

and she’s loving it.

Ladies,

You have parts of your body that serve as weapons

Not your eyes, though they can cause misdirection

Not your breasts, though they can be a distraction

Not even your voice, though screaming

never hurts.

Use your fists, not like hammers,

but with a twist of shoulder and hip

Use your elbows like swift kicks

Use your knee

Exactly as you were meant to

Use your teeth if you have to.

But if they are dangerous, or you are overrun...

Use solemn breath

Remember

you are sheltered

in this body, like a temple, yet

you are not trapped here

Just because a thief slips in

just because he breaks things

doesn’t mean sacred light won’t still pour down.

You will be found.

And you will speak your truth.

Let the threats fuel you, or let them go

You can do both and still be a Goddess

When it’s through, pull the altar back up

relight the candles, and return to prayer

What hurts and where?

What do you need to throw away? What can you repair?

How will you reclaim this sacred place?

Remember

There is nothing that needs to be swept under, burned, or cut away

Woman is a creation of her own hands, and her grandmothers’

She is a sculpture built up, never chipped at

Not cold marble, but warm clay

You are whole,

and your womb?

The part of you that carries your own life?

She is intact, impenetrable

She didn’t feel a thing.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

#poetry #womenshistorymonth #safety #consentissexy

i.

milk tea on my high tops

mochi on my tongue

but i taste nothing

ii.

daddy told me not to cry

all i have are dry eyes and sticky sneakers

’cause daddy told me not to cry

iii.

the squeak of my shoes

reverberates through the halls

so i turn paramore up, up

until they’re louder,

even louder than

the voices in my head

iv.

should’ve known a tear would slip

hush, don’t let daddy see

for my heart can’t help

but one delicious lament,

one dip into the silk folds of sympathy

v.

saltwater pools

in the corners of my smile

vi.

look, daddy

the teardrops wash

the sugar from my shoes

same time tomorrow?

Standing up after losing balance.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Drying my tears after drowning in them.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Taking a bite of food after hours of hunger.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Washing my face after looking like a mess.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Smiling for the first time after crying wild.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Slowly pulling you in the back of my brain.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Getting comfortable after all that discomfort.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Doing injustice to your existence.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Sliding you in my state of unconscious.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Celebrating happiness without you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Sleeping peacefully in day or night.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Remembering you at seldom times.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Simply welling up tears in my eyes.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Starting to become independent of you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Passing days without thinking about you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Quietly hoping to meet you in Paradise.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Living my life after your death.

I’m sorry for moving on.

For all the little and big heinousness.

I’m sorry for moving on

But thats how this life goes on.

And I’m so sorry for moving on.

×∞ Adin

11 February 2021

wish i could tell you

how to move on

but i won't have a clue.

i still dwell on things long past,

relationships both good and bad,

friends both dishonest and true,

i dwell on them

like rereading my favorite book

over and over they replay,

but i don't love them the way

i love books.

i experience them over and over,

like doing community service during jail time

you don't want to,

but you have to.

and so i'm trapped in the vortex of memory.

waiting for the black hole

to dump me in a new world.

but now,

i'm still travelling,

floating through a black hole

of broken thoughts.

i can't tell you how to get over it.

i wish i could.

but if i knew,

i'd dig myself out first.

because life has taught me

that if you help others before yourself

you end up rotting in a ditch.

Stretch Marks

He still has not taken off his shirt in front of her, for reasons only he understands, but tonight is the night.

He is in the bathroom, the poor white light its own sterile darkness. It is that light that flatters nothing, too white to be real. It will look green in his memory. His eyes are focused intently ahead of him, though he can’t say, in particular, what he is looking at.

His face has gotten more attractive in the last year. This he knows. It is in the way people look at him. There is a quality of look – an avidity – that speaks to something just below the surface of his heart, somewhere between his aorta and the metaphysical, where people latch and take note. He does not yet believe that look is for him.

He stares into his eyes, insecure about the fact that he finds them beautiful. Beauty is not an adjective to which he applies any great deal of thought, at least when it is his own. He thinks of himself as functional, and even that is a challenge on the best of days.

Moments flash, disappearing blacks that were once blue hyperlinks. Moments that will continue to exist in the scars of his consciousness. He rubs his jawline slowly: there is a stubble he thoroughly dislikes about his face. But it has not yet grown long enough to consider shaving.

The thought of it makes his stomach roil, and all he can see is the slow rise and fall of his breath. This should be easier for him. He’s so cocky, generally. He fakes a pleasing smile, watches the unattractive lines of his face move into an awkward configuration of momentary lapses in judgment. This smile is ugly. It always has been. Nothing is inviting; often, when he doesn’t look in the mirror, he avoids the narcissism that comes so easily to him; he feels that maybe there is a warmth in his gaze. But that could never be true.

These refrains pass through him, unrestrained for now but tired. A chorus he has heard in his heart one too many times. A pop-song that lost its savor when he met her.

She is contrary evidence. She has been contrary evidence to the act of his hatred as long as he has known her. The way she looks at him. There is that hunger that he sees in others, but it’s never just hunger with her. People don’t warn you about that; if you're attractive, people will look through you -- but never at you -- not in the way that matters. The way the shapes of your body – the taper of your waist, the movements of your fingers, the rise of your shoulders – will sculpt fantasies in other minds. He is too aware of himself to deny the pleasure it brings, and his own fantasies when he watches other people he is attracted to admire his body. But he cannot bring himself to agree with it; she’s still an exception.

He is wearing his shirt right now, under the bright lights. She flashes in his mind for a moment as a lapse in the hate he lavishes on himself.

She is not perfect: far from it. She can be loud, and she gets angry at him for silly reasons. She can be distant and hateful; her laugh is somewhere between adorable and a cackle, and he can never decide where his heart falls when he listens to it.

But she gave her heart to him, for whatever reason. She opened up, and the blossom flowered in an instant. The night of his own darkness was waning. He had come to understand some measure of self-love. He had realized the truth one day, both horrible and beautiful, that those moments where he lamented his worthlessness, like Continental dollars, had vanished. In its place was a solidity, to which he was unaccustomed.

And then he had met this girl. Met her in the tritest and meaningless of circumstances. He had met her and resisted for a time; then, when it became evident that resistance was needless, let it flow.

She made him uncomfortable, but it was the uncomfort of being loved and returning it, rather than the pain of his youth. The failures; the suck. But he had still not taken off his shirt.

As he thought about the reasons, he might have laughed.

He had seen her shirtless, and the thoughts made him blush as if someone were observing him. He laughed uncomfortably; she was imperfect in the best ways. The angle of her breasts was slightly off; her nipples had a depressed quality; the curve of her hips too broad; her smile had a particular crook that lit unevenly; she wasn’t an hourglass.

But that imperfection was glorious. It was as if someone had ordered those wrong lines, bad contours, and imperfect shading – for they were not perfect – and made a work of art, reveling in its own glorious unrightness. He drank in those beautiful crevices that you couldn’t find in perfection because they were hers.

He stared in the mirror, sighed, and took off his shirt: he reviewed his shame.

Stretch marks; angry red motes, gouged into his abdomen, stripes long jagged; like poorly healed dagger scars. They were of a tenor few could understand, let alone enjoy, painful recognition of failure to control. When they sprouted, he had assumed they were a rash. Until he examined more carefully, and they did not go away. They stretched as his gut expanded and reminded him daily of his battles with himself that he had failed to control himself—a fear which spoke of another darkness.

He had confided in her these terrors. How in his youth he was diagnosed; how he would have intense moods, how he could flip like a switch: how he was damaged. They served as forceful, perpetual reminders that he was on the hair's edge of right; ok; that he was once not ok, that he was once broken…still broken.

And those scars hurt more than the memories they conjured up.

She had taken it all with love. She understood. How could she? She may not be perfect, but she wasn’t broken. He looked at those scars, the battles they represented. He liked when she touched him.

But he knew it was important that she see; she hadn’t questioned when he didn’t take off his shirt. She didn’t mind. Her hands wandered freely, but it was ok. “Wait until you’re comfortable: He wasn’t comfortable. He would never be comfortable with these things. But…

He would do it. He would do it. He felt the swell of his belly, significantly reduced by time, effort, and love. Someone who wasn’t him would know his shame. And they would judge him accordingly.

--You’re taking an awfully long time! She shouted.

He looked at his scars. He was imperfect, but so was she. She was ok with it. He didn’t know when he would be, but he knew he would, one day, in some far off way. The way he knew when he met her.

He gathered himself, looked at those angry red scars, and smiled for the first time at his own hypocrisy.

He opened the door to share his imperfections with the universe in the next room.

Fin

Stop trying; you can’t move on without being here first.

It’s like how you can’t leave your house without first being inside.

It’s like how you can’t let go of anger without first being angry.

It’s like how you can’t forgive someone without them first doing something that needs to be forgiven.

It’s like how you can’t look forward to spring if it’s never winter.

You can’t move on without being here first. So be here. The moving on will happen when you’re ready.