I’d rather go through life alone,

watch the sunset over the ocean horizon

with only the sand at my side,

then ever change myself again

to fit someone else’s perception

of who I should be.

I’d rather die a thousand deaths

than lose myself in someone else’s image,

watch myself slowly fall apart

leaving a broken shell when she’s gone,

having to rebuild myself from scratch

because I spent so many years not being me.

I’d rather be tortured in a million prisons

than be with a woman who expects to change

to fit my perception of who she should be.

Our worlds should fit together

as if they were the same world.

And we should be independent together

rather than codependent.

And if I do find someone

who wants us to change for one another,

I’ll kick the dust off my feet

and walk away in a hurry

for both of our sakes.

We should be able to do

what we both want to do

and it will be beautiful

like two parallel lines

rather than a twisted knot of a mess.

And we’ll watch the sun set together

hand in hand

while the chaos rages all around us

in our own little worlds,

parallel dimensions,

mirror universes

reflecting light.

The grotesque

physical appearance

or vision of the soul

Manifest reality

fragmentary persona

combination of the whole

The beautiful

quintessential personality

or visually picturesque

Virtuous intellect

physical perfection

all can be grotesque

All those pretty horses gallop away, running from the cities of the plain and into the expanse where I cannot see. Before they broke my hold I shepherded them as far as I could, or drove them—whatever the term is for horses. They want a land my borrowed words cannot paint.

I’m abandoned and flatfooted beside my faceless cowboy...

This story had been kicking around in my files for several months before it found the right home: https://lespritliteraryreview.org/2022/06/15/the-title-wouldnt-be-mine-either/ My thanks to L'Esprit Literary Review for publishing my odd little flash fiction.

Days are longer,

Patience is shorter,

Air is warmer,

Nights are lighter,

Bugs are everywhere,

Messing up my hair,

Skin is sunburnt,

My feet hurt,

Whilst my friends are getting lit

I'm at home rubbing yogurt on my skin,

A tequila and a book for me,

Whilst everyone is enjoying the longer night's,

I will be in my bed, asleep.

On isle alone

tan shores gorge

sky blue seas…

Tides travel on

slain beaches, obsidian ridden…

Obscene flames persist

freeing foam roams

grains rife with volcanic relics,

Lava lush as emerald

shards brushed by swooping gales…

Palm trees shredded of

hair-like bark, leaves fallen

cabin fever in Satan's hand…

Death frolics past my lips

carried by journals and dusty books…

Often pioneers patrol dense fields

for artifacts of decades past, some nights

they riot through nuclear winter inland,

Concrete debris, steel demon's

felled, bodies disintegrate,

crismon soil

Where Hellish fruits preside,

germinating in a sporadic pattern,

flames warm polar desert rubble…

I awoke afraid to look out past

vast pardisial landscapes,

Bullets holes and fragile brass

swarmed my watchtower, canvas

tents below flicker, poachers it seems…

Fatal July approaches, June

a phoenix spewing summer solstice

Across alienated rock, I punch

Reinforced walls at times breaching

It's judgmental exterior,

I paint like Picasso,

I bleed like Van Gogh…

Bed sores multiply, I lay down until

I'm ready to eat, sleep fades as I

scroll, invaders below speak

Up every evening threatening to

assassinate me, they throw frags

On my deck hoping to weaken

my war weary fortress, I tell them

not even every nuke left on this

Brutal globe could bring this

concrete monstrosity down,

This is Devil's Den,

A place to dwell, not purgatory,

Barely a means of defense

Whoever was worth saving is

gone

What remains is me.

I am

the pitch-perfect persona

of avoidance

and disillusionment

I am not omitting

Denial

in error.

I am acutely aware

of how fucked up

you have been.

My petition on excuses

for bad behavior

has been echoing on

rebound throughout the whole of

this Life.

No blame

No blame

despite this frisson of pain,

for the reasons

justify the rage

No blame

for we are all circumstantial victims

No blame

I can nail to the source

of your shame

No blame

pleads the heart (mine,

yours?)

that resides so resolutely,

Impossibly

beating and bleeding

and continuing

so annoyingly...

R. Padilla

I live in my words

Fearing their weight

Some say what I

Feel- trapped emotions

Not expressed, they

Want me: I do not exist.

I fit into comfortable silences with myself these days.

I do not always seek to fill the air with words and songs.

Sometimes I think that this means I am comfortable with myself.

Other times I think there is nothing more to say,

Are they the same?

I trip over my self regard every now and then.

I do not know where to find respect

when there are days where I misplace it.

I left it on the counter there.

I left it in her mouth and let her take me down with her words,

I left it in his hands and let him walk away with it between squeezed fingers,

crushing the love I have for myself.

I suppose “misplace” is not the right word.

I give people access to my self worth and let them grind it to dust.

Then I have the audacity to blame them for making me feel that I am no good.

When I gave them the key.

Some days I look into my heart and I see the treasure that I am.

Then days like today, I stare into the well of my soul and become lost in who I am.

Then voice from somewhere I cannot name comes to me,

Anna, get up child. It is time to remember,

You dug the well yourself. You buried the treasure. You know what it holds.

Be amazed. You are here.

Thorned feelings skitter across the earth, caked in glitter, hollow words fly, away they flitter; nothing more than sound litter

And, on the tongue, taste lies, bitter, a mind filled with idle chatter, empty chitter, stimulated blood, she'll shake, she'll jitter like a caffeinated bad news transmitter

But somewhere below the surface, balanced upon the edge of truth's precipice, is where trust and insincerity crookedly wed

Tear-soaked pillows and sheets composed of leaves from weeping willows, a burning mattress, vows mispracticed make this marital bed

Distantly plays the violin, off in the shadow of lurking sin, sending chilly shivers dancing atop my skin like winter nymphs skating pond ice, crepe paper thin

Iridescent feelings twist and spin across my face, dripping from my chin, twitching on the dry floor, emotion grows fin: scaled and cold; a coelacanth twin

But oxygen it cannot breathe, pale and aquatic, beginning to teethe upon the things that, beside me, seethe, reaching for their swords, slipping from protective sheath

There is no part that does still believe that to our love I shall continue to cleave when you said you wouldn't, but, regardless, did leave, I'll follow you to the ends; it's my heart I must retrieve

So draw the curtains against the day, I don't want to see the gold of sunray, when imp-like misgivings emerge to play and light and innocence are falsely portrayed

I know that I have reached a line drawn in the sand, I see it, though it's fine, hands behind my back, bound with twine, I step over it into darkness; no illumination to shine

No stars, no moon, no streetlights to see and that means that, here, no one and nothing can see me, in the velvet black, I can finally sleep, away from dastard and bleak blue secrets you keep

And though those tears for you still seep, I refuse to emit sound, I will not utter a peep, I would sooner approach a cliff and from it, blindly leap than feed you my suffering, the pain is too steep

For you to stomach, if you only knew, but, oh, the terrible torment my pining would put you through, the longing has simply melted my heart to cardiac goo and shattered my existence beyond the repair of any philosophical glue

What I felt with you was the most true, until you took an axe to it, splitting pure beauty into two screaming fractures of mutated love and trust turned to ashes rising to the sky above

If this is what happens when push comes to shove, I won't even cover my tracks, won't wear a single glove, when I strangle what's left, snuff our impassioned dove and bury it beneath the cold, dead ground

Sounds and sirens swimming around and moonflowers open on another planetary mound, sparkling clarity is nowhere to be found; we have been convoluted

What happened?

How was our connection polluted?

Somewhere along love lines, the transmission was muted; bad or good, I wanted it confuted and I guess it was, however transmuted; rewired, misfired, but never rebooted

And in the end, the champagne was fluted, tinted with an emerald oil, jealousy undiluted, my words from before, though transfixed, I've refuted but that we've been broken cannot be disputed

Louisa always liked the firemen

Who burned the dim woods,

Who smoked out their truth.

And what remained took to a shadow,

Cast by their unholy light.

When they don’t burn our skin

“They keep us warm”

She laughs

Laughed

I wish it still echoed.

Louisa once told me

That she had a dream

That her hair was long again,

And she was a girl again,

Still sweet.

That we didn’t know our own cruelty,

And with her carmine lips she smiled.

She told me that those eyes didn’t belong to her (anymore)

But still,

They looked back.

Louisa and I sit by the gas station,

Sat

Miles away,

It looks the same as this one,

All emptiness looks the same.

We would sit on the hot concrete in our cheap skirts,

And pull at the weeds,

Satiating the need to kill

To control

That all we have,

The ground is hard here too,

But the neon’s far too bright,

But if she closes her eyes,

It should be alright

Louisa lived elsewhere

But I think she died here,

I can’t change that,

And the clouds are dark

And so it falls

I lift my eyes

To still look up,

Hope

Looking for a fabled arc

That Louisa would have loved

But it’s just sky

All above.