I wish I could water the flowers that grow

in your pretty head

and watch them blossom

in the springtime

but it's always winter

in your mind

I wish I could twist open the iron cages

that guard your lungs

and breathe air

back into them

but there is no entry;

and they now resemble

old chewing gum

I wish I could remind you of mountains you've hurdled

of raucous storms from which you've emerged

I wish I could remind you

of the flowers in your head

and the air in your lungs

and the heart in your chest

However, this is not what you need.

So now I cradle you

Back to sleep

and patiently wait

for your return to me.

I know you stopped thinking about me a long time ago

I know you're over all of my antics

But I'm not over you

I'm not

I never said I'm sorry and

I know it's been far too long and

This is incredibly overdue but

I need you to know:

I'm sorry

I miss you

That's all

Ashes on my carpet. Cigarette ashes on my carpet. That’s what I remember about the night. They sat like pale gray snowflakes nestled in the tiny curls of my brand new carpet. I looked at the man holding the thin white cylinder: his lips were spread wide across protruding teeth, and his mouth appeared to be permanently open. His black eyes peered into mine with a look of moderate curiosity. I looked back at the carpet and my breath caught in my throat as more gray snowflakes settled onto it.

It was a brand fucking new carpet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I spat at the man.

“Ronnie,” Carly hissed. Her fingers curled around mine; that’s something she almost never does. I remained on my loveseat, perched on its edge.

The three men exchanged looks. The one with the cigarette, the one sitting on my grandmother’s couch, stuck the cancer stick back in his teeth.

“There’s no need to panic now,” one of the men said. He had shoes on and with them he stood on my carpet. They were probably filthy, caked with dust and grime from outside. The fingers of my left hand clenched tighter around Carly’s. The fingers of my right clenched tighter around the gun.

“If you could please lower your weapon sir…”

“Tell the asshole with the shit-stick to get the fuck off my carpet.”

“Damnit Ronnie,” Carly growled.

“And if you’re going to stand in here on my motherfucking carpet you’re going to have to take off your motherfucking shoes.”

The men glanced at each other.

“Is that too difficult of a request?” I screamed. I pulled the trigger and shot the man with the grimy shoes twice in the foot. “Do it or I’ll blow all your motherfucking heads off!”

The man screamed and fell, clutching his injured foot. His friend rushed to his side, falling on the floor next to him.

The man with the cigarette did not move.

“Did you not understand something? Was I not clear enough asshole?”

“You got blood on your carpet, friend.”

“What?”

“I said you got blood on your carpet. You’re so concerned with the ashes, the dirt on his shoes. Now you got blood on your carpet.”

I think I saw Lindsey look up at that moment but I can’t be sure because I was launched into a state of panic.

“No.” I pushed off from the sofa, yanking my hand from Carly’s. I shoved the injured man aside and rolled him until he was lying on the wood floor of my kitchen. I rushed to the cabinet that held all my cleaning supplies.

My white carpet. My brand new motherfucking white carpet.

I was going to kill Cadwell.

I lift my head.

I roll onto my back.

I look up in the sky.

It’s gray.

I’m reminded of Amus and him finding out about his love for his childhood best friend.

The hope I felt. The hopelessness that followed.

I look up in the gray sky and think about that.

What does it matter.

The sky is gray the sky is black the sky is blue.

You don’t just stop existing.

You don’t just stop trying.

I’m going to be careful with myself. I’m going to take my time.

I very slowly push myself onto my feet.

I stand up.

I try to breathe.

It doesn’t matter if I do or I don’t do a damn thing for the rest of my life.

I look at that thought for a little bit. It’s my choice what I want to do with that.

Maybe that thought would still be there if I were still in the speaking world. In the real world you try or you don’t, and it really doesn’t matter because you’re going to die anyway. Maybe here it’s you try or you don’t, and it really doesn’t matter because you’re going to lose your mind anyway.

I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know what to do with anything. I’m a slave to the universe.

I look at my shoes.

I’m a slave to the universe but I can still move my feet.

I start walking.

There is no point in me being alive, but I am alive, so I’m going to live.

What is living?

I don’t know.

I start to hum.

Something low and soft, a song I once knew.

There is no hope in the world, but I hum with my voice and I walk with my feet. The universe controls everything but my voice and my feet. That’s nice.

I smile and it hurts. It hurts because it’s real and I can’t remember the last time I felt a smile that was real on my face. The muscles that make me smile are old and cracked.

I’m going to be okay. I’m going to keep trying. Until the day my mind goes I’ll keep trying.

That night I don’t dream of green eyes.

I dream of my dad.

I’m not like you, I tell him. I’m not going to do what you did.

Good, he says. I always knew you’d be stronger than me.

You needed help, I say.

I know. So did you.

I’m going to get out of here.

He doesn’t look much like my dad anymore. I don’t remember what he looks like.

I hope you do.

I wake up.

Hope. I hate that word.

I hope I’ll get out of here.

No. I will get out of here.

I stand up and start walking.

4 months have passed.

I don’t have shoes anymore. I walked so much in them that they wore into dust. I have not stopped walking for 4 months 3 days 20 hours and 46 minutes.

I have a beard now. It looks pretty terrible. My head isn’t shaved. I have long wavy hair now. It’s not bad. Kind of sexy.

Probably. I haven’t actually seen my reflection in a while.

4 months 7 days 4 hours and 6 minutes to be exact.

I have way too much free time for weird calculations.

Every day I’m in a stupor, but every day I keep walking.

Be careful because she is not who she says she is.

It's night. Bottles surround you and the poignant smell of alcohol leaks from Sasha's lips. Grant and Pat arrange white powder into thin little lines.

She is a tiny blue pill. She is enticing, looking up at you from the palm of your hand. Your friends tell you to trust her. You laugh and take it, thinking you’re with your friends, so you’ll be safe.

Their dilated eyes watch you as you take her.

Is it the little blue pill you should be scared of?

People tell you frequently that your body is a temple. If you treat it well, it will never betray you; it will allow you to do incredible things. She did everything right, but her efforts proved fruitless.

What is one to do when they live inside a temple on fire? How does one escape from the confines of their own broken body?

“Fibromyalgia has no cure,” the doctor said.

No escape. You must live in the pain.

The betrayal of one’s body, the vessel that transports you through life, is the greatest betrayal of all.