prose – idiography

new haven

    one.

    the part of new haven i hate the most is the scrubs. they’re an unassuming blue, benign to the average eye, and actually quite comfortable, though they hang loosely off my despair-hollowed body. i can’t stand them, though, because they leave my arms bare. i haven’t worn short sleeves in months, and i feel horribly exposed. i’m cold.
    a spritely girl dances into the lounge and perches in the chair next to me. my eyes flick towards her, but i can’t bother to move from my position, my knees drawn protectively to my chest.
    “hey, newbie,” she chirps. “what’s your name?”
    i stay silent, staring at my bare feet. my toes are tinged with periwinkle.
    she leans in. “we get those- the ones who won’t talk. think you’re better than the rest of us, huh? we’re all fuckups here; don’t think otherwise.” i would be appalled, but there’s something in her voice making it seem light, the words bright.
    at this point she’s invading my personal space, so i have to look up. i do so, and am met by a pair of hazel doe-eyes, made immense by a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. a smattering of freckles decorates her cheekbones. she smirks.
    “the name’s lia,” she says. “what’s got you in this hellhole?”
    i’m taken aback. surely it’s obvious just from looking at me- the jet-toned hair, the indelible frown, the shell-shock stare- surely she can see it. why would she ask such a question when the answer is written right there- right under her nose, in the heavy bandages swaddling my forearms?
    there’s no honoring her question with a confirmation. i refuse to speak, glaring sullenly. why is she doing this? i’m not here to make friends.
    then, as i try with my eyes to set fire to her twig-limbs, she offers her hand, as if to shake mine- like this is a place for casual introduction- and i see the reason for her words. the blood drains from my face; a wave of nauseating heat rushes through me.
    she knew. she saw, somehow, the part of my skin i was trying to keep covered, the roadmap of my failures, and she offered up her own for a peace treaty, an i’m-on-your-side-i-understand-i-
    her arms, like mine, are crisscrossed in pink ribbons, mauve marring her birdlike wrists. she saw, and now she’s saying it, silently- we’re the same brand of failure, we’re the same type of crazy, we- are- the same.
    i’ve never seen anyone outside of the depths of the stranger side of the internet who has arms like mine- and i’ve never seen someone who would so easily let that secret escape from under long sleeves. but here she is, reaching out-
    i try to say something; my mouth works silently. the words won’t come out. in lieu of an explanation, i accept her offer. her hand is soft but cold. i meet her eyes through the glasses, the soft lashes.
    she glances at the plastic bracelet on my wrist. “it’s nice to meet you…maxwell.” there’s a ring of green around her pupils, a pale olive which flashes as i make contact. she has blazing spotlight eyes, overwhelming me. i can tell, intrinsically, that the handshake is more than a simple greeting. it is, on my part, an unusual display of trust- but she’s reaching out, too, and there’s something about her-
    “max-” i croak- “it’s just max.”
    we’re interrupted by the nurse on duty. “hey, you two!” she snaps. “you especially, lia; you’ve been here for more than an hour. you know there’s no touching allowed.”
    we hadn’t gone over this during my hasty induction earlier in the evening. “what?”
    lia withdraws her hand from mine, nestling it in her lap. “something about not forming connections with other patients,” she mutters. “you’re supposed to be focusing on yourself only.”
    “that’s right,” the nurse affirms, and turns back to her paperwork.
    “if you ask me, it’s total bullshit,” lia mouths.
    i glance towards the woman, who instinctively looks up from the clipboard to pin me with her withering gaze. “don’t think i’m not paying attention to you,” she drawls. “you’re on suicide watch, kid; you’re not doing anything without my knowledge for the next few days.”
    i turn back towards lia. “bullshit,” i echo.

    two.

    i was being an idiot the first time i tried to die. i was aware that exsanguination only had a six percent lethality rate, but it was what i knew. i thought the familiarity would be comforting, and the image of it seemed so beautiful in my deranged mind. i was a romantic right down to the very end.
    i learned very quickly that it’s not what they say it’s like, not what they portray in the movies. you don’t just make two quick incisions and then float away on a crimson tide of sorrow into the darkness, no- you fucking feel it, worse than anything you’ve known before. oh, you know what you’ve done. even if you’ve stopped fighting, your body hasn’t. as you dig, searching for an artery, the flesh screams out, yelling, you stupid fuck, that’s dangerous! and the red spills and it pulsates, whimpering, why, why would you do this to me-
    and then you reach for the other wrist, fumbling this time because your fingers are already numb from the lack of blood. this isn’t the languid flow and stumble you’re used to, no, this won’t be fixed and your body’s pissed. the red spreads to your vision and then closes in until the bathroom floor is suddenly very close and then you wonder, finally sleepily, if they’ll find you in time or if you’ve succeeded.
    when i woke up in intensive care, i wasn’t devastated. i didn’t cry. at that point, i was beyond caring. i decided to get out as quickly as possible, pass their tests and get back to ending my pathetic existence, and this time i didn’t care about aesthetics. i knew where my father kept his gun.

    three.

    a plastic chair groans uneasily as i sit down. across the desk, the shrink nods at me. “how’s your mood?” he asked. “scale of one to ten.”
    “one’s the worst?” he nodded. “…two.”
    he types something into his computer. his eyes scan the screen. “anxiety level? one to ten, one’s the worst.”
    “…four.”
    more typing. “are you having any thoughts of harming yourself or committing suicide?” the way he says it is nonchalant, like he isn’t talking about life and death. i suppose he goes through dozens of people like me in a day.
    i stare at him.
    “i need a verbal answer.”
    “…yes.”
    “to which?”
    “…both.”
    “do you have a plan?”
    “plan for what?”
    “to commit suicide.”
    “oh.” i look out the window and refuse to say anything else. telling the truth won’t get me out of there anytime soon, but it feels immoral to lie about something so huge.
    “honesty’s the best policy. you won’t get better otherwise.”
    i squirm in my seat- but i hold my ground. “…no.”

    four.
    “i’m vegetarian,” she says. “i’m vegetarian and they gave me bacon.”
    i rise out of my morning-stupor. “everyone loves bacon.”
    “then why didn’t you eat it?” she says, picking at a bowl of fruit.
    i look down at my tray. i suppose i hadn’t. not wanting to leave my argument unsupported, i pick up a slice and munch on it. “i thought hospital food was supposed to taste bad,” i say. “this is actually pretty decent.”
    “that was in the old days,” she says through a mouthful of watermelon. “back when we would have been put in an asylum and given tranquilizers.” she lets her face go slack, her eyes glaze over. “we’re all zombies waiting to happen,” she drones.
    i swallow. “most of us are partially brain-dead anyways. malfunctions with the neural pathways. lack of serotonin in the brain.”
    “well, aren’t you smart.” she grins.
    “not really. i just took psych, is all.” i shrug.
    “well, don’t make me feel so stupid. it’s still news to me.” she says it with a smile, but her eyes stay flat. i know the technique- pairing possibly upsetting statements with a well-intentioned smile in order to deflect others’ concern. i’ve used it in more conversations than i can count. i feel like an ass for downplaying myself- if i’m stupid, then what’s she?
    i don’t say anything, though. the issue’s awkward enough without me bringing attention to it. and i know well enough that if no one says anything about my emotions, i can pretend that they didn’t notice that anything was wrong. i guess lia’s the same. i glance sidelong at her and know i’m right.

    five.

    the other inmates here are either nearly normal or almost insane. it’s our age that has the most to do with it- there are a lot of depressed kids, who, while definitely affected, aren’t quite the brand of crazy you tend to find in an asylum. we’re not specifically told what each other has, but i can figure it out easily enough with the way they blather about themselves during group therapy.
    none of them talk to me. they’re simply beings who occupy the same treatment center as i do. their faces meld into each other’s. i could care less who’s who. lia’s the only one who’s bothered to connect, and i can see why, but i don’t want to be making friends with anyone. it’ll make dying later that much harder.

    six.

    i was reluctant to talk to lia in the first place, but i couldn’t get her out of my head. she pervaded my mind, clinging to the folds of my thought process with the intensity i usually reserved only for hate and guilt. she just- wouldn’t- leave. there was something about her- maybe it was her eyes, the life i saw in them which contrasted so strongly with the damp, resigned halls we were trapped in- or it might have just been the markings on her wrists, linking her tenuously to me, in a way i was naturally inclined to be curious about. everyone wants to compare scars, especially when they have such stories behind them. i was hooked.

    seven.

    the packet is labeled “my health plan” and is embellished with one of those strangely grinning sweatered kids i thought didn’t exist outside of textbooks from the nineties. i fill out the brightly colored pages with answers i know are correct but don’t really believe in. why was i admitted? i no longer knew how to safely care for myself. in truth, i knew how- i just didn’t bother anymore.
    i’ve been a dealer in half-truths for as long as i can remember. i’m an excellent liar, and that makes my (lack of) life so much easier. had i been hurting myself? was i okay? yeah, i’m not feeling suicidal at the moment so i’d count that as okay.
    after the millionth page of “i’m ready to get better”, i’m exhausted. i sit in the window seat in the lounge, staring out at the little garden outside. it’s barely spring, so there isn’t much growing, just a few crocuses surrounding an ancient oak tree, its leaves that new-green color of springtime. the sun hasn’t quite set yet- it hovers low in the sky, bathing the entire scene in orange.
    i’m pulled from the view by a scraping sound as lia pulls up a chair next to me.
    “sick of empty promises yet?”
    i stare at her, deadpan. “who said i was lying? maybe i really want to get better.” it almost sounds convincing, but then a nervous laugh bubbles up.
    she snickers, like i had shared a particularly hilarious joke. “it’s in your eyes. i can tell the difference between the ones who just need convincing and the ones who’ve seen the other side and want to go back.”
    i try to smile. “it’s that obvious, huh?”
    “nah. your face is like fucking shakespeare. thankfully, i’m fluent in old english.”
    “yeah?”
    “yeah.”
    she closes her eyes a bit too long for the gesture to be called blinking, then gazes out at the garden. “it’s a nice place out there. no one really goes outside, though. it’s too cold most days.”
    “but you’re cold-tolerant?” i conclude skeptically. she looks too skinny to keep so easily insulated. she’s wearing two pairs of hospital-issued socks; they sag around her ankles.
    “not really,” she says. “but i like the cold better than the indoors.”
    i understand- sometimes peace is worth any sacrifice. “how long have you been here?”
    “two weeks as of yesterday,” she says. “it sucks, because it was the day before i was going to a motionless in white concert with some friends. i was so pissed.”
    my eyebrows rise. “you like motionless in white?”
    “yeah. you too?”
    “they’re one of my favorites.”
    “how was the show?”
     “i didn’t go.”
    “no one to go with?”
    “no, music just… lost its spark.” along with sleeping and eating and everything else.
    “oh.” she shifts in her chair. “would’ve been killer.”
    “how do you even survive the moshpits?”
    “i can throw a punch.”
    “you’re like ninety pounds. even i could overpower you, and- well, look at me.” i spread my stick-arms, illustrating my point.
    she frowns. “ninety-three and a half on admission. don’t know how much i’ve gained since; they won’t let me see the scale.”
    something in my head clicks. “…oh.”
     i wasn’t in the mood to eat, huh? no, food and i have a more… complex relationship than that.”
    “i’m sorry.”
    “don’t be. you’re not the one denying me.”
    “not to pry, but… why?”
    “i’m a bit of a perfectionist. surely you can understand that?”
    “it’s the reason why i’m here.”
    “can’t be the best, so you might as well be dead, eh? i guessed those were the marks of a self-discipline aficionado.” she nods towards my arms.
    i can’t help it; i laugh. “you couldn’t have said it any better.”
    “why can’t the psychiatrists be more like me?” she jokes.
    “prescribe me something to make everyone else understand.”
    “they’re the crazy ones, not us.” she giggles.
    “i’m sure that would get us out of here quick,” i add.
    once it was out of my mouth, i know it was the wrong thing to say. she turns sober. “yeah, that would go well with the scars on our arms. ‘i swear i’m sane. it’s the rest of you. how do you live with yourselves?’”
    “look, i didn’t mean that.”
    “yes, you did, and it’s completely true, too.”
    “is that really our fault, though?”
    “nah. just a lack of serotonin, right? everyone’s different.” she smiles at me, close-lipped, and i see it again, that green flash in her irises, but this time it feels- sadder.
    i don’t know what to do.
    “yeah,” i said. “just chemicals.”
    she walks away.

    eight.

    it’s strange to get used to the evening procession, a long sequence of blood-pressure tests, questionnaires, and pills. i had, three months earlier, decided to stop taking my antidepressants- the ones i had been on for three years. my reasoning was that they changed who i was. i didn’t want anything inhibiting the true me from expressing himself, and i was tired of using the pills as a crutch. i thought i would be strong enough to go without them.
    at new haven, they make sure i take all of the pills assigned me- the antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, pills for insomnia and stress and a stomach ulcer, vitamin d to fill a deficiency i didn’t realize existed- they totaled nearly a dozen, and the handful didn’t do much besides cause me to wonder if perhaps lia was right and we were still in an old-fashioned asylum, where drugs were prescribed randomly and ineffectively. i was starting to get frustrated about the amount of time i had to let my mind wander- though technically we only had an hour of free time in the afternoon, all our activities were mundane enough to perform while thinking about other things, and i was getting sick of being left with my thought process.
    however, after a week, i started to feel the pills working. it was subtle until i realized it- i actually had the energy to drag myself out of bed. i didn’t awaken to the dread i was used to, the pressing feeling of guilt settling on my shoulders like a heavy blanket for me to drag around all day. it was strange- i actually felt okay about facing another sixteen hours awake.

    nine.

    lia’s the second one to notice my change in mood. i’m working on a list of affirmations- (i’ve been accepted to my first-choice college, i got a good score on the act, see, i’m worth keeping myself alive for-) when she flops down in the chair opposite me. “hey, max. why so chipper?”
    i roll my eyes.
    “no, seriously, dude. you’re not frowning. what’s up with that? we’re supposed to be gloom-and-doom, remember?”
    “that’s right. how could i forget? you constantly moan about the state of the union, and i mope silently next to you.” i stick my tongue out at her.
    “don’t be so harsh, dude. i’m fragile. i could kill myself at any moment.”
    “i’d laugh if it wasn’t so true.”
    “aww, come on, man. you know that’s not why i’m here.”
    “i wouldn’t put it past you.”
    “shut up, maxwell. besides, what’d you say? slitting your wrists won’t kill you anyways.”
    “it’s still a six percent chance, statistically. but yeah, there are much better ways to kill yourself if you really want to die.” i scribble down another affirmation. “some are less painful, too. a good snap to the neck could take you out in seconds. gunshot’s near instant. same with jumping off a building or throwing yourself in front of a train.”
    “you researched this, didn’t you?”
    i shrug. “idle minds, idle hands.”
    “what about overdosing?”
    “that’s only fifty percent lethal. too good of a chance of you puking everything back up. actually, that’s the way a lot of overdoses die- choking on their own vomit.”
    lia shudders. “glamorous.”
    “yeah, they don’t tell you that in the stories.”
    she lowers her voice. “so, when you do it again- because i know you will- how are you gonna do it?”
    i swallow nervously, whisper even though no one else is paying attention. “…my father’s gun. if he’s hidden that, i’d hang myself. can’t take away my sheets, and that’s really all you need for a noose.”
    she nods. “if you don’t mind my input, i’d rather you hang yourself. don’t ruin your pretty face with a bullet.”
    for some reason, her words irk me. “what?” i hiss. “you’re not even going to try to talk me out of it?”
    “why should i? i have no control over you. even if i said no, you’d still do it if you wanted to.”
    i suppose you’re right.” but i notice something strange- when i think about killing myself, it didn’t quite hold the same appeal as it used to. under the bandages, my arms are starting to scab over, and the wounds in my mind are beginning the same process. living doesn’t feel so raw anymore.

    ten.

    “you seem to be making progress. am i correct?”
    i bob my head. “could just be a phase, though.”
    the psych nods. “i’ll take that into account. however, your charts do seem to be improving steadily. you report lower levels of anxiety, an easier time sleeping- fewer thoughts of self-harm?”
    “yeah, actually.”
    “good, good.” he gestures towards my bandages. “how are the arms?”
    “itchy.”
    he laughs. “all part of the process, kid. how do you think you’d describe the way you’re feeling right now? forget about the numbers. tell me your emotions for once.”
    it takes me a while, but i find the words. “…i’m not… better, at least not all the way. but…” i pause. “…i think i could be, someday?”
    “so what’s our lesson here?”
    i smirk. “listen to the doctor and take your pills.”
    “you know it’s more than pills.” he types something into the computer- “-though i’m glad to see you cracking jokes. you’ll be out of here in no time.”

    eleven.

    the next day is unusually warm. i’m sitting in the window seat during free hour, enjoying the sun. almost all the other kids went to the gym to play horse, but i wasn’t allowed in case i split a stitch or something equally tragic. i found an old paperback and now am idly flicking through it- some old classic with a positive message at the end. it doesn’t keep my attention long.
    lia stands up. “i’m going outside.”
    she’s not allowed to exercise, either.
    i look out the window. “it’s still cold out.”
    “there’s no snow, is there? i won’t freeze to death.”
    “fine, i’m coming with you.”
    “don’t think you’ll be able to warm me up, stick-boy.” her eyes twinkle.
     i smile. “did i say i was going to?” i walk over to the door to the garden and push it open. i hold it for her and she sprints under my arm to the far side of the garden, her socks accumulating dirt. “how can you run so fast on no fuel?” i call.
    she pulls herself up onto the lowest branch of the oak tree. “i’m a master of efficiency,” she says, and grins.
    i marvel. “is there room up there for another?”
    she bounces on the branch; if it moves, i don’t see it. “seems fine,” she says.
    i climb up myself and sit next to her.
    we’re quiet for a while, shivering in the march wind. i look at her. she seems serene, staring silently at the clouds.
    her eyes flick over to mine. “what?”
    “nothing.”
    “nothing, my ass. tell me what you’re thinking, pretty boy.”
    i bite my lip. “you might get offended.”
    “i’m not as fragile as i pretend i am. take your best shot.”
    i take a deep breath, released it. “you just seem so… normal. stable.”
    i don’t think it’s what she was expecting to hear, because she doesn’t respond for a while. when she does, she’s quiet. “yeah, i’m pretty high-functioning. it’s pretty hard to convince people that what’s in my head is actually there when i’m able to put a mask over it.”
    i peer through the window; no one’s inside to see me do it, so i wrap her hand in mine. she’s freezing. “if it makes any bit of difference, i bet you’re still likeable underneath.”
    she looks at our hands. “my fingers are going numb, i think.”
    “seriously.”
    “what, you want me to say thank you? i know you’ll regret saying that you actually get to know me. it’s what always happens. there’s no stopping it.”
    “maybe there is, and you just refuse to believe so.”
    she takes her hand out of mine. “i’ve lived with this for years, max. if there was a cure, don’t you think it would have worked by now?”
    “well, it’s not just the drugs, you know? you have to help yourself. pills won’t do it all.”
    “what the fuck, max? you sound like the doctors. what happened to death-boy? in case you don’t remember, that’s your own handiwork under your bandages.” she gets quiet. “i thought we had a pact. i thought, maybe, we were the same.”
    “well-” i stumble over my own tongue. “maybe we can both get better. there’s got to be something better than wanting to die all the time. i want to heal. i want to be happy. and-” –i’m flying by the seat of my pants now; the words barely hit my brain before they fall out of my mouth- “-i want that for you, too.”
    it doesn’t work. my rhetoric obviously isn’t helping, because lia’s face is set in stone- her voice is granite. “don’t even try, max. it’s not going to work. i don’t want your sappy shit.”
    i try to stop the words, but they bypass my filter too quickly. “why don’t you want to get better?”
    as i speak, i reach out with my hands, like i could stuff the words back in my mouth unheard.
    lia is silent. when i motion towards her, she bats my arm away with no concern for the bandages. she slips down from the oak tree.
    “lia, i’m sorry-”
    “-don’t even try.” she goes inside. through the window, i watch her posture deteriorate. she slouches against the door and stays like that for a while. then she drags her feet all the way to her room and shuts the door.

    twelve.

    i thought the ward was on fire.

    one of the younger kids is screaming, multiple nurses are yelling things back and forth, and in my dreamlike state, i have no idea of what’s going on. the alarm clock on the nightstand reads six-fortyfour, its red blink perpetuating the surreal feeling of it all. the sun hasn’t risen yet. i stumble through the dark to my door. opening it, i find no light, no smoke. there’s a crowd of bodies blocking the window facing the garden.
    i walk towards them, try to peer past the nurses, but i can’t. suddenly i feel very sober. “what’s going on?”
    the head nurse turns around. “don’t let him see.” i’m surprised- she sounds nearly frantic. “maxwell? go back to bed.”
    don’t let me see what? her words only pique my interest. i ignore her, approach the window. i nearly trip over one of the other inmates, the schizophrenic. he must have been the cause of the screaming which woke me up, but now he’s simply sobbing. huge gasps rattle his tiny body. i sidestep him. “what’s going on?” my voice cracks on the last syllable.
    “max. go back to bed.” she’s firmer now, but i simply have to see. i push past the nurses and take the last few steps to the window.

    i saw the bedsheet first. in the predawn light, the white stood out the best. it’s jumbled now, but i’ll always remember how odd it seemed at first, the simple sight of a sheet hanging from that tree branch in the almost-dark- and how, one split second later, it all made sense as my mind put the pieces together. i recalled the conversation i had with her almost at the same time i recognized the shape hanging from the oak tree.

    the way i repeat the words couldn’t really count as speaking; rather, they ebb out of my mouth, riding on my breath.
    “can’t take away my sheets, and that’s really all you need for a noose.”

written f11jan2013.

needs a bit of editing. i’ll do it eventually.

loosely based off an experience i had with a girl during my first hospitalization. her name wasn’t lia and she didn’t die- well, as far as i know.

someone told me reading part two made him feel physically sick. i am very proud of that.

–

sunshine

she doesn’t quite know what did it. she doesn’t know how she made it before the sun came up.

she met a boy once, and she didn’t think much of him then, except for that he was quiet and would she see him every thursday after this. my, was he skinny. she had a brother that skinny once, in anothertime anotherworld where smiles didn’t cause sunrises and eyes were just eyes and not panes of fogged-up glass, s(light)ly olive-tinted, and if the light hit just right you could see something real staring out. they were just smiles, they were just eyes, they were just green.

she was a sucker for green eyes.

–

she failed sophomore biology, and the next year she took it with him. he scolded her for not trying, but never out loud. (later she would learn that he was a procrastinator in the most extreme degree. she would try to help him with it, only to learn that procrastinating is the sort of problem you have to cure yourself.) they both got over her unspoken failure, because they knew she could do better. they laughed at the stupidest of things. they pranked their classmates. he jokingly stole her pencil but then forgot to return it. he emailed her, “tell me to give it back on monday.” she found it amusing that he would do that over such a small thing- she didn’t value her pencils like he thought she did.

he failed the ap exam. she would still be remembered as one of the two kids in her grade who passed it. the others would have dropped the title if they knew that, after that test, she took the class for the third time in summer school. they would have dropped her entirely.

–

she was a monster that year, toothy and fearsome, though no one else thought so. she slept in brackish waters, ocean-deep secrets and tangy insecurities. she kept to herself because she didn’t want to poison anyone else with her thoughts. she had a lot of (not-really-) accidents around that time; bushes reached out to grab her at the exact wrong moments. “the ice just didn’t want to be alone on the ground, so it pulled me down to be with it,” she would say.

she hated her emotions for doing this to her. she hated them so much she ripped them apart and kept them like secrets in the pit of her stomach. they were far better food than the lies the doctor fed her about being able to get better. she was so far beyond getting better.

–

they didn’t have trouble parting for the summer. they said their hellos cautiously that next fall. there was no tearful reunion. there was nothing to catch up on. there was nothing to be missed, because she hadn’t found it yet.

that fall they started talking more. they had a music class together again, and he was demoted to second chair. she was demoted to fifth. both of them took it hard, she a little more than he. everyone knew she was meant for fourth chair. they called it travesty whenever the thief was out of earshot. no one said anything about the green-eyed boy, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault that he lost out to a prodigy.

–

she started trusting him with little things. he never really said anything about it, but he defended her when she was picked on, and she couldn’t thank him enough for that. she didn’t really need it, but she appreciated the sentiment.

“sorry, i’m used to more… jerk-ish things from people. not from you, but.” she dipped her head.

“that’s good. as in, not from me-” he tried to clarify, but she, indignant, interrupted. “not really-”

“-not that you’re used to it,” he finished.

“oh, yeah, not from you- well, i’ve built up a tough skin; i don’t get affected by it anymore so… it’s all cool, i guess.”

and every time she realized she went too far with sharing, she’d add, “sorry i’m such a downer, haha.” because she knew she was a good liar, and she knew he trusted her too much to even consider that she wasn’t happy underneath the mask; and also because she didn’t want him feeling sorry for her.

–

he was a joker if she’d ever known one, always laughing and goofing off, but she’d seen his other side. they were both raised to be quiet children, but in school, the discipline wore off. she just wanted to be happy.

he was polite, too, and that was what got her, because she didn’t know why. she had problems with reading people, especially the quiet ones, and she couldn’t tell whether she was just hypersensitive or whether what she was looking for was actually there. it was the little things, and she knew they counted, but she couldn’t tell if she was winning.

she tended to get down on herself. she never really had much of a self-esteem in the first place. she wrote, but she was convinced she was just another angsty kid with a pen. she drew, but before showing any of it to anyone else she would preface it with a, “yes, i know this sucks, but i like it anyways,” and then she would point out every single flaw in it just to let you know that she knew they were there, she knew she was horrible at it.

she won the school art contest. there were no places, but she was one of ten picked. she wasn’t proud, and when she told him, she brushed it off. she was more excited about his knowledge bowl meet, which he brushed off, saying he could have done better.

“did you win?” he asked her.

“well, yeah, but so did nine other people.” she laughed.

“nice!”

“i think they just listed everyone who entered, haha.”

he ignored her excuse. “see, you got at least one of about 1500, that’s pretty good… at least nine. and you thought three of sixtyish was good.”

“well, it’s not the same, because not everyone here is predisposed to art.”

“well-” he mimicked her tone- “not everybody is predisposed to knowledge, either.”

“haha. but i doubt i got it of 1500.”

“that’s how many people go to our school, isn’t it?”

she grew exasperated at his insistence. “yeah, but not all of them entered, see?”

“because if we knew we did, we would have no chance.”

that caught her off guard. “why- thank you,” she said, and pretended to curtsy.

“for some reason, i can’t imagine you doing that much.”

“haha, i like to at least pretend to be fancy sometimes. but seriously, thanks. that means a lot to me.”

“really?”

“well, yeah.”

–

around that november she realized that when she was around him, the suicidal thoughts slunk away, sneaking off sulkily like beetles from a flashlight. it wasn’t that they weren’t there anymore- they were just dormant, but even that was a much-needed break from the torment. that was when she decided she needed to be around him as much as possible. when they were together, she was happy. she could just be free and forget, for the moment, all of the things that were wrong (with her).

he started making his way into her writing, and that was when she knew she had fallen hard. but to her, it didn’t feel a thing like falling; she was so lighthearted she could have floated away.

she hadn’t cut in a month.

–

it seemed near every other day they talked outside of school, and for hours at a time. she always started the conversations, and, driven by guilt and perhaps a bit of motherly worry, would periodically ask if she was getting in the way of homework. he felt bad for letting her go, but they both knew it was for the best. he had grades to keep up.

she started to wonder why he let her talk to him so much. her brother started to wonder why she talked about him so much.

she didn’t always win, though. he forgot her once, and she would never forget it.

“hey. next time you say you’re going to come back and talk to me, could you at least come back and say nevermind?”

“i’m sorry, i completely forgot.”

“it’s okay, i just kind of waited for you to come back and you never did. i wasn’t really mad.” that, she supposed, wasn’t a lie- she was lonely, terrified, depressed, but not mad.

“i finished the test at nine, but then i was like oh yeah, here’s an assignment i still need to do, and the thing closed that night, so… yeah.” he trailed off uncertainly, apologetically.

“yeah,” she assented. “can i ask you something?”

“uh huh. i mean no-”

“-you can’t lie, either-”

“-not at all. sure. why? how? which? what? anyways.”

“i’m trying to be serious,” she huffed.

“sure you are.”

she took a deep breath. “…you don’t find me annoying or weird or anything, do you?”

“well, weird perhaps.”

“i mean, you don’t ever wish i’d just go away and leave you alone?”

“once in a while, but mainly no.”

“good… once in a while when?”

“usually only when i have homework that i know i need to do and you’re only helping me to procrastinate.”

it wasn’t the answer she was expecting at all. “oh, haha… you don’t have homework now, do you?”

–

in january of her senior year, they took a field trip to new orleans with their orchestra and the band. he had to take a test that day and was worried he wouldn’t finish fast enough to get a seat on the bus. he was afraid he’d have to sit by a stranger. she told him she’d save him a seat if he thought he could stand her for that long. it was a sixteen-hour drive, and she knew how she got at times. he said she’d probably be more sick of him by the end of it. so, each doubting the other, they made a silent bet of it.

there were a few times when, overcaffeinated, he acted too annoying for her tastes, but she didn’t do anything but smile at him. there were a few times when, overwhelmed, she cried quietly next to him, but neither of them said anything about it.

they never admitted who won, but she felt rich just from his company.

–

that day, he finished early, and they met by chance outside her spanish classroom as she was leaving. she grinned nervously at him, afraid she was not needed anymore, but they still sat next to each other. as their bus departed, the girl in front of them looked back and said, “ooh, sleeping tonight’s gonna be awkward for you two,” and laughed. she had already thought of that, but didn’t bother to look at him as she blushed, so she never knew if he had, too.

he brought his favorite pillow, and she a blanket. she offered to share, but he wouldn’t take it. that night, they fell into sporadic sleep around one-thirty, back-to-back, constantly readjusting in the effort to make the seat more comfortable. it didn’t work, and though she couldn’t see him, she felt him shift all night.

she was an insomniac and had left her meds in her suitcase, so she stayed up and stared out the window, listening to the sounds of four dozen sleeping students on the highway. the glow of the light under their neighbor’s seat matched the moon near-perfectly- a faint, bitter blue the taste of imagined abandonment, but she felt safe surrounded by all of the teenagers around her. half of everyone who had ever cared was within a dozen yards of her, and though she might not be occupying their sugarplum-dreams, it was still nice to know that they were there.

at about five, she gave up on sleeping entirely and sat up, tilting her head back and closing her eyes in quiet, but completely conscious, contemplation. he woke up soon afterwards and copied her position, but not before nodding off again. at one point during the bumps and curves of the ride, his head fell to rest on her shoulder. she left it there, because (this is what she told herself) she couldn’t stand to wake him. that morning, over breakfast, she would ask him if he remembered. he would tell her that he didn’t.

–

“well, there’s only one way to solve this.”

“do you mean a fight to the death, or something less extreme?”

–

through the trip they stayed by each other’s sides. she learned more about who he was just by his proximity over those few days than she had in more than a year of knowing him. (he would later be referred to by her friends as the kid who sat by her on the bus, yeah, he’s cool. and so funny!) she looked to him to see what he wanted to do, and when she didn’t, he would simply follow her without question. they never said, hey, let’s stay together this whole time- they just assumed. it was what she wanted, anyways, though again she wondered why he hung around so much.

on their last day, the group they were hanging with passed a gang of others from the school, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted to go with them. “you don’t have to stay with us, you know,” she told him, and he said, “oh.” then he left. she wondered if he had felt obligated before to stay with her, and thought about asking him, but she never did.

–

she started counting up the little things, trying to see if she meant as much to him as he to her. he said good night to her twice. he brushed up against her once. he asked her to play games with him, most of which he won. he teased her about that, which she loved.

he stood up for her once or twice. he joked around with her all the time. he talked to her; he didn’t run away when she got weird. and he never ridiculed her for being who she was.

she felt like she could trust him.

–

she never wanted to tell him, for fear of losing him.

written s26feb2012.

half-fiction.

this one was really hard to post where everyone can see it, but it’s a good story.

beale street

the night beckons just beyond the door, sending in tendrils of crisp air every time another reveler joins the masses packed into the club, but those by the door barely notice. our collective body heat keeps us warm, and the group i’m with is convinced it’s summer. up north it’s below zero; here we wear shorts and tank tops while the natives, sweatered, stare.

the evening is just starting. though it’s a thursday, barely-adults teem in the streets outside, perfumed in alcohol and smoke, faces adorned with masks of neon light. the streetlights add to the scene, bathing the night in bright colors, bringing out the inner children they’ve barely abandoned as they whoop a drunken war cry. the spirit of celebration is strong, and though there’s nothing specifically worthwhile to cheer about, their enthusiasm is contagious. right now i’m beginning the most influential journey of my young life, surrounded by my friends; and we care naught about what’s waiting for us at home, care about naught but the music pulsing around us.

i’m running on sensory overload, surrounded by sweat and salt and something else, something unnameable. it smells like… teen spirit, i whisper to myself, and immediately bite back my tongue for laughing at the reference. five days, i had promised. five days to simply live through and not bother to think of anything else, and here i am on the first of them, laughing at a joke that belonged two decades back, back with grunge- reality, and actual emotion instead of synthesizers for hearts, instead of metallic replies and lovers who taste like circuit boards, who run on batteries and die when their cell phones do.

this isn’t what we’re used to, tinny and filtered through cheap speakers, butchered by electronics until the soul is gone. this is beale street, this is jazz. the man on the stage has a heart, and you can hear it spilling through into his words, raw yet sonorous. it’s the perfect mix of strain and skill, of capacity and of yearning. it reaches deep into me until it finds that small, scared muscle fluttering in my ribcage and squeezes until i cry out- perfectly in tune with the music, because first and foremost i am an artist; even instinctually i prefer aesthetics to ease, and my body will wrench itself to hit the right note instead of simply letting go. distraught, i clench my teeth. i taste pain, and my vision blurs, turning the club into swirls of eclectic greens and blues.

the boy next to me is a smudge of red, an impressionist’s last-minute decision to add to the canvas. he’s holding a video camera as a favor to a friend who wanted equally to film and to participate- she’s dancing below as the two of us sit, detached, in the balcony. i said i was here to keep him company as he distanced himself through the screen, but we both know that i said it as an excuse to keep from dancing. i wipe my ego clean with a finger under my eyes and try to blink the rest of it away. he sits oblivious next to me.

when we were told memphis, we imagined something more. we didn’t think we’d be going to a club you could find in minneapolis, we said. the back of my throat is bitter with regret, sour and metallic like a bit tongue- i know now how wrong we were. i wish i could take the words back from where they hung in the air, a plaque displaying my accomplishments in regret. i immediately hate myself for thinking it, because it’s so clichéd, but if i knew then what i knew now-

the north had never seemed so cold to me, not when i knew nothing else. the cities were ripe with young artists, children who had never learned to fear, and their joyous cries lit up the weekend streets, but never had i heard anything this heartrending. never had i felt so much emotion. up north, we didn’t share ourselves like this. we bluffed our way out of showing our souls. we were sheep in wolves’ clothing, pretending to be better than we were, pretending we weren’t human.

there are no cold shoulders here. there is no steel besides that which is being played on, and we are not wintry. we’re as honest as we will ever be, sitting lonely, lotuslike, bobbing on the tide of sound as it washes over us.

–

written f17feb2012.

for creative writing- we had to write a descriptive vignette about somewhere we’d been, or somewhere we found interesting- so, of course, i wrote about the best night of my then-recent life: a night at a jazz club during my school orchestra’s trip to memphis and new orleans.

i still consider live music one of the best experiences i can find.

–

self-determination

this land was raised on autonomy
i raised you on senses fail

you grew up ingrained with slivers of doubt
and i encouraged you all the way
because it was beautiful-
so sick, but it wasn’t a deathwish
it was a fashion statement
and it looked good on you

but i never meant to put you through this
i couldn’t have predicted the words from their mouths
and now you’ve turned to this-
i swear i never endorsed it

and i don’t find it so beautiful anymore,
the way you can’t make it through a single day
without wondering if life is worth the ridicule

if it’s your choice, i can’t stop you
if you really want to leave, there’s nothing i can say

but i need to let you know
that there are people here who need you
even if you can’t see it
and i know that vested deep within you
there’s still a will to live

but it’s your choice,
and there’s something lovely about self-determination
when you go down,
you can say you did it all by yourself
you can say that you finally got it right

–

written r2feb 2012.

small-me says: “the prompt was to write about something ugly and then find the beauty in it. and the first ugly thing i thought of was suicide. it is! very ugly! but then i had to find the beauty and now i look all emo. hey, kids. i do not endorse this. suicide’s not cool. peeps will miss you.”

–

joke’s on me

music brings us together
unless, of course, it doesn’t-

seven months since i mentioned green day to you
and you never admitted it,
but now you talk about them all the time

seven months since and i haven’t mentioned a single band you’ve liked
besides green day

and you talk about them like they’re the only thing we have in common
that and a few b-movies with cult followings,
movies you quote every single day-
and then you look to me to see if i laugh

i will always find you amusing
i will always love to see you smile
but i can’t pretend that it gets tiring,
not being able to find anything else to talk about.

you say you like the arts,
but i’ve never found you buried in words
never seen you drown in sentiment

i’m surprised i can take you seriously

my favorite anthology is one i took from my favorite college
during a visit three months ago
full of poetry from twenty-year-olds
who believe that they’re worth nothing
they’re worth everything to me

i hold words tightly to my chest
an invisible blanket woven equally from sarcasm and honesty
so that i can pluck out the right threads
when i talk to you

i’ll pretend i’m writing this for you
we both know i’m a horrible liar

it’s been seven months and i’m on the verge of unraveling
i’ll pretend it’s something romantic
and you’ll stare at me like i’m insane

but i’ve gotten used to it by now

you brush my serious words off like it’s just part of the joke
i only wanted to let you know how i feel
you know i’m melodramatic
i just wish you’d play along for once

i sing anthems about falling apart
and you sit there, waiting for the exciting bit

-music brings us together
unless, of course, it doesn’t

but i’ve gotten used to it by now

–

written a21jan2012.

this one was hard to post because it’s personal. it’s shitty in parts but there is good in it. don’t make fun of me.

–

asphyxiate

there should be a word for that feeling you get
when you realize your best friend’s world is slowly cracking
because i have it

that feeling when you realize your best friend’s world is
cracking open like a snow globe, dropped and
shaken up and now the sky is slowly leaking water and it’s puddling at her toes
and the sad part is that she wouldn’t mind the drowning much,
it’s just the panic before the drowning that scares her
because even though she doesn’t realize it anymore,
her body still wants to keep living
and it tells her that in terms not quite defined enough to understand

and then you peer in at her and notice her just standing there,
given up while the pain of just continuing washes up around her shins and
it grabs on like glue and makes it harder to walk
and the more she tries the more it thickens up
and crystallizes, bittersweet like burnt sugar

and her eyeliner’s streaked all down her face
and she looks like either she hasn’t been sleeping or she’s been sleeping too much
and all of it just looks so bloodily romantic to her, what a wonderfully poetic way
to fall, she thinks

and she doesn’t really feel much of anything anymore, doesn’t want to in fact
because she knows where she’s going

and so do you so you’re scared at hell
and wondering where you were when this started
why couldn’t you be there for her

and there’s a giant fist clenched around your guts
and it’s making it harder to breathe
and now she’s broken, and you can hold her while she cries
but she will never be the same
and it’s all your fault
because you
weren’t there

there should be a world for that feeling
because i have it and it’s got me good

–

written t13dec2011.

wasn’t sure whether it was poetry or prose so i put it in both categories. technically, everything but the first three and last two lines is one big run-on sentence- but that’s how it felt at the time. like one big, terrified, run-on sentence.

this is something which happens when you befriend other messed-up people. all you can do is try to stay calm yourself- try to “be there” for them- try to tell yourself it’s not your fault when they die.

–

are too

and i’m not afraid to fight
and i’m not afraid to die
and i
am
not
afraid.

[actually, i am not
much of anything right now]

and i.

there are days when i find it
immeasurably
desirable
to just rip my organs out-

-just rip them
right fucking out,
i never knew nails could dig through flesh like
that until she did it-

-blood spattering all over that painting i
just finished, dear what a waste i was
going to get an A on that.

maybe i still could.

there’s a hollow right behind my heart
that i can’t feel until you leave
i feel
incomplete without you,
i think
that’s what love is
but i ~~don’t~~
can’t
love you
because if i did
i’d feel too guilty when i hurt you
and believe me darling i can hurt you.

[ icanhurtyou ]

there’s the kind of girl you don’t want to love
because she doesn’t care
[about you]
at all and that is me.

there’s that girl.
sitting on the rooftops
like she
gives a
damn
about her image
she’s not vain she’s just conflicted
and she’s sitting there
like she
gives a damn.

there’s a war going on
in my head and it’s
bloody gruesome.
the doctor diagnosed me
with self-induced apathy
and he was
so right
i
ripped my
heart
out-

i hate my emotions
so much i
tear them apart
and keep them
like secrets
in the pit of my stomach.
they’re better food than the lies she told me

and so much sweeter

and i [.]

lied too; forgive me,
dear.
forgive me for not wanting to feel.

i
am
too
afraid.

–

written f9dec2011.

late at night. manic and anxious.

–

the thing about music is that it eats you right up

there’s this little hole-in-the-wall joint down in the heart of the city, nestled between a bakery and a law firm- squeezed right in there, just one door in about ten feet of wall- and you can tell the owners were tired of fliers falling off the door because they just ended up spray painting their message right on there: food. music. just those two words, like, what more do you want?

you’re not quite sure how you got here, case in one hand, drenched from the rain, but you don’t really care. you just got done with practice but your ears aren’t bleeding yet, and you’re not ready to face what’s waiting at home anyways. [you swear, that five-letter word gets you every time-]

inside the place there is crammed much more than should be physically possible- not that there’s a lot, mind you, it’s just that the place is tiny, barely big enough to hold a stove and two employees, much less the near-dozen people watching the kids in the corner play.

when you say kids, you don’t really mean kids- but they are barely older than you, barely in their twenties, and you’re a geezer at heart anyways, so you have the right to say it. there’s three of them, doing some sort of melancholy song that fits the rain oh too perfectly, not to mention your mood, and if it wasn’t so hollow it might’ve just ripped your heart right out of your chest.

but although it’s feeling a little achy, and cold from that downpour outside, your chest is perfectly fine. perfectly normal. your mind drifts back to something the doctor said to you once. people naturally are more apt to be affected by the bad things in life. and then he said to you, compassionate eyes staring right through you like laser beams- he said, you’ve got to try to just ignore whatever gets you down, and focus on the good things.

and there’s no room to put your stuff, so you just unsnap your case right there on the counter where you’re supposed to be asking for coffee or something else bitter and acidic, something else angsty, and then you actually take the advice of your elders for once in your life and play a major scale, right there in the middle of their song.

listen up! it says. there is enough sadness in the world without you adding to it.

the three kids stop and look at you, dark- eyed and confused, like, what else is there to play? and you blast a couple more notes at them from there across the room, and they look doubtful, but then the youngest one, with blond hair which seems to have fallen in his face almost by accident, starts playing some chords. he looks at you with expectant eyes, eyes that you can tell from across the room are the strangest silver you’ve ever seen, like the moon just decided to plant itself right behind his eyelids. you can tell that he doesn’t trust you- and yet he’s doing this anyways.

they stare at you, keeping the pace with wary eyes as you tell them the story of when the girl from down the street just showed up at your house that one summer afternoon. you barely knew her name at the time, but you took her to the park and skipped rocks on the lake. the sun highlighted your faces like you were angels, like you two were the best thing that had ever happened. you were both fourteen but felt younger, felt you had more life left. [and now, just a few years have passed, but you feel so old.]

so one of the kids, green-eyed as a jealous cat, ventures a little, spells out a melody-memory about young love- and no, it’s not all wilted roses and accusations, like you expected, it’s the horse races, it’s the two of you running through town, tripping up because you don’t know how to slow down yet and you’re betting it won’t happen soon. his shaggy hair keeps getting in his face, but he flicks it back so he can make eye contact with you. somehow you’ve moved towards them, now truly a part of their circle, drawn in by the story.

the second one, sitting somber in the corner, takes the melody and starts twisting it until you realize how truly tangled everything else is. it’s not you that’s at fault here, it’s the rest of the world. [if they weren’t so malevolent–] the song shifts a little bit into a minor key, and it’s starting to look bleak again, but he’s playing with his heart. this is what he does, you can tell that it’s simply in his nature, but he’s taking way too much risk, because if this breaks now he’s going to be gone forever. it’s something you’ve never done, putting all of yourself into something, and it makes your chest tight just watching him.

and then moon-eyes takes the lead, starts playing, and you swear every hair on you is standing on end. it strikes you so true that you wonder if there was anything honest before it. the notes nip at your ears like discrepancies, and he sings it out like there won’t be a tomorrow, and that strikes you true, too, so true that before you know it you’re backing up so you won’t get trapped here. stuck in the middle of this ecstasy may be the best way to die, may be the way you want to get out, but not now. not now, because you have things waiting at home.

you just about trip over a table as you stumble out of there, and just before you open the door, not even bothering to take your case, they all look at you with hollow eyes, eyes alight with nothing physical. and those eyes scream so bitingly you’re sure they have teeth, scream that you were their savior and how could you leave now, when you’re taking their life with you. it’s greedy. they’re hungry. you wrench yourself from it and bolt out of there.

none of you had even spoken one word.

–

written m14nov2011.

my head decided to tell me this story right as i was about to fall asleep.

i hadn’t yet jammed then, but now i can confirm this: if you ever get a chance to do so, take it. don’t let your embarrassment hold you back. a good jam is one of the most euphoric activities you’ll ever take part in. and it probably won’t end up with you being killed or eaten.

–

sinner

i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.

caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.

caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.

caren forgot herself.

ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn’t learned from her mistakes.

iii.
run a red light. it’s december and she’s egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she’s impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.

a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.

iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.

v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.

caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.

caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.

caren got shit done.

–

writen r13oct2011.

another one to jump out of my pen in a singular frenzied eruption.

–

stardust

stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amoré is what they have.
love is folié a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won’t keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it’s all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.

abandonment.
neglect gets to a child’s head-
can’t help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy’s back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.

–

written w12sep2011.

this is one of my most favorite works. i vividly remember frantically scribbling it in red pen in my notebook during free time in spanish class- the words appeared in my mind in one long, fevered stream, and when i was done i felt a genius. or perhaps a maniac. probably a good dose of each.

i’m not sure exactly what caused me to write this, but i believe the main influences were mania; neil gaiman’s sandman, volumes one and two; chiodos’ all’s well that ends well; and the blood brothers’ …burn, piano island, burn.

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