Untitled Suicide Short Story

And so I let you go...

And I hear from time to time how it takes your breath away when the sun comes over the mountains on the horizon. And how pure each new day feels when you see the sun dip below the water and come up so fresh and new.

But where am I, when we were supposed to be sharing these adventures together?

They all say you talk about me, but won't really ever tell me what it is you've said.

Do you think about me often? I do hope you think of me fondly.

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Pulling the blankets tighter around her, she shivered and opened one eye to the strip of sunlight that had made it past her curtains and fallen directly on her face. One day she'd remember to close the curtains completely. And one day she'd remember to put enough fire in the fireplace to keep warm till she woke. And it's not like she was always forgetting to do those things. She just forgot on the nights she tipped back the wine bottle.

Throwing the covers off and standing slowly, she made her way from couch to kitchen with every footfall sending jolts of pain to her temples. She groaned inwardly and gritted her teeth. Just a few more steps.... and soon the teapot was on the stove. She sat on the counter and watched the hands on the clock, getting lost in thought. It'd been one of those nights, where his memory haunted her and she did the only thing she could think of to get him off her mind. Where was he this week? Bora Bora maybe? Or perhaps another trip to Amsterdam. Their friends told her he had loved it there. Perhaps she would have loved it, too, if she had gone.

At first she didn't notice the whistling teapot, but as the noise got louder, it jolted her from her reverie and she removed the little kettle from the stove, pouring the water into her mug of waiting tea leave, measured and dispensed into their special infuser. 5 minutes later she was sipping the brew with neither sugar nor milk as she normally would, needing the strength to bring her back to life.

The cup of tea joined her in the bathroom, where she shed her negligee and stepped into a steaming hot shower to scald and scrub away all her past regrets and painful memories. In the back of her mind, a little voice mentioned that, perhaps she should have taken a few aspirin with her tea. But she had little time to dwell on that when she heard her phone ringing and that little voice wondered, could it be him? But no, as the answering machine picked up and beeped, it was Catherine's voice she heard, reminding her about lunch later because "if I don't remind you about these things, I end up sitting there all by myself for 2 hours thinking maybe this time you're just running a little late." She sighed heavily and let the water run over her face. If only she had taken a bath instead, she could have submerged her head under the water and not had to listen.





Several hours later, she was sitting across from Catherine at the local cafe, a little place all the hipster teens and "true individuals" frequented; where the coffee was over priced and the croissants were never as fluffy as they boasted. She nodded her head at the right times and made the appropriate responses when necessary, but her mind was elsewhere. They said that if you found yourself considering suicide as your last way out, you should do all the things you wanted to do but were always held back from. But there was nothing she wanted to do that she wanted to do without him. And living was one of those things....

"Annie? Annie! You haven't really been listening to a word I say, have you? I swear, I don't know what's happened to you, but I...." At first the strict force behind her name had caught her attention, but slowly she drifted away, blocking out the lecture she knew she was getting. Standing abruptly, she caught her friend off guard. "I'm sorry Catty, but I'm just in the mood for any of this right now." And with that, she turned on her heel and headed home, head held high for the first time in a long time because, finally she had a purpose.





At home, she looked around the house and smiled softly to herself. He used to do this for her, leaving little sticky notes all over the house for her to find, little love notes and reminders. But this time, it wasn't love letters and reminders. It was her suicide note. Several little ones. Apologies and explanations and excuses.

"I tried..."

"I'm sorry..."

"Tell him I never forgot him..."

Satisfied with the state of things in her apartment, she closed the door to the bathroom and approached the tub of warm water, slipping in slowly until only her head was not submerged. The water felt nice, almost reassuring and more comforting than any of her friends had been these past few months. She slid her fingertip gingerly along the edge of the blade, watched the red swirl out and dissipate in the water as she reveled in the feeling.... Yes, feeling. She could feel. And though it hurt, it surely did not hurt any worse than she had been hurting on the inside. Placing the razor on the inside of her wrist, she closed her eyes and in one swift movement, pushed and pulled the blade up her arm toward her elbow, letting out a little moan of pain but sticking to it until the red was no longer dissipating, but turning the water to it's brilliant shade. Her arm throbbed and stung, but she smiled and relaxed her head against the tub. It was all over now. Finally, she was erasing his memory. Finally, she was through with all this pain.

She had once known that she lived for something, and it had been him. Now that she no longer had him, she no longer had reason to live. She no longer had any purpose. Her final purpose, to end her existence, was coming to a close. And somehow, this felt just like she imagined each new day felt to him when he saw the sun dip below the water and come up again so fresh and new. It felt pure

Twist Of Fayte

She took a long drag from the cigarette held aloft between the middle and index finger of her left hand. She was, in actuality, right handed, but had been told that to do things with your non-dominant hand would cause you to perform the action slower, and with more thought. She applied this theory to eating and smoking, and swore it was her secret to keeping off the weight that plagued the women in her family.

Smoke billowed and curled from her lips and nostrils, and from behind the gray curtain, heavy-lidded eyes peered up towards the arms he'd crossed over his chest. She knew without looking that he was glaring at her, could feel it. The impatient tapping of his foot was like a persistent muscle tick, grating on her nerves. But she kept her demeanor disinterested as she swung her right hand over to the table and grabbed her drink, while in the same movement looked up into his eyes and smirked. She sipped her gin and tonic casually, holding his gaze, and when she moved the lipstick-stained glass from her mouth, she licked her lips and answered his unspoken question, "Yes, we can leave now."

The dim lights caught the sequins of her floor length black dress, and though she hadn't said a word to anybody, all eyes were on her as she sashayed from the room, cigarette still held between those two fingers of her left hand. The world stopped when Fayte chose to stop it, and more often than not, even when she didn't. She was not in love with her husband. Nor was she in love with his money. She was his trophy wife, and she was the one always watching quietly, watching life pass her by while she dreamed and schemed on the day she would get out of this Hell and live her own life. She had time, after all. 19 years old, carrying on as though she were another one of the middle aged wives of her husbands business associates and so called "friends".

In the car, she watched the people on the streets, created their stories in her mind. The weight of her long black hair piled elegantly on top of her head was giving her a migraine, and she ached for the moment when she got home and could release the tangle of curls, brush it out to it's full silken glory. When her hair was down, and her makeup removed, and she was down to her black satin nightgown, she would look all of her 19 years. But the mind behind those piercing, perceptive eyes was wise beyond her meager life span.

Before she turned in for the night, she checked the phone and found a missed call and the voicemail light blinking unfeelingly. She pressed the button and listened to the automated bullshit before she felt her heart turn to stone.

"Fayte, it's Uncle Dane. Your mom... we tried your cell phone... call me back as soon as you get this. And hurry..."

The machine beeped to signal that there were no more messages, and with the final words from her uncle, she felt the last remnant shards of hope slip from her grasp.

Without a word to Dominic, she slipped into a pair of jeans, red flats, and a black sweatshirt and raced her maroon PT Cruiser to the hospital where her mother had been spending more and more time as of late. She didn't noticed she was holding her breath in the elevator until she let it all out in one heavy exhale as the doors slid open at her floor. Fear almost rooted her to the spot, but the need to know pushed her on. The hallway seemed to stretch out in front of her as if she were living in a horror film, and the sense of dread on her heart only made the walk ten times more painful. She almost closed her eyes when she turned the corner, afraid of what she might see, but before she could, she saw Dane crouched on the floor; head in his hands and body shaking with the sobs that contorted his voice and probably his hidden face.

And she ran. Past the nurses, past her uncle. Into the room where she knew what she'd find, but had forgotten to prepare herself for. Her mother lay still, her eyes sunken in and her hair, so thin, fanned out on the pillow beneath her skull. Her lips were barely parted, and though Fayte stared hard, waiting on her breast to raise with an intake of oxygen, no movement happened. She stumbled, unfeelingly, to the edge of the bed and laid her face to her mother's hand, where she allowed herself to break. Hot tears poured from her tight shut lids, and she screamed, screamed for all the pain and anger and loneliness filling her otherwise empty heart and soul. The nurses ran to stop the commotion, but Dane provided a physical barrier between the emotional torment in the room and the doctors anxious not the alarm the other patients and visitors until she had calmed down.

These last few years, her empty marriage, all the medications and surgeries and tests, were all for naught. And when she finally left the hospital, escorted under the tender arm of her husband, she was not actually there at all. Though her body went through the motions of riding in a car, being comforted, and laying down to sleep, she was elsewhere, in her own little world away from all this bitterness and trying to process it. And when she fell to sleep, it was not a restful sleep, but one devoid of dreams and damn near utterly pointless.

Tragedy

All at once, the air in his lungs was forcefully pushed from betwixt his quivering lips, as though some unseen force had directed a punch straight into his gut. The whine started in his head, and worked it's way through his body until it followed the exhaled carbon dioxide as a scream, gaining strength as it encompassed the silence that had torn through his nervous system, causing him to investigate. And the smell; He could feel the bile rising up in his throat. That wretched smell that permeated the room and curled it's vile fingers under the door, motioning for someone to come see. But to come see what? Oh, he had to be curious.

His hands, once limp at his sides, now unconsciously made their way up to grip his head as his knees turned to jelly and buckled beneath him. He tripped, stumbled forward, and gripped her legs, tears spilling hot over his face and blurring his vision. He screamed her name, clawed at her dangling legs, finally righting himself and lifting her so he might slip the rope over her head. The dead weight of her limp body in his weakened state caused him to fall to the floor, cradling her cadaver against him as painful sobs wracked his body and he cursed at the top of his lungs whatever entity dared let her be taken from him.

His clumsy hands brushed her hair back, touched her face and lips. He laid her down gently and pressed hands to her chest, pumping as he had been taught. Her lips were cold against his as he breathed hard into her body, trying in vain to give her his life, to bring her back. Swiping ferociously at the tears streaming down his face, he scratched at his eyes, the weight in his chest threatening to break out right through his skin.

Leaving her body on the floor, he made his way on unfeeling hands and knees to the couch, fresh tears and blood curdling sobs contorting his face. Crawling onto the couch, he took her head in his hands and shuddered at the feel of the blood coating his palms and his fingers. His lips pressed hard kisses to her face as he pulled her to him, holding her tight while a chorus of "no" was exhaled roughly. His fingers left bloody prints on the picture frame he picked up from her lap, a picture of the three of them several years ago. His daughter, so young, before she went off to college and came back with a drug habit. His wife, before the miscarriage. And himself, before the other women.

Prying the gun from her cold hand, he laid on the couch, curling his body into the fetal position, before putting the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Closing his eyes, squeezing out one more tear, he pulled the trigger.

"Click"

The End

The pretty wallpaper he'd put up for her benefit had taken a beating from misuse and the hard erosion of time and ugly neglect. She sat on the bed, arms folded tight across her chest as she tried to hold herself together while she watched her world fall apart. The wallpaper was peeling, exposing the garish truth hidden beneath the lies she'd tried so hard to hold up.

This was it. Never before had the end felt this final. She watched him pack, without a word, as sobs racked her body sporadically. If she were to be truthful with herself, she'd seen this coming, even felt it for quite some time. But for whatever god awful reason, she'd held on so tightly to the very thing that cut deeper the harder she squeezed to keep it in her grasp.

There were no physical marks, but she looked at her hands anyways, to see if she'd been cut right through or if she had opened her hands and let that rusty blade slip from her grip before it severed her completely. And she knew the answer, as heavy as it sat in her chest.

She was going to be okay. She didn't have any choice. All those times she swore she'd never breathe another breath if she had to live even a second without him, all those words were bittersweet lies. This was the end, and no matter how hard it hurt, she was still standing. And she would continue to stand.

5 years of her young life, 5 years she could never get back or trade in or do over. Those 5 years were behind her now. And though they made her, shaped her, they could not dim the fighting spirit within her body that she often fought tooth and nail.

She dropped him off without goodbye, without a look back. She cried, oh how she cried. But she knew she would be fine, even if she didn't want to be.

Tenderness

It was always her laughter that caught him mid-moment and truly took his breath away. She had this amazing laugh, like a million angels exhaling softly to the tune of some sweet violin sonata. Gently he kissed those lips from which such music issued. Leaning his face into her hair, he inhaled deeply. She smelt distinctly of rich autumn nights and mischief. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he crept quietly out of the room and into the bathroom, letting the hot water rush over his body. He hissed sharply at the initial scalding torrent, but stood with teeth clenched as he waited for his body to get used to the blistering temperature. Once he had finally become comfortable, he grabbed the scrub brush and lathered it with soap before applying it roughly to his skin. Dead skin peeled off and his body was left red and raw, nearly to the point of bleeding. He made sure to get under his fingernails and behind his ears. Finally, he washed his hair 3 times with her cherry blossom shampoo. A smile turning up the corners of his lips, he stepped from the shower and dried off, wrapping the towel around his waist. When he opened the bathroom door, plumes of steam rolled over each other to disperse in the hall.

In the kitchen, he fixed a pot of coffee and munched on a cold bagel slathered with blueberry cream cheese while he waited for the morning brew to fill the pot enough for one cup. A deep drink of the black coffee was all he needed. He set the cup next to the remnants of his bagel to go back to their bedroom. His eyes met hers as he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bathroom, to the tub he had filled after his shower, and he smiled softly into those baby blues. He lowered her gently into the water, no clothes to remove first. Lovingly his hands caressed her body and her scalp as he washed her in the cherry blossom scented water. Just as he'd lowered her into the water, he pulled her from the water and worried not about a towel. Water trailed as he carried her back to their room and laid her on the sheets.

He went to her vanity table, grabbing the sewing kit from the bottom drawer and bringing it back to the bed. Licking the tip of the needle, a habit he'd picked up from his grandmother, he threaded the eye and went to work, cleaning up his handiwork. He hadn't wanted to ruin her completely, so he had been careful with his thrusts. There were only three of them, then he'd held her in his arms and taken her as the breath left her body. The candles in the dining room burned down and out and the leftover food grew cold as he took her again and again, tears streaming down his face. The blood that trailed from the dining room to the bedroom dried as he laid beside her, spent and finally at ease.

Perhaps he shouldn't have laid her back on the blood stained sheets, her dead eyes seemed to say. He frowned tentatively before finally deciding to leave her be. There was much more work to be done. He had to clean the blood from the bathroom and the floors. He had to clean up last nights dinner, as well as the pictures of her in the arms of another from the kitchen table. And he had to decide what she should wear today. Something clean and white, since she was new born; his and his alone.

Tender Virtuoso

I taste you on the wind,
The scent of warm October,
Dancing behind my eyes like little bubbles.

Kiss me in that simple way you always do.
Give me the moon on a string,
I'll hold it beneath my feet and wait to rise with Jupiter.

Take these thoughts,
Though they fray so at the ends,
And nurture them back to proper etiquette.

This
       is
          forever
               falling
      under
sweet
           surrender

Wrap me up in ocean waves,
Blanketed in warped sea foam,
Salted and tended for longevity.

My tender virtuoso,
Sing me a smile to suppress despondency
And I'll paint you delight in words and phrases

Taboo Writing Prompt Entry; Necrophilia

When he entered the room, her long, lithe body lay calling to him on the bed. She was beautiful in all her angelic splendor. Long silken tresses of darkest black flowed over white satin pillowcases beneath her sweet head. Candlelight danced on her pale skin and cast shadows on the walls. His mouth watered at the sight of her, and he crossed the floor to her bedside quickly. Disrobing, he lay beside her and ran a trembling hand through her hair. No words were necessary as he spread her thighs and lay between them, capturing her lips with his and sliding his tongue against hers, which lay as still as the rest of her. His hands caressed the soft, lovely mounds of her breasts, teasing the soft pink nipples with practiced fingertips. Strong hands wandered, fingers spread, as he reveled in the feel of her skin beneath him. Carefully, with a lover's skill, he parted her folds and guided his throbbing member deep within her.

A mix of a sigh and a grunt escaped his lips at the initial sensation. She was so tight, so perfect. He held her close as he thrusted, taking in her scent with heavy breaths. As he rose higher and higher, closer to climax, he pulled her legs up to allow for deeper penetration. Finally, with a final moan, he spilled forth his lust within her, kissing her neck and cheek. Withdrawing his shrinking member, he rolled to the edge of the bed and left her exactly as he had found her.

When the police filed the death report, it was noted that there was evidence of sexual intercourse... post-mortem.

Sweet And Simple

she speaks in tongues
and you'll never understand
a word she says
because you'll never want to
you'll never want her
and her request is simple
finality
an end to this
all of this
she wants no more
she wants her last breath
inhale cyanide
exhale i love you
ending you loved me not

Suicide

Faithfully, as he had every Sunday morning for the past 22 years of his life unless overcome with sickness, Brandon sat in the front pew of the church he'd attended since birth. And like most Sunday mornings for the past few months, he was too lost in thought to hear another sermon about gathering the flock to the good Sheppard. Instead, he found his mind numbly stumbling over static and useless thoughts, like an old time radio buzzing through the white noise to occasionally find an old forties classic. He was desperately preoccupied with his own inner and physical struggles, his insides physically in pain from the mental abuse he suffered unto himself. Not that he could help it. Diagnosed bipolar manic depressive when he was 16, he shied away from medications and instead decided to suffer it all on his own.

And he was alone. For all it was worth, he might as well have been sitting in any old sordid church building, abandoned after the flock moved on and money became too tight to keep the doors open any longer. And perhaps it would have suited him better, the grey layers of dust and vacant aisles matching the inside of his figurative heart. No one in this building, not even the God they all prayed to, could touch him.

The piano started up, startling him out of his reverie to find everyone standing, heads bowed, as the preacher asked for closed eyes and open hearts, inviting any lost sheep to the front to claim God as their savior. Sheepishly he stood and bowed his head, closing his eyes. But, curious, he opened them just a tad just in time to witness one of the children approaching the good pastor. She was probably around 7, and he'd only just started seeing her at church recently. She always came with her grandmother, and vaguely he wondered where her parents were. In her hand was a lollipop her grandmother had given her to keep her quiet and occupied during the sermon. The pastor bent to one knee and his face was solemn as he spoke softly to her. She nodded her head a few times before bowing it with a sense of purpose and repeating whatever the pastor asked her to say in order to accept God into her heart. Head bowed over that lollipop, Brandon was struck with how innocent she was, how ignorant of the ways of the world. Her head was not muddled by the complexities of the grown up world. And he found in himself a carnivorous lusting to go back to a time like that, before he was running from bill collectors and scrounging for the money to keep the lights on.

As soon as the pastor had come off his soapbox, Brandon was up and out the door, racing to his car which he quickly started, threw in reverse, and pulled out of the parking lot before any of the other church members had left the big white building on the corner. He drove ten miles over the speed limit until he got home. Still in his Sunday best, he went to the bathroom and began filling the tub with warm water. Grabbing the straight razor his grandfather had past down to him, he slipped, fully dressed, into the water. His eyes found their focal point in a royal blue sock that had escaped him this morning as he'd tried to pick up his dirty laundry before rushing to morning service. It hid behind the toilet, and he wondered how something so vibrant, something that stuck out so easily against the white backdrop of the bathroom floor, had escaped his sight. Brandon began to wonder... How had he managed to escape the good things in life? He was a decent, God fearing man. He did his taxes and worked hard. And introvert though he was, he was very good around people and always tried to make everyone laugh and feel better. And in taking care of everyone else, those same people had forgotten to take care of him. And thus, a vibrant personality was lost in the dull backdrop of life.

What was the point? He was a college drop out making minimum wage at a greasy fast food joint. He was mediocre at best at anything he enjoyed doing. And he was alone... Hot tears of anguish welled up in his eyes and he swiped at them furiously, embarrassed at himself. He was a joke.

He didn't look as he did. A violent hiss escaped from betwixt his teeth at the slicing pain. But when he'd done it, he braved a look. Red began to swirl in the waters above his wrists and hands, forming intricate patterns. A shame, he thought, that only he would be the one to appreciate the beauty in this moment.

Sinner

kiss the tears from my cheeks
bloodstained vomit lips
salty
sickening
you cant disect this problem
pick apart my face
fingers deep inside eyesockets
peel back my skin
search for the lost
its somewhere in me
bone grinding
wine and ash
drink it up
Can't you smell it?
vile
toxic
scent of a sinner
vomit on porcelain
tears of self-hatred
bloody self-mutilation

Simplicity

Childhood was an obscure time for me. I never had a father, and I never had a real home. I remember every house mother ever moved us into, she would paint the bathroom teal. Lots of people ask me, "What's so obscure about that?" And honestly, I guess nothing really. If you like the color teal. And it''s not that I either like or dislike it. It's just part of the obscurity of my growing up. We moved, mother painted. It was like a ritual for her. And for some reason, I never thought to ask her about it. Therefore, I believe it shall remain one of my life's mysteries.

When mother died, I knew not to expect a large funeral with friends and family crying out as a pack of howling wolves will do when they cry to the moon. And with this knowledge, I did not put forth as much effort towards the funeral as most people would have. This does not mean that I loved mother any less. I like to think it honors the simplicity in which mother lived her life. And that is another thing about my mother. She had a deep fascination and appreciation for simple things.

For about 6 months, we lived in this run down shack on a lake. I never found out what state we were in, but I like to think it was somewhere like Nevada, where just beyond the horizon were tall, impersonal buildings of steel where impersonal people did impersonal things. But, I digress. There was one evening on the edge of this lake when mother and I sat in lawn chairs and watched the sunset. And what a sunset it was. Half of the sky had turned to this fiery shade of orange and yellow, while the other half of the sky remained the same shade of light blue it had been all that day. And I looked down at the water to see the reflection of the sky, then farther out to the horizon where the trees were a black barrier, keeping the rest of the world out of our little haven. And I heard mother sigh, and say softly, "It doesn't get more simple than this." When I looked over, most of her face was covered by the hood of her jacket (for you must understand, it got a little chilly on these autumnal evenings), and all I could see was her nose and her lips and her chin. And I did not even need to see her eyes, because the soft smile on her face was clue enough to the peace she was feeling. And I knew at that moment that her sentiment was shared; It didn't get more simple than that.

After mother's death, I moved to Canada, where I experienced my very first blizzard. Mother was not fond of snow, so she made sure we were never near it. I learned how to walk on sidewalks made slick by fresh ice. And I learned about angels.

My apartment in Canada was small and rather dark. The electricity was faulty, so I used it only when necessary and relied mainly on candles for light to see by. And to reach my apartment, I had to walk into the small alley behind the building and climb these rusty stairs. I had just fallen to sleep one night in said apartment when the blackness of falling asleep spun into a dream. I was walking down my alley, watching my feet, when I looked up to see a man. He wore white pants and nothing else, and he sat atop a ladder, looking down at pieces of building that lay scattered around him. But this was not just a man. Out of his back had sprouted wings, white and feathery, and they fluttered softly from time to time. I do not know how long I stood there looking at him, his face in shadow and hidden by the sweep of his long hair. But as I looked at him, I felt myself toe the line between sanity and derangement. And as if feeling this like a shift in air pressure, the man turned his head to look at me and smiled.

Needless to say, I awoke from such a dream in a cold sweat. Where was my mind trying to take me? Never had my dreams taken such a devious path. Slipping from between my warm sheets, I went to the window and glanced through the blinds to the alley below. No angel, no soul in sight. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sat at the kitchen counter and nursed a glass of water. And as my mind wandered, I fell to thinking of my mom. Things were tough in this run down little apartment. Often I found myself feeling lonely. Nothing was simple anymore, as it had been with her. And I had felt myself losing my grasp on her memory. Suddenly, my mind recalled this angel's smile. I had seen that smile before, when I gave in to the simplicity of sunsets and cool autumn evenings.

When the sun arose, and Home Depot had opened it's doors, I was first in line with paint brushes and a can of teal paint.

Second Chance

You take my hands,

Turn them over with your icy fingers,

And press kisses into my sweating palms.



I had lost the look in your eyes,

Searched desperately and gave up to find it again,

And here you are, bringing it back in shaking fists.



But what other gifts do your red palms bring?

A heart, beating out of habit

Because it knows nothing else.

Comatose and barely alive,

It hangs on by a thin thread of hope.



Soul eater

Dream crusher

Lover of lies and parted thighs

Throw down your transgressions at my feet.

Retribution may be yours for a small fine.



Holder of my broken, bleeding,

Bent and barely beating heart;

Promise me the world

And, dear God, mean it this time.



I'm trusting you once more,

As I always have,

And undoubtedly always will.

I belong to you.



Let us take this new beginning,

Spin ourselves a happily ever after.

We learn from our mistakes,

We move on to brighter futures.

And our future, my darling, is bright.

Scattered Poetry

Capture me
In your veins.
Let me flow through you
As you flow through me.

Entrance me,
Amaze me.
Fill up my soul with your love
As my mind is filled with only thoughts of you.

Be the man I need you to be
And I'll give you the woman you always wanted.

I can bend no longer, and
Though my will to fight weakens,
I must push back. Because
I need you.
I need you to be a man
And throw childish impulses aside.

Our differences will be the death of us

Already I curl within your carcass,
Allowing you to consume me.

I open my chest to you,
Come into me.

Pretty Dolls Die Young

In death she finds her sweet escape
away from the pain youve put her through.
your forked tongue lathers her in asbestos and venom
as you run it across her heart.
sinking in your teeth, take a chunk and let it bleed out.
you can bathe in her tears and blood.
within the storm an equal wind rages
contained within the confines of her body and mind.
kiss me goodnight.
all dressed up, a porcelain doll,
wrapped in white, ready for a wedding with death himself.
lay her down beneath the warm folds of crystal.
cut open her porcelain skin and betwixt the crystal and cloud of crimson,
let her final breath escape pink lips fading into blue.
Let her own lifeblood drown her already deceased carcass,
it was dead even before silver razorblades.
she drowned in your icy blues,
she was cut open and poisoned by your tongue.

Oppressive Deppression

My soul aches,
Bitter and black and hopeless,
With a mournful longing
For simpler things.

I cower beneath my fear,
Bending broken back
To the oppressive forces of a scarring past
And pour salt into my own wounds.

The ripping of my sanity
Echoes deafeningly
In ears that beg for mercy,
Though they know their cries go unheard.

I never claimed to be an angel,
And though I am no saint,
I'm not the monster you portray me to be.

I am
alone

Once More

Comb my soul with your cold fingers.
I tried picking up the pieces of my broken heart
But only kept getting cut.
You worry me sick.
My gut wrenching sadness,
Debilitating depression,
Grips my heart,
Controls it's beating
And it's bleeding.
I once prayed the numbness would go away
And you gave me feeling once more.
But now you've given me the worst kind of pain
And I cry for numbness once more.

Your fingers twisting in my bent soul,
Contorting it like the faces of ecstasy
Of all the women in your past
That you hid from my eyes
While I still called you mine
And you swore your love to me,
Are picking out pieces
And I fear I'll never be whole once more.

Untitled NSFW Short Story

Cigarette smoke curled in lazy patterns under the cheap motel room lighting. He focused on their swirls and loops, watching them slowly dissipate before his eyes. Untangling his fingers from her hair, he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed his glass of scotch. Draining the last swig of amber liquid, he set the glass back down and reached for the bottle. His eyebrows furrowed, seeing the bottle empty, but it was soon forgotten as she did some kind of tongue trick that brought his attention back to the task at hand. Grabbing her hair, he shoved her head down, letting go when she began to gag and then pushed her away from him. "I left my other bottle in the bathroom. I'll be right back," he explained gruffly as he stood and went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There were two bottle in his duffel bag, one with a label and the other without. He grabbed the bottle without the label and returned to the bed where she was sitting on her knees waiting quietly. Handing the bottle to her, she took it tentatively, watching him, waiting for instruction. "Well, drink it, bitch," he ordered, and she unscrewed the cap and took a swig, her face contorting with the bitterness. "Oh no, chink, you drink that up." His hand went to the bottle, tipping it so that she was forced to swallow more. The young Asian girl whimpered, then began to cough when she was unable to drink any more, spilling it all down her naked front and onto the dirty sheets. He set the bottle on the floor and laid back down, motioning with a finger for her to come towards him.

When he moved to push her hair back from her face, she twitched, causing him to laugh. "I'm not going to hurt you, girl. What good would that do me besides a few years of jail time?" She was young; younger than he was used to, and it made him feel a tad uncomfortable. Groaning, he grabbed the remote and turned on the tv, finding a station with music. "Dance," he instructed her, and without a word she stood and began to dance for him. Her movements were fluid, promising. Her eyes were empty, her mouth without even the smallest curl of a smile. No doubt she'd tried her hand in the strip clubs. Most of the prostitutes did. It usually didn't take them long to find out that selling your body off stage paid the bills quicker.

She was beginning to get clumsy, her eyes becoming a little glassy. Turning off the tv, he stood and began to get dressed. "Well, get dressed. You can walk your ass back to the street." He had already paid her, on the street curb where he'd found her in front of the motel. She seemed relieved. It wasn't often these women got paid and didn't have to clean cum off of their tits or ass. He grabbed his bottle and re-capped it, then went into the bathroom to put it back in his duffle bag and take a swig from the bottle with the label. He heard her leave the room, but he was in no rush. He took his time getting ready to leave, and when he left the room and returned the key to the front office, he could see her back on the curb, seemingly unsteady on her legs.

He pulled out of the motel parking lot without glancing at her, making a left and circling the block so that he came up out of her line of sight, but where he could see her. Pulling over to the side of the road, he sat and waited, watching the smoke from his cigarette pick up the light from the street lamp just ahead of him. It didn't take long, she'd swallowed a good bit of his special mix. There were enough drugs in that bottle to kill a horse, depending on how much you gave it. He watched as she collapsed, and then drove off towards the highway. It was on to another state, another city, another Asian bitch. The eyes of his Asian whore step mother smiled at him from the picture of her and his father on the dashboard, and he landed a perfectly aimed wad of spit on her face without ever taking his eyes from the road.

Monster

You're so pretty on the outside
Oh so charming
No one would suspect
The monster
Hiding quiet
Just beneath your skin

But you can't see him
Not like I do
Like a schizophrenic second face
You're completely unaware
Of the terror causing me such pain

You're the victim
I'm the monster
And if someone has to lose
It's better I suffer the misery
So you can have your way
Because regardless if you lose the battle
You're taking me down with you
And it's easier to be miserable
When you're happy

Mania

My mind burns,
Like the tears that track down my cheeks,
Pulsating with insanity.
Hysteria grips my being with her
Cold
Pitiless
Claws
And tears my thoughts to shreds.
Where is your warmth you promised?
You're
Not
Here.
And I fall deeper into the
Bottomless pit
Of mania
That ensnares me,
Has held my hand
And watched my every move
Since the day I was born.
I was born for this.
Her sickeningly sweet
Siren song
Calls my name,
Moves my hand and
Moves my blade.
I swore to you I'd never cut again.
I swore to you I'd
Never
Be the cause of my own bloodshed
Ever again.
But she wraps me up in ice
And promises just once more and
The pain
Will
Stop.
Why does she keep lying to me?
Why do I keep getting
Sucked
Back
In?

Love Poem

Kiss me once more.
But let your lips linger.
I want to savor the taste of you
on
my
tongue.

Take my hand into yours
And promise me you'll
never
let
go.

Is this the love I read about?
(Fairy tales for little girls)
Maybe dreams really
do
come
true.

Against all odds
Love will find a way.
Eternal blazing fire is
passion's
pick of
poison.

Love kills slowly.
Doubts and fear and sadness.
Love lifts us up
to
better
places.

So kiss me one more time.
Take my hand in yours.
Hold me while we sleep.
I
need
you.

Internal War

She sat within the murky gray in-between,
where the constant irregular
ebb and flow
of two extremes pushed and pulled at her body,
tossing her helplessly to and fro.
Black and white,
good and bad,
fighting to claim her.
Right and wrong,
warring as the angels
in Heaven and Hell
hath done for many years.
Somehow she's slipped between the cracks,
into a delirious state of middle ground.
And on each side, the pulling and pushing continues.
All sense of direction has abandoned her,
along with the last shreds of hope she pitifully clung to.
Now she's left with sores and aches
and a deep black longing that consumes her,
a chilling sadness that sinks into her very soul and
the barely beating heart glued to his hands.
Despair reigns in this lawless state of anger, distrust, and faithlessness.

I Promise

I Promise

When the world is crashing down
And the sky is darkened with clouds
And you feel as though you are alone
Look to your side
I will be there holding your hand
Your rock when everything else is unsteady

If your heart is pain
And your eyes with tears
And you feel as though you cannot live another minute
Look no further than my arms
I will hold you and comfort you
A shoulder to cry on

Where ever you go
No matter how far from home
And you feel so alone
Close your eyes
Look in your heart
I am there with you always

And if a doubt ever crosses your mind
That I don't love you anymore
Then look into my eyes
And see the truth
And never doubt my love again
Because me not loving you is impossible

I Am Dying

I know, without a hint of doubt, that I am dying

And I am almost positive it is by my own hand

I inhale the problems of others

Chew them up and swallow them

They fill me up until there is no room for myself

I am overcome by the problems of others

And my body and soul so runneth over

That I'm exhaling lies and false tidings of

"Oh, I'm just fine"

I want so badly to grab hold of your arm

Spill my lunatic ramblings onto your ear

But we both know I can't do that

So watch me sit pretty

I'll smile until my face burns hot from exhaustion

Fuck Up

They told me I could be anything

So I became a fuck up

By accident

You don't choose some things

Fate plays her hand when it suits her

And the Queen of Hearts is bleeding

Bent and torn

While the King of Spades digs a hole

In the heart

With his spade tongue

The saline in my IV drip has turned to cyanide

What once saved me

Now kills me

And I do nothing but watch



It wasn't suppose to be this way...

Or So I Thought...

Sometimes, she wore her hair up. However, it was not very often. She hated putting her hair up, and therefore would only do it in the privacy of home, when she was cleaning or simply too hot. "It makes me look like a boy," she'd retort when I'd asked why she didn't do it more often. And I could only roll my eyes and keep it to myself that she never looked like a boy, because I'd learned long ago that compliments didn't affect her; she was lost within herself and the pressures of her severe self loathing.

We were both kids who'd fallen victim to what our parents labeled a goth phase, but never fell out of it. Goth was our lifestyle, black was our signature color. But the difference between she and I was that she grew up long before I did, and that's what threw us way off balance. I was wild and free, doing whatever I liked whenever I liked, to hell with the devil and with her. But I loved her. I destroyed her, and I loved her. And I'll never look down on that part of our life and not regret ever other women I bedded that wasn't her those first two years.

She had a thing for tea, and was always getting me to taste whatever her newest find happened to be. She had no specific preference, and her collection ranged from the deep and comforting to the light and floral. For all her lack of money, she had this refined taste for classier things. Perhaps she was just born in the wrong time, too far ahead than the rest of us. The sound of an antique grandfather clock gonging the time is enough to capture her attention and bring a smile to her face. She appreciates things the rest of us take for granted, in this digital world.

She was so open, so ready to be accepted and loved. And her friends were affectionate and talked about masturbation a little too much, but that was okay, because we both know she couldn't please herself, and had no desire to. She had me, and she didn't want anyone or anything else. I was all she ever needed, all she ever wanted. And as much as she loved her friends, and loved feeling cool enough to have them, all she really ever wanted to do was spend time with me. And for all her openness, she was shy and unsure of herself and leaned on me a little too much to make decisions.

Her dreams were set behind a big desk in a cozy office with a keyboard under her fingertips and a screen full of words before her eyes. She uses words in the same way I use my guitar to speak the things my tongue can't stumble over. And when the weather is just right, outside and in her mind, the words pour forth like rain from the clouds or tears from her green eyes. She's not much for preaching, but she has a way of making you listen like your very soul is dependent on the next phrase that tumbles from that wild mind.

And I'm sitting here, watching her sleep and the easy rise and fall of her deep breathing, feeling ten thousand miles away from the love of my life. She's broken, my girl, and I made her this way. And we're both too stubborn and head strong for our own good. The foundation of our life was built on cracks and faulty information. The plumbing's not too good, but the electricity is going strong. And my heart is waging war on itself. I don't have a clue what's keeping us together, but I can't stand the thought of being without her. Something is here, something strong enough to keep us holding on through the worst storms. And I fear I'll keep fighting for this, even if it kills me. So I kiss her cheek, and run my hands over her tangled hair before running out the door to the factory, so I can try to make this life a little more comfortable for her and I. Because I'd do anything for her.

Frantic Plea

Where to go
When here is ripping apart my mind
And there is so far away.
My grip on sanity is slipping
And I feel myself falling
Faster
And faster
Into something sick.
Darkness opens up it's gaping maw,
Snaps it's razored teeth in my direction.
Paint me a smile for the masses
And I'll shove it down your condescending throats.
Nobodies never wanted to hear the truth.
Pick me up,
Hold me,
Cradle my fragile existence.
But take care of me.
I toe the line,
The breaking point,
Of where life goes on and dies.
I want you to see the strength I've had
And how I need you now
When it's failing me.
Don't replace me because I'm so far away.
Hold me closer than ever before.

Fighting Words

She sat at her desk, staring blankly at the white screen before her. Her fingers were arced above the keyboard, poised and ready to do her bidding. But within her mind, a war raged on. Thousands of thoughts racing by so fast that she couldn't reach out and grab onto one. Or if she could, she'd get distracted by another thought and the one she thought she'd captured would slip away.

This mania was crushing her soul. On the outside she seemed nervous, distracted. On the inside she was screaming for relief. How do you explain a feeling like that to someone who has never felt it before? Everyone she tried to explain it to had an answer for it, a solution as if it was just the common cold. This was not just some common cold. This was a daily fight to remind herself her religion was right and that she was afraid of Hell.

Exiting Microsoft Word, she opened up the internet and began exploring. She started on blogs, searching for the tags "depression" and "bipolar". Soon she had several tabs opened up, and she was hungrily drinking in every word she read. The medical blogs made her sick, the ones that told you to "just smile and be happy", as if that were a legitimate choice for her, or as if she hadn't tried.

Taking a chance, she opened a new tab and typed in a web address she hadn't thought about in forever. When she had started this blog, she had given no one the URL. She had not tagged any of the posts. She had simply written, whenever she had needed to. And it had worked for a little while. But eventually she'd gotten tired of herself, and had left her words to rot, unheard and unread.

As she looked over her posts once more, tears filled her eyes and left glistening tracks down her cheeks, hanging from her chin for a moment before plummeting. What was wrong with her? She'd always been told that time make things easier, but this was not easier. She was still just as miserable. And even worse, she was still just as alone as she'd always been. People got tired of hearing her "complain", of hearing the same old sad song. And no one seemed to understand why she couldn't just flip the switch and be happy. More than once this realization had almost brought her to grab a bottle of pills and make herself sleep forever. What in this world was worth living for when the pain was so damnably unbearable?

Clicking on each blog post, she added tags like "depression" and "bipolar". Highlighting the link, she copied it and pasted it around the web, on other people's blogs, on her own blogs she had once used only for her short stories and poetry. And going back to the once secret blog, she opened up a new post and began to write.

"I've tried. I've tried so hard to overcome this, to deal with this disease without the use of medicine. When you can't talk to friends or family for fear of burdening them in one way or another, and you can't talk to a therapist because they think you're just some self-diagnosed whack job.... You realize just how alone you are in this world. Your life hasn't been fucked up enough and you're not clinically insane enough for people to take an interest in you or feel bad for you or want to make you feel better. You're just some depressed schmuck who just needs to get the fuck over it because everyone's tired of dealing with your shit.

Make something of yourself. Dear God, don't let this overcome you! No matter how bad off you are, don't be like me! Fight for the help you need and deserve. At this point, I'm just lying down and waiting to die. My existence is inconsequential to everyone except perhaps my mother, but what kind of mother doesn't love her children, anyways?

I want to say it gets better. But it doesn't. Not for me, at least. Life will always kick you when you're down. And whether you fight to get up or just lay there and take the beating... At least you're still breathing, right? This is not a decision. This is a disease. No one chooses to feel this utterly horrid. And as alone as you are, you're not really alone. Someone somewhere is feeling just as bad as you, and hiding the pain under fear of no one understanding. Though you might give up for awhile, don't stay down. Keep reaching out. Keep trying to find understanding. You're not dead yet, no matter how much you feel like you are. And if no one else understands... I do."

Epitaph Writing Prompt Entry

The droning of white noise emanating from the television had been the only noise in the room aside from the heavy sleep-breathing coming from only one side of the bed. On the other side, she lay wide awake, staring holes into the side of his face. When he slept on his back, he was prone to snoring or at the very least a heavy, loud breathing. But it wasn't his noise that kept her up. Nor was it the sound of the television without a signal. The storm had knocked out their signal hours ago, and hours later, after the storm had passed, the cheesy laughs of a studio audience refused to come back through the speakers. And through it all, she'd remained silent but very much aware.

Thoughts raced through her mind, taunting and teasing with evil whispers she could just barely make out. The words flew about much too quickly for her to grasp one and analyze it. If he were to awaken and inquire as to the contents of her mind, she would only be able to reply, "I don't know," and let it be the honest answer. For it is all to possible for one to be thinking, and not know what it is they are thinking about. Many psychologists will call this mania. She was not one to disagree.

Making a serious effort to think on something, anything, she chose to dwell, much as she had her entire life. She had dwelled on the past, on things she could not change, on things she could but had not the strength of will. And on this night, she had chosen to dwell on the present, on things beyond her control. For the past several months, it had seemed as though everything outside of her love life had been falling down into the most bitter depths of hell, tugging at her skirts and biting at her ankles to try to trip her into the fiery pits. And he had been there like a rock or an anchor, keeping her tethered to this world. He had been that thin string binding her to the last shreds of sanity left to her. And yet, as of late, her own mind had been slowly unraveling the fibers until she could feel the heat of the blaze licking at her toes.

As she lay still beside him, focused only on her internal struggle, mentally she lay trapped in this horrific state of limbo between depression and mania, where she found herself torn between a desire to slit the veins in her wrists and a desperate yearning to claw the skin from her face and scream bloody murder to the cold world outside the window. He gave her reason to keep trying, but this cerebral torture was almost too much to bear. Was there no end to this madness?

Slipping from the bed, she paused only long enough to ensure that the sighs from his lips were in sleep, not a sign of his awakening, and snuck off into the black of night.





Looking down at the river, choppy and black, she imagined the filth floating in the currents awaiting her descent. The rope around her throat felt heavier than it should, and she almost found herself backing out. But how many times could she do this? How many times before had she been here, on the edge of death, when second guessing and fear backed her out of it? She knew if she didn't go through with it this time, she'd be here again and again, flirting with the air between the water and the bottom of the bridge. It had to end now.

In the split second between her free fall and the snapping of her neck, the only thing she could think of was how peaceful he had looked sleeping next to her. After he found out, would he ever look so peaceful again?





When they found her, and buried her, they laid her beneath a rock that read:

Here lies a mother, wife, sister, and daughter
A friend to all
Except herself

Demonic Possession

Demonic possession
I am possessed by demons, yours and mine
When promises are broken and trust shattered
I find myself the only one to blame
But as i try to build this up
You're fighting back, breaking this down
Breaking me down

I never swore to be an angel
I only promised you the truth
But sometimes the truth is a hard pill to swallow
And sometimes the truth is enough to break apart the sturdiest foundations
And in the wake of such destruction, we question
What was there to begin with?
Can this be salvaged?

My heart bleeds for you
Every little shattered piece calls your name
And as I reach out for something strong to cling to
My hand slips, i grasp only air
I've broken you down, just as I've broken myself
The monster is me

Sacrifices
Human sacrifices
The sacrificing of myself
I would give my blood, sweat, and tears
I have given my blood, sweat, and tears
But I'm not enough
No, i will never be enough

I tear at my skin, bloody my nails
My hair is pulled in clumps from my scalp
Bruises bloom under raging fists
And all is self harm
And all is in my mind
I cannot risk losing you, even as I risk losing you
Self mutilation, a sweet dream
Reality, watching this pain, is the nightmare

Cynical

I reached out for your hand

I could have sworn I saw you reaching back

But perhaps it was just an illusion of smoke and mirrors

Maybe it was the way the light seemed to reflect from your eyes

And when I grabbed nothing but a handful of air

I felt myself spinning downwards

Cynicism swallowed me up

Doubt rose up like bile in my throat

And now I lie in fear of nothing and everything

But I don't expect you to understand or even care

So allow me to smile, I'll take your breath away with my lies

Candy Queen

Candy Queen
You gather flocks of cotton candy sheep
Leading them to the altar
To be slaughtered
By your gracious condescending hand

Sickeningly Sweet
You pull the hopeless from the streets
I watch you burn through bodies
Grotesque figures writhing
In sync with your grotesque smiling

Rotting Teeth
Behind a filthy mask of lies
You set them up in perfect lines
To have them fall into the greedy mouths
That ignorantly swallow them down in daily doses

Sugar Teats
From which the masses suckle
Your honeyed words flow freely
And glutton ears drink them in
Your cyanide salvation cuts and maims the wickedly innocent

Broken

Her body's frozen
Sitting pretty
And she smiles
Ever so softly.
And, dear God,
Look in her eyes!
I dare say she's cracked.
Broken.
The record player in her mind has come
Off
It's track.
And the memories,
Painful memories,
Keep replaying
Over
And over
And
Over.

Her body itches,
Twitches.
And her tongue passes over her lips,
Wetting them in preparation for
Words
That never come.
She twitches.
She jerks.
Her anger leans towards the physical,
She needs to feel pain,
Be it given or received.

And he keeps playing that same old tune,
The one that makes her head spin
And her mouth salivate
And her fists clench.
She's itching for a fight.
She's itching for happily ever after.
He's writing those circles on the pages
The ones he claims he's tired of
The ones she knows she's tired of.

And she's ready for an end
And maybe a new beginning
Because where she's at is
Tearing her apart

Broken Lover's Desperation

This is who I am
My love
Arms spread open for you to see
All the petty broken pieces
Falling at my tired feet

You've broken me
My love
Are you proud of your creation?
You dare not take responsibility
I am my own devastation

~

The words just don't come fast enough.
I'm tripping over metaphors and overused phrases
Trying to explain myself.
And we're both trying to defend ourselves,
Our day and night opinions.
You muddle my brains
Like mint at the bottom of the julep
Talking around in circles
Making me the crazy one.
Maybe I'm the crazy one.

But you're still my one.

Break Me

Her porcelain skin is cracked,
smudged with years of clumsy handling.
Her eyes are bright with confusion and pain,
lost in the illusion she dreams for so fervently.
Her heart is wrapped in silver twine,
holding on by a single thread.
Life sometimes seems so meaningless.
Wouldn't it be better if she were finally dead?
And when love keeps whispering 'one more time,'
love keeps yelling 'why cant you get anything right?'
At night the tears pour sweetly out,
but even those are stained with regrets and pain.
Her mind is clouded with hurt and shame,
confused within the fog of unrelenting hypocrisy.
Her tongue is twisted into knots
and nothing she says comes out right.
She wants to be fixed,
to be made right,
but she's stuck with eternal imperfection,
a living, breathing mistake.

Blue

Have you ever been awake long enough to see the world turn blue?

 I lay awake sometimes, until time is no longer measured in hours or minutes; When it seems like everything is standing still. You can hold your breath and the only sound you'll hear is the rush of blood in your ears as your heart beats. Time is no longer a concept, it is no longer real. And then it comes. I swear sometimes you can hear a sigh of relief, the clouds sighing for the release of their burden like some men will sigh at the final thrust of passionate fucking.

 The color of rain is blue. I know this, because it brightens my room in an ethereal softness, playing on the light from the moon. And the color it bathes my room is not any particular shade of blue, but seemingly ever shade from the richest sapphire to the smoothest azure. Even the shadows tend a midnight hue.

 When the rain whispers against my window, loud enough so I can hear it but soft enough so as not to awaken my mother sleeping down the hall, I imagine she's speaking to me; the rain is obviously female. She comes to me in an hour she makes all her own, the blue hour. And when she comes, she tells me stories of lands far away, her whispers cocooning me in velvety softness.

 I like to imagine the rain as a woman, a real breath and body woman. I would never tell my boyfriend, but I'd like to know what her hands would feel like caressing my stomach, what her breasts would feel like in the palms of my hands. Her skin would smell fresh, and every inch of her would taste like honeydew after a spring shower. Her hair would be black, because that's the color of the sky when she's most beautiful. And she would be mine, holding me in her arms in the dead of night, whispering me her secrets and stories of far off lands, the past and the future.

A Day In The Life

She opens her eyes to a new day, still groggy with sleep but knowing that the day will hold what nearly every day before it held; Nothing. She slips into her comforting shade of black and slicks on her eyeliner, her signature heart drawn with acute precision on her cheek bone below the corner of her eye. She goes about her morning perfunctorily, her mind elsewhere. But what she's thinking of, even she's not sure, for her mind rushes too fast for her to keep up or sort it all out.

She wants to scream and cry. She wants to bruise and scar herself. She wants all the pain and suffering and confusion to stop. She's so tired of all this uncertainty. Nowhere to go, no one to help, no way to get anywhere. Surrounded by people, she's all alone. bile rises up in her throat and her head throbs, her heart beating erratically and making each breath harder than the last. Like a child, she reaches out timidly, hoping someone will see her and know what to do. But those who see cannot help and others just pass her by.

Perhaps its the mask. Maybe if she took off the mask they would see everything's wrong. But what are the consequences of that? Yelling? Institutions? Guilt trips? how can she lay burdens on others, when she knows the pain of the cross she carries herself? Smiles and laughter and sweet words like vomit pour from her. The mask tells lies. Everything is just fine. And she wants so bad for at least the boy she loves to know. But when she tries to explain, there's nothing he can say. He doesn't understand and knows not how to help her. Can she be helped? So she just shuts it all away. When she's in his arms, she tries to focus on just being close to him, not having to worry about anything. But nothing stops her mind from racing.

She's killing herself, slowly but surely. If not for her own religious upbringing instilled fear of hell for those who take their own lives, she'd be long gone. Nothing, she says, is worth this pain. There is nothing out there left for her. And she cries, and she remembers, and she cant stand to keep breathing. But she has no choice. So she plays her part and tries to keep herself together in front of others. She knows the consequences for the things she wants, and she knows that they'd only do more bad than good. With things as bad as they are now, why would she want to endure even more?

And just thinking about how much she hurts and how bad she feels makes her feel worse because she feels as though she's being nothing but a whiny bitch. There are so many people out there who have it worse than her. Why should her problems matter? Well, they don't. And so she's going to lock them up in Pandora's box, and God have mercy if that box ever be truly opened.

In a world of so much pain and cruelty, so much misunderstanding and uncertainty, she's lost and has no idea where she's even supposed to be.

Monsters In The Closet

For hours now, I've lain awake, keeping time with the ticking of the clock. Her perfume lingers like a bad memory, stale and musty, a cloying sweetness no longer sweet. From across the room, the closet door lies open, and the sliver of moonlight penetrating the crack in the curtains falls like a spotlight on those green eyes. My eyes meet them, and I'm determined not to blink first, but the smoke from the cigarette burns and I'm forced to blink out the tear that runs down my cheek unchecked. Never, though, do I tear my eyes away from those of the most unnatural green hue.

I can feel with my fingertips the sticky lipstick stain on the filter of the half smoked cigarette I pulled from the ash tray and re-lit. Putting it to my lips once more, I take a deep drag and choke on the heat of the smoke. I am not normally a smoker, but tonight is one of those nights.

I can hear the front door opening downstairs, the heavy steps of the man I married some 7 years ago. I can easily track his progress from the kitchen to the stairs. When he opens the bedroom door, I don't bother taking my eyes off the ones in the closet. A surprised "Oh" escapes his lips. He goes to the bathroom and talks to me as he gets ready for bed. Our bed lies in the shadows, so I know he only knows I'm awake because my silhouette is sitting up.  "Sorry I'm late, babe, I had so much extra paperwork today. I'm glad you're awake, though, we haven't had much time together what with my schedule at work."

As he comes back into the room, I hear him snort and don't have to see to know that his nostrils have flared up as he catches it. "What the fuck is that smell? And didn't I say no smoking in the house? If Cassy smells that, I'm... Oh God..." As he turns on the light, the words are choked out of his throat by the sight of me in our bed, sheets bloodied. "Cassy, what the hell happened? Are you okay? I... WHAT THE HELL!" As I stare into her dead green eyes, I watch as he comes into my line of sight, following the trail of blood that leads from our bed to the closet and opens it, finding her lifeless body propped up against the shoe rack. His knees give out under him and he vomits on the floor between his hands.

And as I continue to stare into her eyes, I take another drag from her cigarette.

Company In A Stranger

She reclined, both comfortably and provocatively, in his favorite La-Z Boy. Her back was nestled into a corner of the burgundy fabric and her legs dangled over an arm. Between her pointer and middle fingers she held a lit cigarette, smoke curling from the tip. The butt was stained with her red lipstick from her methodical nicotine intakes. From where he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, he mentally noted that her heels were the same shade as her lips. She had relatively small feet for a woman. Her legs were tone, and he could see through the fishnets that she was, indeed, as pale as her bare arms suggested. Her mini-skirt hugged her so tightly, he almost swore it was painted on, some illusionary trick with the paint and light. But the memory of her placing his hands on her ass at the club assured him of two things; The skirt was definitely real and his erection was still straining for her.

She closed her eyes to take another drag, and he took the opportunity to adjust himself. He watched detachedly as she flicked her ashes on the floor and stood, putting the cigarette out on her tongue before tossing it aside. His eyes traveled up her long legs as she walked towards him, stopping just inches from where he stood. He could smell the booze and smoke on her breath. Her voice was soft and almost endearing when she spoke. "So, are we gonna do this thing or what? You gotta pay up front, and like I said, no freaky stuff." A smile twisted up the corners of his lips. What had he gotten himself into. Taking a breath before answering her, he was caught off guard by the assault her perfume had on his senses. Delving his hand into her long, box-colored red hair, he stepped into her and gently turned her head to kiss her ear. Her silken mane tickled his nose, and he moved his lips to hers, tasting her Marlboro's and the remnants of her cocktail.

The fabric of her black half shirt brushed against his button down, the slender arms hidden in the poetic sleeve rested on his shoulders. His hunger for her body filled his senses, but he wanted to prolong this moment, this nearness. There was something terribly intimate about this meeting of strangers in his apartment. Not intimate in the way it probably should be when a man brought home a prostitute, but something definitely passionate. Pulling back, he held her at arms length, staring into those cool green eyes. Putting his arms under her knees and behind her shoulders, he picked her up and carried her back to the La-Z Boy, sitting down with her in his lap. The wine bottle he'd brought in earlier still sat on the table beside them along with the glasses, and he reached around her to pour them each a glass. He handed her a glass and took a sip of his before answering her questioning gaze. "I'll pay you extra. Let's just sit here and talk, enjoy each others company. Then we can go to bed. If you stay the night, I'll pay you more in the morning and cook you breakfast. Just for tonight." She appeared thoughtful for a moment before shrugging and smiling softly, taking a deep drink of her wine and snuggling against him to talk about life, love, and the pursuit of a little honesty in a cold, unforgiving world.

Laughing Eyes

 Her eyes were often full of laughter, but not the happy kind associated with sunshine and fond childhood memories. No, she was mocking the world, as if she had some dark secret that kept her one step ahead of life itself. She knew things she never should have known. But, that was okay. Her scars were internal. The face she gave the rest of us was ever smiling, hiding the darkness breeding within her and swallowing the remnants of any hope she'd ever held for anything good.

All soft curves and hot breath, she crawled atop me with a gleam in her eyes that I should have been afraid of. A girl that smart could cut you in half and make you thank her for the lovely time. But, to say the least, I could find no fear for this broken creature. At the moment, all I could feel for her was lust and a keen desire to bury more than just my secrets in her skin.

 I run my hands up her thighs, and she smiles and purrs as I give her ass a good smack accompanied by a firm grasp. She's thick, which I like in a woman. There's very little fear of breaking a woman with hips made to bear children, which means I can get a little more into what we're about to get into.

 She takes my face in her hands and stares deep and hard into my eyes, a half smile turning up one corner of her mouth before she presses those lips to mine, taking a deep breath in through her nose. Right about now, I'd give just about anything to open my chest and pull her inside me, keep her safe and warm and part of me. My fingers tighten against her skin, gripping her waist and pulling her ever closer as if my body really could swallow her whole.

"I want you," she whispers against my lips, eyes closed and hands gripping the pillow on either side of my head. I groan and pull her hips against mine, tasting the remnants of those words on her breath. Flipping her over, underneath me, I breathe in the intoxicating scent of her skin, feel the heat of her blood rushing through her veins. Those long legs lift and wrap around my waist, lifting her hips and bringing us together as we lose the lines between us and melt into each other.

 Those laughing eyes aren't laughing anymore. They're rolled back in her head and filled with a fire I want to feed and build higher and higher before quenching it. And when those eyes are laughing again, I want to know what they're laughing at and laugh with them.