A relationship in which a person, thing or idea is linked or associated with something else.
“Ow. Be careful! You’re going to break my wrist.”
“We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you had made sure you weren’t being followed.”
“Oh, what-ever. He probably figured out who you were due to the fact that you painted an advertisement for your band.”
“Well then how come I’ve never been caught before? How come I didn’t get caught until I let some punk-wannabe tag along so she could film a thesis for some pretentious class as long as she fucking promised she wouldn’t be any trouble?”
“You know, we wouldn’t be handcuffed to a bike rack right now if you hadn’t tried to run.”
“Yeah. And you didn’t have to attack him when he caught up to you, either.”
“Did you want to pay the fine, Ms. Moneybags? Especially now that they can charge me with all of my street art since I tagged them? I could go to jail.”
“Who cares? What’s your future anyway? Continue living in a mold infested apartment, spray painting political symbols of economical injustice until you die from inhaling too much lead from your dollar store paint cans? This was supposed to be my big break. My professor was going to see what I am capable of. However it may seem to you, I am not loaded. I barely got into the University. I mean I had to... it took a lot to get me into this school, and now its all going to hell. And that fat cop confiscated my camera for evidence- I’ll probably never see it again. Do you know how much that cost me? Oh, God.”
“Why are you stroking my hair?”
“Isn’t this how you’re supposed to comfort crying girls?”
too many empty notebooks in my bedroom
follow the rules
in between lightning strikes
take deeper breaths
the sun is gone again
I’m waiting for the echo
tell me a bad joke
writing words on the backs of my hands
listening for airplanes
my mittens are unraveling
I don’t sleep enough
the snow banks are too tall
afraid of crosswalks
my toes are always cold
the art of risk-taking
I’d like to run from my responsibilities
quit driving in circles
you’re driving me crazy
you’re bad at spelling
there are too many love songs
keep making the same mistakes
I’m not much of a conversationalist
running, running, running
wait for the rain
teach me how to swim
fairytale and fiction both start with “f”
I've got too many secrets
our hearts are rusty
carve out your initials
people don't talk properly anymore
the difference between independent and alone
pin compliments to the wall
pictures last longer
everyone’s busy getting high
we’re all dying anyway
count the spaces between my ribs
there’s a lot I don’t know
pennies are useless
collecting words on a shelf
letting things get too dusty
I miss you
I miss me too
YOU WEREN'T THAT PERSON
“Star light, star bright
the first star I see tonight”
we would say together
while gazing out the window.
I could see your reflection
in the darkened glass,
though only when I wasn’t focused on the stars.
“I wish I may, I wish I might
have this wish I wish tonight”
It sounded like chanting.
Your warm whispers fogged up the window
but only for a second before they faded away.
I would never wish for anything
when we watched the stars,
because I didn't believe
that the stars could grant me wishes
but you believed they could.
You said they already had
because once you wished for me.
People say when you’re with that person
you believe everything they do,
that they make you believe.
I never believed the stars could grant me wishes
but you believed they could.
EXCERPT FROM "THE ARCADE"
Everyday Lenny would come into my arcade after school and everyday Lenny would stroll right up to the Pac-Man game. He never gave the other games even one look. Pac-Man all the time. Now I like Pac-Man and all the kids liked Pac-Man, but it wasn’t a frequently played game. Edgar always said he liked the shooting games, Michael said he liked Tappers ‘cause he thought “drinking [looked] cool”, and Kevin always went on about his kill scores on City Bomber. Lenny never said anything like that. He would always come up to the front counter for change in quarters, and he and I would get to talking. I asked him why he always played Pac-Man. Hell, I even offered him a free try on any other game he wanted. He looked up at me with his brown eyes and matted hair and said “I find the psychological effect of Pac-Man to be soothing. After a long day of school and dealing with everything I find it most relaxing to come back to Pac-Man everyday.” Then he turned around and looked around the room, but he wasn’t done, he continued to say “Every kid here stresses themselves out with these killing and shooting games. And for what? At the end of the day, it means nothing when one wins, and means even less when one holds the highest kill score. Pac-Man, I find, has some realism.” I couldn’t help but ask how a game with a yellow face eating ghosts and white dots in a maze had any realism. Lenny gave me a look and then explained “In Pac-Man the ghosts are never gone. You attack them when they’re blue and vulnerable, but they’ll just be back up later and chasing after you again. No matter how many times you get a ghost it’ll just keep coming back. That’s just like dealing with problems. Every time you fix one thing or deal with a stress there’ll just be another stress to bug you right behind it.”
We would sit on the living room floor and dump out the primary coloured plastic building blocks. Sometimes we tried to follow the picture instructions but it would never turn out right so we threw the pamphlet into the fireplace. The we built plastic skyscrapers and plastic planets and plastic buildings that didn’t even look like buildings but it was okay because lego pieces fit together no matter what. The little nubs always connect because they’re not like jigsaw puzzle pieces with just one fit, there are possibilities. So we would build castles and farm houses and palaces until we realized it was bedtime and we had to tear them down, knowing that the next day we could do it again. A city would be created and it would be ours until its pieces went back to their plastic storage bin.
Christopher Lanick is the kind of guy that scares everybody. He used to hide in the cool shadows of the trees on the playground but now Christopher Lanick leans against the walls and lockers in the school halls. Everyone looks at their feet when they pass him and shuffle by as fast as they can. Christopher Lanick is a loner. He never talked to anybody. Yet everybody feared Christopher Lanick.
When I was young my father always told me, "never be the one to look away first." I have never been the first one to look away, until Christopher Lanick.
I had been sitting on the hard plastic chairs in the cafeteria eating my mystery meat sandwich. When the cafeteria fell silent. Christopher Lanick walked in. Heads ducked and backs slouched as if we were all looking to be casted as the next hunchback of Notre Dame. I made the mistake of keeping my head up and looking straight at Christopher Lanick.
Christopher Lanick turned to me and my eyes met his. Christopher Lanick stared at me as if I were an art piece, a particularly boring art piece. I let my eyes fall away first. A decision I would come to regret but at that moment all I wanted to do was blend in with the other budding actors and actresses.
My friends used to say that I have a connection with Christopher Lanick. He's the only one who has managed to make me look away first.
On my connecting flight from Halifax to St. John’s, I sat next to a tall Korean business man. When he sat down, he pulled out two skeins of pink yarn and started to knit a pair of baby booties for his daughter back home. I started talking with him and as we chatted, he stopped every now and again to check the length of the booties. He finished both booties in forty minutes, and asked me if I wanted to learn how to knit. I agreed, but before he could teach me how to cast on, a flight attendant walked by and confiscated his needles, because "they were a hazard".
TO BE HONEST
I'm only friends with a quarter of my online friends offline.
I’m not going to retweet or follow you because ,despite your assumptions, nobody gives a shit about your daily battle between mocha frappachino or a pumpkin spice latte.
I don’t give a flying turd if it’s your birthday. I don’t know you.
If you don’t feel comfortable poking me in real life, don’t do it online.
It’s genuinely glad you’re in a relationship. Maybe this time it will last over 3 hours.
I would like to thank the box of “people you may know” for consistently listing people I do not know nor ever will. You bring a sense of stability to my life.
The number of times you re-add me in group conversations is equivalent to the number of spots you go up on my vengeance list.
I've always wondered if that person has a permit to own your profile picture?
This is the most honest Tbh I have ever read.
CONNECT THE DOTS
Until something brings them together
To form a picture
DREAMING OF ROSES
Mommy and Daddy are asleep. The music’s off and the birds aren’t singing. Everything’s dark but I’m not scared. I drag Mr. Piggles down the hallway by his ears, his fluffy red legs rubbing against the carpet. Mommy hates the noise. I’m not allowed to let Mr. Piggles drag on the carpet.
The moon is shining outside. A window is open. I can smell the pretty flowers that Daddy grows. He says I’m not allowed to go into his glass house to see them. He says they’ll cut me. I promise I’ll be careful, but he never lets me go with him.
I open the kitchen door. It’s warm outside. It’s easier to smell the flowers now. I walk across the grass to the glass house. Mr. Piggles is dragging in the dirt. Mommy says she wants to wash him. She doesn't know that I give him a bath every time she makes me take a bath. He likes them more than I do.
I open the glass door. The handle is almost too high to grab, but I stand on my tippy-toes. I can open it if I do that.
I can’t see anything in the glass house. It’s too dark. The moon doesn't shine in the glass house. I don't know why. Then I look up. Something dark and crawling is on the ceiling. I take a step back.
Mr. Piggles takes a step forward.
Mr. Piggles grabs my hand with both of his arms and tugs me more into the glass house. As soon as he lets go, I step back again. He pulls my arm, but I don't move. He pulls again and falls backwards. I let go of his ears by accident.
Mr. Piggles starts running away from me, like he does when we play tag. But I don't want to play tag now. I want to go back to bed. But Mr. Piggles wants to play and he won’t come back when I call him.
I chase after him, telling him we can’t be in here, telling him we’ll get a timeout if Daddy finds us in his glass house. Mr. Piggles doesn't listen, just like Mommy and Daddy don't listen.
I jump and grab him by his ears again. But when I turn around to get out of Daddy’s glass house, the door is gone! The wall looks like a room, but with white things on the floor. They look like the things on the flowers that make them look so pretty. But now they’re not on flowers. They’re on the floor.
I turn around again and see the moon shining into the glass house. Now the dark-crawly-thing is sliding down the wall and onto the floor. Little bits of it are moving out in weird ways, like spaghetti noodles or the worms Billy put in my dress last week. They have little red things on them that are Daddy’s prettiest flowers. They change into his flowers.
The white-flower-things are blowing around, making shapes like white flowers but weird. I squeeze Mr. Piggles in my arms. Don’t be scared, I tell him. Don't be scared, Daddy will save us. These are Daddy’s flowers, Daddy will save us.
I start to cry. The white-flower-things are still blowing around. Daddy didn't come. I start to call out for him. The white-flower-things fall down. The red flowers are moving now. They start to blow around and get caught in my hair. I scream. There are more and more of them. I scream louder.
There are so many of them I can only see red.
I close my eyes and I wake up back in my bed, my Schnauzer Scottie sitting in my lap, looking almost concerned. Over on my dresser, I see my cat sitting wide-eyed, ears flat against her head. I must have startled her during the night.
I pat Scottie on the head and get up to make myself some milk. I haven’t had that nightmare since I was a little girl, but I still remember what my nanny made to calm me down when I was little. I settle back down with some warm milk and honey, and Scottie curls up at the foot of my bed.
FOR THE LAST TIME
The last time I’ll be at this stupid park, sitting on this rusty bench, staring at the endless nothing. But I keep telling myself that, don’t I? I keep promising myself in the same headstrong voice, and then I convince myself it doesn’t matter and I return. What is it that makes this park so appealing to me? Is it the fact that it always smells like rotten eggs, or maybe that I can constantly see recently burned out cigarettes pressed into the ground? He loved this park. He loved the way it smelled like rotten eggs, and how there were always the reminders of cigarettes. I think it was something about how it wasn’t a ‘perfect park’ and it was beautiful itself by being so… imperfect. I still hated it after he told me this, but he dragged me here all the same. After he was gone I came here, thinking I could possibly find a reminder of him, a fragment, a picture hidden beneath the untamed bushes. I gave up looking after the two weeks, but I still come back to this park. It’s always so hard to let go.
She took out her wallet. Her favourite photograph, the photograph of the little boy, fell to the ground from the worn out pocket it sat in. Her husband asked who the little boy was, and she blushed. She explained to him that when she was nine years old, she found the picture of the little boy at the local park. This boy, the one in the picture, was her first love. She explained how she fell in love with the freckles on the boy’s nose. With how the colour of the boy’s eyes matched that of her favourite sweater. With the boy’s chipped front tooth. With the Golden Retriever in the background.
After listening to his wife twaddle for a while, her husband told her the story of how one day, when he was nine, he had lost a photo of himself at the local park.
COFFEE SHOP CHARACTERS
You are not what anyone wants to see
late at night
or first thing in the morning.
You fell asleep on the park bench beside me
exactly 37 minutes ago.
Your toes are reaching for something;
They’ve chewed holes in your shoes
You are a fossil.
I calculated the wrinkles on your face
like rings on a tree trunk
I reached 76 before I lost count.
You are cocooned
in a swath of years of sleeping on the ground,
and knowing the sunrise all too well.
I’ve seen you before
You sit on the street corner
beside my favourite coffee
(they make the best carrot cake).
I always liked the sign you held:
“don’t measure wealth
for I am the wealthiest man I know”
You’re just waking up now
rubbing the sleep out of your eyes
getting ready to continue on your way.
I hand you the piece of carrot cake
I had bought for myself
you look at me
and there is a moment of almost recognition
before you turn away and say
“have a nice day”
At two in the morning, my train arrives at the station. The sudden stop jolts the sleeping car awake, several people mumbling in distaste. I lift myself from my seat, dust bunnies catching a ride with the air drift and my pressed dress pants. Straightening my tie, I grab my case and get off the car, gaining a few glares from the riders I graze with the case. I glance at my watch, then at the flickering lights showing the times for train connections hanging from the ceiling. The wires it hangs from go through the ceiling, casting cracks in web-light branches where the two connect.
That’s safe, I think. The rest of the station is empty, dim lights in a near corridor casting a shadow of a man against the whitewash walls, now covered in grime. The man’s arms move back and forth, a stick of shadow between them reaching for the ground. The janitor, I think. Maybe not that empty then.
Five benches sit side by side in front of a tub-like counter, half-dead plants crawling out of the soil in the tub. I sit on the one on my left despite having sat for hours already. I feel out of place standing in the empty. The bench creaks under my weight and for a second I think it’s going to break. It doesn’t, and I adjust my tie again, placing my case beside me. I cough, and it echoes through the station. The sudden sound makes me jump, even though I was the one who made it.
I tap my foot on the ground, each tap a second apart, giving sound to the silent clock on the far wall as the hands slowly circle the face.
I count each foot tap. One thousand, six hundred, forty-three seconds. Two-thirty. I follow the signs that lead me to my connection, guessing at some of the numbers where they’ve worn off.
The train is already there, doors open for phantom passengers. Or, I guess, for me. A bored looking conductor leans against the train’s jagged frame and acknowledges me with a tip of his hat. I offer him a quick smile before climbing aboard.
Behind me, the conductor gets on and the doors whistle shut.
Next stop: New York City, says a voice on the intercom.
This time, I think, this time I’ll make it.
PSALMS OF DAYBREAK SEARCHING
A Metafiction Piece
First there was nothing, then there was light, but what was in-between? An introduction should allow the reader to grow accustomed to the author’s writer voice and allow them to delve into the world of the story. Most introduce an engaging and identifiable character of sentient origin as a vehicle for experience and learning. However, our protagonist will be quite the disappointment. A) the protagonist is not biologically identifiable. B) the protagonist is not sentient but will pretend to be. C) there is no obstacle to overcome unless endless boredom is taken into account.
There is, however, a journey and there is, nonetheless, a non-human sentient-pretending protagonist to take that journey because between the existence of nothing and the existence of light there were particles. Particles, as science teaches, start everything.
Whether this particle knew of its existence or not, it pretended to. This particle gave itself a name, a name unlike any human language and unknown to a well-developed brain, not because the name is of a different comprehension level, but because there is no name quite yet. And you may wonder, What was the protagonist called before? Where is the beginning of this story if the protagonist is only receiving a name now? Where is the start of anything?
The particle will not claim to know the answer, but it knows. “The beginning is whatever one can salvage as one’s earliest memory,” and since the particle has a pretend-memory that never fails, it knew the beginning. First there was nothing. That was the beginning. An endless beginning that had no end.
The particle was not conceived the way humans will be in the far future of the story. It came into being by way of a miracle that humans call science, or philosophy, or religion, or magic, or etc. It was born with potential to be independent, and yet also born to long for collectiveness; magnetic unity; polarized change. And so the particle came to live amongst the backdrop of stars in a dark realm of eternal night. Or rather, eternal being, since daylight had not been invented therefore neither had been nighttime, and the particle found itself wondering what the piercing rays of energy all around were.
So our protagonist was plagued by such universal questions that it decided that it was high time that it broke free from the safety. of. unification. But it is a particle, you may say, Particles are not human and have no will of their own. The particle is very aware of this and the narrative implores you to succumb to the suspension. of. disbelief. (Particles can be pretend-sentient and for the non-believers and non-dreamers, it wishes you the most pleasant journey through your life.) The particle knew what it was looking for: the ending, “Though what shape or form I will find it in, I do not know.” And the particle had faith, would you imagine that? “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” The particle could not see much, in fact, for this corner of the universe was an expansive dark emptiness, lonely, and uncharted. Humans could express the journey as a ride in a basket to the altar. Absolute lightness; blindfolded by darkness; asphyxiation. But lo! Faithless was the little particle not. “You know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.” The particle drifted on.
In these shadows without end, the gas watched and waited and wondered. Another character is introduced in the story, often to play a supporting role. The secondary characters strengthen the message of the story, if there is a message at all. Is not the story too vague to have a true meaning at this point? The audience is still wandering in the dark. The sun will be invented soon, wait and see. Follow the light at the end of the tunnel.
“Of what importance is one little particle in such an expansive space of never-ending beginning? How can I be nothing in the face of the expanding cosmos and yet still be something?” To shed some light on the case, the particle found a chemistry between it and the gas. A dance commenced; courtship in animals which is used to find a partner in reproduction. The male initiates the courtship and the female chooses to mate or reject, but gender has not been invented. So in their fluidity of identity, they stretch their limbs and spin around one another, both starting at once. An ignition of galaxy and flickering light—“how common it is to search for something important and instead find something entirely more valuable!”
The little particle went searching for the stars and instead founded the birth of a solar system that we owe gratitude for. Instead of an ending, it found another beginning. The light that breaks night. Daybreak. A rare experience of a moment at daybreak, when something in nature seems to reveal all consciousness, cannot be explained at noon. Yet it is part of the day's unity. But life, as the moral of the story hopes to convey, is made up of beginnings that lead to more beginnings. “Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing,” and particles exist for a very long time, “But let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”
Their only connection to the living is the knowledge that were once alive.
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A balding brown man in a fluorescent pink sweater sits diagonally to my left on public transit.
We make eye contact.
In this brief moment I swear to myself I know him.
We have met before.
At the supermarket shopping for oranges
or at a gas station somewhere where I did not see the need to ask where I was.
He lives alone, with a possible lover,
and masturbates in the shower.
He is superstitious and for this reason the full moon scares him as much as the likelihood of footloose anarchy does, similar to that of the 1992 L.A. Riots.
He enjoys delving in fried foods every other week
and reminds himself to slowly blink twice, ever so often, to ensure he does not fall asleep on the bus.
He savors the little moments he has singing Italian opera in the shower, stretching before bed at night, and hearing the sizzle of the frying pan as he pours his egg batter into it in the morning.
He tapes photographs into a hard covered white notebook that has always reminded him of alabaster.
These photographs are placed onto empty pages as to remind him of the important things in his life when they are not in front of him.
Various important things include his unmade bed one Sunday morning as the sunlight leaked through the red drapes,
the house he grew up in on a summer’s day,
the first time he saw the ocean with his own eyes,
and gardening with his mother.
After making direct eye contact with the balding brown man in the fluorescent pink sweater I cannot seem to stop staring.
And after parting ways we may meet again someday.
At the supermarket shopping for avocados
or at a gas station down the street where there is no need to ask where I am.
I am here; making eye contact with a stranger on public transit on a Saturday.
If fate had left us lonely,
alone without a friend,
if coincidence had abandoned us,
stuck at a dead end,
I would never have seen you smile,
or tuck your hair behind your ear,
never witnessed you pursing your lips,
or seen you shed a tear.
But fate has done her job,
Coincidence has helped her too.
And because of their assistance,
I finally met you.
A Little Thing Called Love
THEY SAY THAT IF AN AUTHOR FALLS IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU CAN NEVER DIE
I feel recycled feelings and think recycled thoughts,
but I can’t help but think that
no one has ever felt
what I feel about you.
You are the universe,
Infinite and mysterious and terrifying.
Galaxies run through your veins.
I yearn to explore
the depths of your mind
(and possibly your body),
but like a kid who
dreams of being an astronaut,
my chances are slim.
And I wonder if you know
that when I tell people about you
I talk as if
you are the stars
minus the pollution,
and I am the blind man
for the first time.
I see her pacing in her small kitchen,
Cold tiles, cold feet.
She bakes cupcakes, maybe; I know she loves that.
Raspberry cupcakes for me.
She wears her green dress, “sky green”, she says.
Or she has a book in her hand and she sits in her chair in the corner – the fabric tattered and stained.
Her hands are covered in purple and yellow paint, from her art project.
She might have sold her painting, her painting of smeared chocolate sauce on a girl’s thigh, her painting of drinking coffee and eating raspberry cupcakes.
Her laces are still tied up, but her shoes sit in the corner, because she does not run anymore.
Her room is a mess, her bed piled high with papers and her flute, but she’s still sleeping.
She plays her flute in the shower, letting the mockingbirds help, but the water makes a tangled soaked sound.
She lies on her striped rug in the kitchen, arms and legs spread out,
Waiting for me to make a snow angel with her.
The phone rings.
There's an odd relationship between me and my thoughts. We often have lunch together, which is nice, but strictly platonic. Some say your thoughts control you, but I think thoughts are simply the link between the mind and the body. A sort of connection made to guide you. Guidance is the key to this strictly platonic relationship between me and my thoughts. We've had quite a few nice lunches together because of it.
I remember the day she came back. We'd spent two and a half months apart. It was the longest we’d ever been separated since I was born. She was in France. I was in the forest. Her flight was early, but she wasn't. I waited for what seemed like hours, but was actually minutes. I watched the other kids run to meet their diamond clad mothers and impatient fathers, but she wasn't one of them. It felt like every other person on her flight got off before her. Maybe they had forgotten about her. Maybe she’d fainted again. But she hadn’t. And when she walked through the automatic doors that I had started to despise, I felt like I was looking at a different person. I guess two and a half months does that to you. The second she saw me she started to cry. I think I did too.
WAYS TO GO
Go from the front porch to the frozen stone walk,
slide down the ice hazed driveway, swing right,
right around your snowbank, stride to the street.
Your steps skip beats,
battling snow bunches,
you bobb like a swimmer’s cap through the patches of yellow-black light.
Turn the corner, leave your street
and keep going.
Go from the front porch to hanging plants and rooftop gardens,
glide through greenhouses with glass doors, swing around,
around and around the stems of wine glasses, sink to the bottom.
Your lungs find air,
sweeping wine away,
you skid like a car on ice over tile and stone.
Spy something, set a course
and keep going.
These are some ways you could go.
Emma Ivy Nicholosn
It was the way his eyes lit up when he looked in my direction how my ignorance about love had been slowly plucked out of my brain when I looked at him. The bits of green in his dark brown eyes were like constellations that lead me to see his true self. His laugh held subtle hints of sadness covered by fake smiles and jokes. I think he enjoyed making people laugh because when they found him funny, he felt important. But underneath his skin and fragile bones was his hopeless beating heart. He was broken and I wish I had noticed sooner. I wish he didn't leave me, I wish I could've tried to help him. But I didn't realize how broken he was until I broke. We shared the fact that we were unfixable, and could at least make each other laugh. We were each other’s medicine, we were the antidepressants that made each other happy. But then we stopped talking, and that's when the darkness enveloped both of us. Sometimes I see him in the hallway, talking with his new friends. He looks more damaged than usual, that light in his eyes is gone. At night I used to think about the sparkle in his eyes and I realized that not even the brightest star in the night sky could compare. He doesn't light up the sky anymore; in fact, I wonder if he feels like he's trapped in the darkest part of the moon, with no rocket to take him back to earth, and he's quickly running out of oxygen.
They say when you see someone you love,
Your hearts beat in sync.
Do you think that would happen
If I fell in love with you from afar?
The closest we get is when you walk by,
Talking to your friend,
Not even glancing my way.
They tell me to go talk to you,
But I don’t take risks,
I would rather that you not know me.
They say when you see someone you love,
Your hearts beat in sync.
Do you think that would happen,
If I no longer love you?
She once wore black lace tank tops under pink crop tops because she thought it looked good,
“Good, god,” her parents told her when they saw 67s circled in red ink on her math tests when they knew she could be getting 99s,
The 99ers was the name of her sister’s best friend’s brother’s hockey team,
Teams usually consist of two parts participation, three parts plastic princesses,
Princess was what she thought she could actually be,
Bees stung her a lot when she was little; she thought it was the honey that ran through her veins,
Veins popped when she got blood taken for a test,
Tests are not her cup of tea,
Tea is what she drinks when she can’t sleep because all that occupies her mind are vivid scarlet vision dreams but mostly the fact that she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning,
Mornings are filled with dismembered thoughts in a disgruntled mind and dusted sight making it the worst part of her day,
Days are okay but mostly filled with bitches self-diagnosed with depression; they say, “It’s bad,”
“Bad, bad,” her three year old cousin said through yellowed teeth from lack of brushing when he saw her arms,
Arms that were a battlefield and preserved painful memories she didn’t want to relive but sometimes she had no choice.
AFTER THE LIGHTNING
From the tongue of lightning
Has shifted to the left.
Charred skin is peeling
Exposing rotten flesh.
Dry blood stains its sides,
Dull scars are evident
The tree still bears blossoms;