Baking a Nail File Into a Contraband Cake

somewhere between

gallant and pusillanimous

lies a field

which stretches from

here to pluto,

unfathomably gargantuan

and irrefutably macabre.

it bewitches and it devours.

there was a time prior

to its contemptuous existence

in which lovers could

lay contentedly within their

respective paramour's embrace,

the most pressing matters

a fracas over

a cloud's perceived visage.

but as the ozone layer inflated(or

perhaps one could argue

its deflation),this obverse

inflated,

forever hungering for

the bravery of a

suitor's

soul.

escape. flee.

love cannot be savored

if

one is bound

by fear.

A Plea to Happiness

perhaps

(and this is

quite the request,

i realize)

but perhaps

just

once,

you could stay.

not for a fleeting ticktock,

or an infinitesimal fleck(like

the skinflake snowflake

falling passed my

energy-saver bulb),

but for maybe

months.

years?, if it's

not too

much trouble.

you make me feel genuine.

you make me feel real.

you make me feel

something other than the

darkness-by-osmosis

that seems

to suck me up like water.

but if you have other things

to do and

other places to see,

i understand.

i move at a snail's pace.

i won't be

very far.

It Sounded Kind of Orca-ish

low-frequency symphonies(un-listen-able

to you,to me)echo the

things i do not(willnot,cannot)say.

do they mourn or do they exalt?perhaps

joyandloss are two halves of

their whole.

mourn(jubilant)ing mammoth,

you are no match

for the crux

that

pulsatespulsatespulsates

within this chest,for

even you

are dwarfed by

this sanguine nucleus and all that it holds,

this pith i have

come to behold;but

nothing does it mean

if he is not the kindling

for

this flame.

The Shortest Distance Between Two Points Isn't Short Enough

a breath for miles.

a glance for ag(won't you

come

closer?)es.

my limbs move through

the motions

of every day necessities

;

i can brush my teeth

and apply this mask,

and , if i

c o n c e n t r a t e ,

i can be

none the wiser.

but where i am

is

where you are not,

and without you

is

without

what i want

most.

please

come close

and rectify this

glaring vacancy that

has

taken up residency

inside of this skin.

please

come

close.

(photo credit)

A Lesson on How to Make the Mind Go Mad

it will not leave.

it burrows and burrows

inside of

this dilapidated haunt,

nestling so comfortably

in the depths of my

ventricles and atriums,

reinventing itself in such

clever disguises

as it travels about the bloodstream,

finding new habitats

which it likes to call

home.

how quietly it waits.

how patiently it breathes,

methodically outstretching a hand

or some disfigured protuberance,

scarcely making contact

with its surroundings,

sending my synapses into

a frenzy.

my god,

how your very skin enraptures me

with its heady bouquet.

one taste awakens this

dark, ugly thing

from its false hibernation

as i come to

understand

that with all of my strength

and all of my might,

i must conquer this

daemon,

while still trying to comprehend

and trying to believe in

how you have

chosen

to stay.

A Reflection on the Brief History of Us

how many others

have touched the lips of a

lover,

waiting for(expecting)it

all

to

combust?

how many others

have pressed their head to

his chest,

listening for the

(inevitable?)cracking

in

his

heart?

how many others

have had heavy,

overwhelmed lids at

the feeling

of love that

swells

and

billows

from places never

to have existed

before?

how many others

have pressed their fingertips

to their lover's

skin,

electricity and

numbness

the communication between

tingling

appendages?

won't you

let me always be the

other

in your pair?;

hearts or diamonds

or spades or clubs,

whatever suit

you'd prefer.

tug on my hem,

tug on my sleeve,

wrap me up in

everything

you are(intoxicating),

and

please,

don't ever

let me go.

Healing Takes Time

i am a burnt tongue,

its function pointless and evaporated

at the carelessness of its owner.

press me against something, anything;

i will feel it, know that it is there,

but will be powerless to experience it

the way that i should;

be patient.

i am waiting for the day

when my dead and damaged cells

will have all but shed and disappeared

and i will know what it is like

to be complete again.

Symbiosis of the Homo Sapien

someday,

when science allows it,

i will peel my skin

from my bones,

and my freed cage

will wander

from body to body,

zipping up a

different

fleshoodie

every single day

just to say,

after it has found its

way back to its

original casing,

"i've been a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

of all different sizes

and all shades of human.

there were women

and men

and some children,

when i could manage

to fit.

they were black,

they were white,

they were asian,

they were hispanic,

they were mutts.

they had congestive heart failure,

they had diabetes,

they had cancer,

they had restless leg syndrome.

they hated

and they loved

and they mourned.

but now that i've been

a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

i've come to realize:

we

are all

the same."

Graying-Out Process

there's

a strange concoction of

repulsion

and

disgust

as

hollow eyes peer

back to me.

it won't be long

before i am

coughing

the mutated name

i will have acquired,

choking on the

sound

of who i am

turning into,

the pallid cage

of what i was

and what i

should be.

i am the walking dead,

atrocity embodied

of what can happen

when

apathy

goes

unchecked.

Grains of Sand Are Inaccurate Measurements of Time

i don't know

about the

befores,

and i can't know

about the

afters.

all i have are the

nows(this now,and

that now,and how nows).

but every now

feels like a hundred nows

for every now

that i have with you

is enough.

I Will Craft My Rebuttal

purposes are

scattered and plentiful,

tangled in

the spindling of

worker bees

and

soldier ants.

in the back room

of my skull,

i have jars full of

these purposes,

neatly labelled,

arranged according to

size

and

obligation

(starting with

the largest.

naturally).

but there is

one jar

which has not

collected dust,

whose lid has

been opened

and closed

and opened again

more times

than it had agreed to.

i clutch it close

and push it away.

it sings to me

and

scolds me.

it beckons me

and

repels me.

slowly lift its

lid,

let its voice

fill the air.

its words are

simple

and it asks

what i always

ask

and what i

always

seek:

how

on this earth

can i

convince you

to stay?

Neighborhood Watch

i ooze into places i shouldn't,

and i drip into holes

that are too deep.

fingers go into soc(electric!)kets,

tongues taste the could-be-poisonous,

toes get too close to passing motorbikes,

scarves whirl dangerously near ceiling fans.

always at the risk of kablam and fizzbang,

always friends with kerplunk and kersplat,(they

are a pair, aren't they?)i am always

on the endangered list,

the kind that sends out disclaimer flyers to

the surrounding neighborhoods:

"she may spontaneously combust!" or

"she may bring about her own demise!" or

"she may talk of beautiful things, but believe in nothing!" or,

my favorite,

"she has issues!"

but there is someone(he must know who he is)

who shoos away kerplunk and kersplat;

who makes kablam and fizzbang

just onomatopoeia-s;

who renews her hope

and renews her courage

and renews her strength

and renews her love

with every touch of his hand

and every brush of his lips.

until she has no choice(no

matter her futile attempts

at stating otherwise)but to believe him.

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

A Poem in Four Acts

i.

goodmorningyou, hesitant to

greet(how you put up a fight)the

waking world,

tangled in cotton protectors,

strands everywhichway,

blockading those pools i adore,

with vocal chords only

capable

of quiet(content)eruptions;

ii.

to goodafternoonyou, adventurous

and bursting through the

metaphoric(literal)walls,

absorbing the seasonal sun

and passing breeze,

toes wriggling with(in) their

unwelcome confines,

dashing forward

at the speed of something in

be

tween

lightandsound;

iii.

to goodnightyou, connecting

with the

out-there-world before

wrapping me up in everything you

are,

heating my skin with your skin(i've

good circulation),and

mingling my breath with your

breath,

until we come together in

ways only we can(only you,only me),

hesitant to leave each other's

head(how we put up a fight),as

we tangle ourselves in cotton protectors

and each other,

our vocal cho(harmonious)rds only

capable of exhausted(arduous)eruptions;

iv.

to everyyou that i can manage

to find,

and how i adore

eachandeveryone

down to the most miniscule(microscopic)cell

in this tired body

with all of my might.

Jaws Theme

to stay afloat

in a sea so intent

on letting(demanding that)you drown

is just asking for trouble

for which no one is really

prepared(as if they can).

but kick harder,

won't you?

paddle stronger,

won't you?

tread the water.

stay afloat.

stay alive.

A 10.0 on the Richter Scale

it's in the way

i can curl up

i n y o u,

like an old familiar story.

it's the way

you warm me

like a cup of steaming

tea,

enveloped by

chilled fingers.

it's the way

you call to me,

i the navigator

with a compass

that points

home.

it's the way

you find me

when i am lost,

tugging gently

at the laces of my

shoes to bring my

feet back down.

it's the way

i love you

when you steal my words

and steal my breath,

that i know that

no matter what the world brings

and no matter what the world steals

and no matter what the world is,

things,

you,

i,

us,

are going

to be

okay.

Fly Away Home

to feel at

home

in a place so far from

the dwelling, officially termed,

to feel a

love

in a place overflowing with

strangers and unfamiliar faces,

to feel that

peace

in a place as tumultuous

as anywhere to Timbuktu,

to feel a

"something"

that has no name but

is stronger than the Himalayas,

to feel a

loss

at having once found it all,

hoping one's feet will somehow

wander back to those

cobblestone paths

and overgrown mews,

to the "ou" instead of "o" and "s" instead of "z,"

to the dreaded prawn-flavored-everythings,

to the seed that has found its landing,

knowing that if it only had the chance,

with perhaps a bit of sun and

a bit of water,

it could blossom into

something

spectacular.

I Am No David

an empty page

is more intimidating

than Goliath,

as it beckons you

to fill it, to satisfy it,

and when your pen

has run out of ink,

and your mind has

run out of thoughts,

what choice do you have

but to

surrender?

Cyclical Motion

the trickling stream is

destined for greater things;

poured into the sea and into the bay,

tripping into the ocean and then

upwards to the sky,

only to come back down to its

humble, bubbling brook.

so are we, destined for greater things,

always meant to come back

to where it all began.

Illuminated, Illuminated

darkness seeps, without a sound,

into the very fabric of my skin.

merely a drop at first glance,

but it slowly invades and pillages

every nearby cell until i know

nothing but night.

the glide of a fingertip,

the brush of a lip,

and the darkness retreats,

unable to survive in battle against

this unnamed and unsung savior.

suddenly, i breathe.

suddenly, i heal.

i no longer know of fear,

and i no longer know of pain,

for i catch sight of your eyes

and know,

truly, i know,

what is love.

She Was Like the Sun

the flower nods to the

illumination of the sun,

its head hanging low

with the weight of regret

that it could not bloom

fast enough, and its petals

could not be bright enough,

and it could not be vocal in its

gratitude for those nurturing rays

before the sun, falling into

its crimson slumber, closed her

eyes and fell asleep.

----------------------

I think the hiatus may be over.

I'll love and miss you forever, KG.

Hiatus

Due to the unforeseen passing of one of the most beautiful, amazing, lively, and magnificent people I know, I'm taking a small hiatus from writing this blog. It won't be for long, and it won't be forever. I know she would want me to keep writing. I just cannot find the energy, the mental ability, or the enthusiasm to write anything right now. Hopefully soon, she'll inspire me to start again.

I love you and miss you, KG.

- May.

The Softest Fabric is A Memory

at the end of the day,

at the end of a life,

all that i have,

all that we ever have,

are the sauntering recollections

of our joy, our sadness,

our anger, and our love

to wrap around us

like a blanket,

letting us know that

it was

worth it.

Sometimes, It's All I Have

a lip

an eye

a leg

an arm

a foot

an ear

a finger

an elbow

a shoulder

i have yet to find

a single piece of you

that should not be adored.

does such a thing even exist?

do you really exist?

there are these moments

when you leave me

speechless

breathless

weightless

worry-less

and all that i can manage to do

is to try and convey all of these things

(

because words will fail

)

with

one

single

glance.

It Never Stood a Chance

a bucket with a pinhole
is destined to fail. but it
will try and try and try to
make you proud, to keep
you from regretting having
ever purchased it. after
all, how can you hold a
grudge against something
that knows no other
existence except one that
is flawed? please be forgiving,
won't you? it will never leave
you. it could never abandon
you. it will have no choice but
to become your closest
ally.

My Day Begins and Ends at 5am

letters and combinations

always seem to disappoint

when trying to explain to you

the entropic actuality inside of

this fleshtone vessel. the quiet

hum of the cold air spewing

from that contraption is the

only cadence to the rushing,

crimson rivers in my ears. we

breathe this steady pattern of

inhale and exhale, of gather and

release, until i realize that i am

keeping time with you and that

this

is the only way i can manage to

explain the frenzy. more than a

culmination of cells and atoms

and follicles and blood, more than

these jobs we tire of and this

heat we create, more than the

words we whisper and the nothings

we slur with our tongues, we are

more than what we are perceived

to be and what we convince ourselves

we are not. i have no other, clever way

of telling you that i now understand

that i have lived, endured, breathed

if only for

these moments with you.

At the End of the World, You Are Alone With Yourself

if ever you are

worried

that life is something tempor(ary)al,

and that tightness in the chest

begins to settle in

when you stop to

think

of all you have to do,

rest assured that you have

had a gift(well spent)

that so many

will have abused and exploited,

who will pause before

their last heartbeat

and wonder why they had

wasted time as if it were air(though

even that is a rarity these days).

let the panic fade away

as the warmth seeps

into your veins,

sliding like lava through

your limbs,

knowing that you

were

loved.

Conglomeration of All Things Terrible

at worst, i am nothing more than body parts,

a bone here, a socket there,

tendons and ligaments that have been

strategically

arranged

so that i may walk and move and speak

and think and love and feel

like other homo sapiens.

at best, i am nothing more than a damaged product

of my environment and,

more likely and most importantly,

my own self-destruction.

there is no forgiveness that i can

allow myself.

not when i've got so much to prove.

at least, i am nothing more than a lost soul,

wandering this vast orb to try and find

some kind of meaning

some kind of anything

so that it won't feel like a waste

or like i've just been sucking up space

and air and resources

that could have been used on someone more

deserving.

at most, i am nothing more than who you see before you,

this tracing-paper-cut-out of who i used to be,

with all of the necessary parts

(the lungs and heart and brain and things)

i need to make me whole,

vacant in the places that should be full,

hollow in the parts that should have substance.

at worst at best at least at most.

don't ask me to explain it all.

i haven't got a clue.

I Would Live Underwater if I Could Only Manage to Survive

my body is like the sea,

undulating,

changing,

controlled by an invisible force that i must obey,

lest i cease to exist all together.

my soul is like the tide,

an oscillation between high and low,

between calm and tumultuous,

between black and blue,

constantly morphing

and constantly adapting.

my heart is like the gull,

perched upon these galloping waves.

it can sink and dive and break this

sometimes halcyon surface,

but it prefers to stay afloat,

letting the rises and falls lull it to security.

my life is like the oceans of this earth,

each body a different chapter,

each world a new beginning.

common threads run amongst them all,

as all things are connected, you see,

yet they are different all the same.

which chapter am i in?

which will i end up in next?

paddle, paddle,

and see what surprises await.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

Hiatus

Hello all (meaning all of you crickets out there reading).

I will be away for the next six days as I travel to the wondrous state of Missouri to visit family and loved ones. I will continue writing every day, though I won't be doing it on the computer. I'll be doing it the old fashioned way, scribbling my thoughts down in a notebook or, more likely, Moleskine. I will post them all up with their respective dates when I return to New York!

In the meantime, watch this adorably spastic French Bull Dog puppy. And some cool stop animation.

The Clock Says 4:27

every minute without you in it is a minute far

too long for my liking. i think about all of the

minutes i have lived without you, and i realize that

i have trouble remembering them all. they all

were born and died, as all things are, but they seem

insignificant when i think of you. because why on

earth would i want to remember a time when you

didn't exist? that's just crazy - and all around foolish.

you were and are still one of my favorite minutes

that i have had the pleasure of living through

and experiencing. you are time itself and all

of its wonder. you are happiness. you are love.

My Head is a Balloon, Floating Overhead

They protest and rampage. They tear down trees and shear off the branches, and ram shaven logs into the walls. Claws, sharp as glass, scratch and rip their way through ivory and ebony keratin. Or, at least, they try. When one attempt fails, they find another. When that attempt fails, the increase the explosives and double the gun powder.

Please, quiet down. Have a rest, won't you? Perhaps you'd care for a tall glass of water.

You'll soon be spilled onto this screen through the not-so-clever workings of ten of my best men. They will work tirelessly to release you from this prison.

Don't worry.

You will have your freedom.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Were My Predecessors

i feel like i'm on the

verge of a tragedy.

rumbling and movement in

my inner-most innards

are my(delirium?)tremors,

warning me to prepare for the quake.

"tie down the good china,

the precious collectables you'd rather

not lose.

keep safe your heart(whatever

may be left).

keep safe your soul.

they are irreplaceable."

how these feet want to run

(as far as the very ends

of the earth).

but something makes me stay.

something tells me not to go.

i don't understand it. i can't explain it.

the weight of this never-ending mind

is more than Atlas could bear.

split me in

ha

lf.

keep one half safe in the china cabinet,

the kind that every home has;

this is the part that could never

dream of leaving.

it cannot exist on its own.

and, please, let the other half go.

let its cowardice and awful inability

to cope with life commandeer.

let it run to where the sea ceases to be,

let it escape from the hell it created for itself.

it is the only resolution.

it is the only answer.

one cannot exist as two separate beings,

relying on a snapping thread

to keep it together.

Vulnerability is Something I Continue to Fear

your hands are

perfect.

big and slender,

strong and agile,

nimble and gentle.

they can embrace mine

and

they can memorize my skin,

and

they do so exquisitely.

it is why i will sometimes

find myself touching them with

my fingertips,

staring at these magnificent creations,

wondering how such supremacy

could be contained in

a set of digits and opposable thumbs.

i admire them for their strength,

and fear them(my god, how

i can tremble)for their power.

please, be careful.

all that i could possibly give

you

rests with them.

they are perfect

to tear me in two,

should their owner advise;

it wouldn't take much, you know.

a simple flick of the wrist

in a well-placed location,

and you would devastate me.

but please, let them find me

in the darkness.

i will risk my heart and life

at the mercy of your hands,

perfection, ten-fold.

With My Head Against a Pillow, I Concoct the Strangest of Worlds

I had a dream the other night where I was in a strange house, though it seemed vaguely familiar, like there were pieces of it that made me think it was mine. All along this long, long hallway, there were ladders - and no ceilings. In order to progress down this hallway, and there was only one route, you had to climb up each ladder and then climb back down the other side. As I was waiting in line to do this, I was wondering what was taking people so long once they reached the top. After all, dream minutes are very important. Who knew how long it would be before I would wake up and leave this strange world?

My turn finally came. A well-placed foot was planted on each rung, up and up and up, until I reached the top of what seemed to be an impossibly tall ladder. Once I climbed the summit and went to maneuver over to the other side to begin my descent, I realized why people had stopped. Up at the top, you were faced with a wooden wall - like the bare panelling of a house without that insulation that looks suspiciously like cotton candy. Speckled on this wall were pictures - pictures of you, pictures of your loved ones, pictures of your friends.

Memories that you forgotten you had, buried deep in the lost abysses of your brain; memories that were your favorites from when you were small; memories that didn't seem much like memories at all at the time - you know, those moments when you are simply living your life, another day-to-day miracle, where nothing spectacular happens, but damn it, it's special because you're still breathing; memories of moments that had not happened yet. All of these things, captured in photographs of all sizes, some in black and white and some in color. And every time a new person climbed the ladder, these photos would change to reflect their memories.

I went to reach for one of these photographs, but it began to melt as soon as my skin made contact. Maybe I had gained some acidic skin? - after all, this was a dream. Anything was possible. But I realized that I hadn't undergone some nifty transformation and wouldn't become the next superhero (Venom Girl would have been my name, by the way).

I realized that I couldn't take these memories with me because I had to let them go.

This hallway would always be here, always here to house and protect the memories I had collected over time, but that's all they were. They were to stay, glued to this wall, for reminiscing purposes only. I couldn't live in them. I couldn't pretend I was at that moment in time again. They had happened, and what wonderful memories they were. But that's all they were: memories.

After this realization, I sadly climbed my way back down this first ladder, then began to wait in line for the next. After a few moments of thinking, however, I realized that I didn't need to see all these photographs again. I needed to get out of this hallway and into my life. I somehow wriggled my way between the walls of the hallway and these abnormally tall ladders and to the front door, after the last ladder. It was beautiful outside.

I awoke as I opened the door. I had returned back to my life, hoping to see a few added photographs the next time I visited that strange, strange house.

Sister Aloysius Is Smarter Than She Looks

still,

somehow,

i am petrified.

reassurance was never

my most reliable ally;

in fact, i would

say it has a worse track record

than those pretend catholics

who attend church

on christmas-only(i'm

even worse than that.

i don't attend, ever).

this sinking,

this

fierce application of pressure on

lungs and insides,

lingers wordlessly,

content in not drawing attention to itself,

but when it becomes more

attention-starved than the

forgotten middle child,

there is no ignoring it.

there is no catching your footing.

not even an absurd amount

of fuzzy, blue blankets(that your

grandmother knit from scratch)

could make you feel

safe.

doubt is your only paramour,

and my, what big hands(and eyes

and teeth and fists)it has.

but what kind of life

would it be

if i were to keep this

no-good lover?,

constantly shivering in the desolate

shadow it casts?,

constantly searching for an answer

i will never find?

i must pry myself free.

i must show it to the door

and tell it never to return.

please, do not call.

do not write.

rain, rain,

go away,

and never

come back

again.

I Am Nothing if Not Ultimately Undeserving

i remember what it was like to be

clouded and obscured(in

a way unlike now), when

pain seemed more warming than laughter,

and darkness seemed brighter

than sunlight.

i remember the dull,

gnawinggnawinggnawing

ache in the depths

of my chest

at every forgotten call

and every excuse

as to why it was acceptable

for him(whoever he was)to disappoint me.

i remember that tears weren't common,

despite the feeling of a dull blade

piercing the breastbone,

but they fell once or twice

at the thoughtlessness and carelessness

that oozed from his every action.

and it is because of these

memories(how i'd rather forget)that

i sit quietly now,

eyes silently watching him

as he goes about his life

and about his world,

wondering(what incredulous wonder)how

on earth i have managed

to earn him,

wondering what it is that

he sees when his

eyes silently watch me,

wondering when his body will next be

slumbering against me,

wondering.

thanking.

forgiving.

loving.

The Mirror I Cannot Destroy (Seven Years' Bad Luck)

she taps my

shoulder with

l o n g ,

slender fingers,

both hot and cold against

my pallid shell.

familiar.

inviting.

disconcerting.

her eyes glow the

color of dark amber;

beetles and bees,

frozen in the geological honey,

are the flecks of would-be-light.

her arms open.

she promises such beaut(tragic)iful

things:

memories i've forgotten,

friends lost,

lovers stolen.

if i would but reach out to her,

she could bring them

all

to me

again.

my fingers twitch inside of my pockets.

all of these things are

native to my being;

yes, i would very much

like to know them again.

but at what price?

at what cost?

lips the color of rotten cherries

emit the kind of purr that

would lure even the most

resolved of men

to their deaths.

stagnant, i stand,

unwilling to embrace,

yet unwilling to leave.

we are at a stalemate.

how could i abandon her?,

for she is inside of me;

she breathes my air

and bears my blood.

terrified,

i come to realize

she is me.

Home Sweet So Long

I had spent my entire life searching for it, and there, across the Atlantic and seemingly across the world, I had found it. Amidst the Mind-the-Gaps and District-and-Circle-Lines and proper pots of tea, I had found it.

Distinctly, I remember slipping in earbuds that were leashed to an iPod, sliding said iPod into my pocket, and strolling (at an acceptably hurried pace) down to the post, perhaps to buy some stamps and a souvenir trinket of sorts. Weaving through throngs of meandering people, past sidewalk cafes that boasted lots of prawn (terrible) and rocket, past hidden windows and doors built into an unobtrusive stone wall at the clashing of past and present, I found it.

I found it in first looking right instead of left when crossing a road; in needing to purchase an extra coin-carrying purse because, for God's sake, why was everything up to £3 in coin form?; in traversing a Waitrose (admittedly not as good as Sainsbury's) and picking up a package of chocolate biscuits for nothing more than 50p; in waiting for friends in front of a large, over-sized memorial to Victoria's late husband, thinking him golden and rather trapped from atop his black steeple; in asking where I could find the Ladies' and having someone understand that I didn't mean to find a group of polite, young women; in purchasing a packet of crisps in the most ridiculous of flavors while tossing back yet another pint of Strongbow (and/or Guinness, though not simultaneously); in staying past last call while in the company of newly-formed friends (and perhaps a fleeting romantic interest), drinking more than I really should, but not regretting a single moment when waking up only a few hours later; in grabbing a pasty on the way to class then later wondering why I had thought it a good idea when frantically trying to find a Ladies' around the East End; in every double-decker bus that I never really took; in every Underground and every Oyster Card and every "top off" station I needed to find; in every smell, every sound, every tiny fleck of air that lathered my skin on that beautiful, entrancing island.

I found it. It was there. Years of unanswered questions seemed all but trivial. The biggest concern I could manage to have was how much time I had before the local opened and if I could manage to scarf down a dinner consisting of oiled noodles, salad, and bread in a reasonably quick amount of time. Tomorrow didn't matter, really, for today was all I needed. It was all I wanted. Please, give me another heaping scoop of this here and now, barkeep. I could ask for no more.

And just as quickly as I had found it, I lost it.

From the wrong side of that tiny, fogged frame that forced me to watch this magnificent world get smaller and smaller, I said good-bye to the only place I've ever felt home. I said good-bye to the friends I made, to the memories created, to the adoration and ardor I felt in a place I'd not known for all of my life, yet could never, ever forget.

I had no choice but to say good-bye.