Shock and Resignation

I guess I finally have something to write on this page after desperately doodling on it all day. Not that I'm happy about it. Not at all, actually.

It's just... She was the last person you would expect this of, but also the first person too.

When I heard, it was brief shock and then resignation. I'm not sure where between those the tears started, but I did cry, and fairly soon.

I'm not sure I even HAVE the right to cry for her. I mean, yeah, I knew her, went to middle school with her, laughed with her from time to time. But I didn't KNOW her at all. Just enough to know she seemed to be perpetually happy, and that she was nice to me when other people weren't.

What could be so bad that she'd not just want to die, but actually take matters into her own hands? I know that's what people always ask, but I really want to know. I've walked that edge before, been just about to let go, but I've always had the hope to keep on living, to get better. What could make a girl who seemed as cheerful as she did stop hoping?

I don't understand.

I mean, I really just can't wrap my mind around it. How could she just be... gone? How could that bubbly blonde just be cold and still? I can't quite accept it. She can't be... dead.

There, I said it. She's dead. She killed herself.

I don't know how she did it and I'm not sure I want to know.

What Jaclyn must be going through....

What her step-sister must be going through....

I don't even want to think about her parents.

I remember between seventh and eighth grade, she went from being a little toward the plump side to being a complete stick. She seemed to become popular overnight. I always sorta wondered what changed, but didn't really think about it. I didn't let myself think it was an eating disorder, or that people really were so shallow as to ignore one of the nicest girls in the school because of her weight. I still don't really let myself think about it.

Is that what's going to happen to me? To Zach? To Charmee? To Stephanie? To Angie? To Kyle? To Briona? Are anyone of us going to fall down so far that we'll start thinking we'll never see the light again and just stop looking for it? Are we going to kill ourselves too, and seem happy to the casual eye all the way up until then?

She was the last person you'd expect it of, but also the first person, too.

Oh, Casey... Could no one save you?

Untitled in Apathy

I really want to go curl up in a corner and die. I'm pushing everyone away, loving and loathing every little touch. I should move, dance, distract myself from this insidious melancholy. (Why did I leave my romance novel at home?)

And there's no real reason for it, but for a lack of salvation. I could help him if I didn't love him, because then I could be detached enough to ponder it on through in all its multi-colored possibilities. But I love him, and my love is not enough to save him.

It's not enough to save myself, either. I'm bubbling in a sea of confusion, and confusion leads to apathy leads to depression. Whatever. I don't care. (Transition one: check.)

I don't even care enough to finish writing this.

People Are Stupid

The above is an epiphany brought on by company too invested in an outcome and a party far from dispassionate, eager to coax a volley of Romantic sentiments from a cynic's pursed lips. I am referring, of course, to a GUY. (Bet to HELL you didn't see that one coming.) I mean, what right does he have to come around me, unsolicited, to re-incite such confusion among my affairs? (Keywords: reincite, affairs.)

"What are we to each other?" he asks me, so earnest and perplexed. "Why have you done this, this, and that?" OMG, I don't KNOW! That's why I'm avoiding addressing the issue! (Because that solves every problem.) Do like the rest of society - push it under the rug, burn it, hope it goes away! Just don't wave it in my face and make me deal with it! God!

I don't like the hypocrisy of his arms as he claims that he'll never bind me as his. He makes such fanfare about how chivalrous he is in refraining from kissing me as he exaggerates the issue, but speaks and acts without respect. (Maybe he's "kind" in not meshing our lips, but what the fuck is his arm doing around my waist?)

He entreats me to trust my situation to one who knows nothing about it. (Namely: him.) He is so hellbent on protecting me from myself, that he will not listen to the victim's testimony. (After all, she's in shock - how could this one witness understand what she's endured?)

This entire soliloquy is just another way of avoiding the larger issue. I so want to deny the problem merely because the topic was brought up by one who only vaguely grasps at its currents and whose motives are dubious (at best).

*sigh*

People are stupid.

Free Write 10/16/08

It's alright, it's okay - we shall live to dance another day. Don't call me young and don't call me vulgar - there's a splash of moonlight for your tastes. I want someone to be mad at, but it all makes too much sense, so I'll just sit here and rage at myself. (No wonder I have the occasional bout of intense self-loathing.) I want to work on symbolism, take my story from entertainment to literature. I don't want to be just another name to be forgotten. I found my inspiration in a list of authors and titles that should be known. I'm going to try and do it all and I'm not sure I'll succeed, but why ever not? Living in my mind is not so awful as one would think. I like the solid ring that resonates in my head. Rubies and garnets are not without significance. Can you read me this and understand my gist? Just recall that I'm constantly improving. Maybe I'm a poser, but I firmly believe that I don't think so. I'm raring for work, but not responsibility. As soon as I get my license, I'm down on 21 at eighty miles per hour. If nothing else, I will enjoy myself.

I'm confused about love and I don't know what to say, except that I remember what happened the last time I felt this way. I don't want that this time around. I understand where she's coming from, 'cause I been there myself, and I can only pray that she'll play it smarter than I ever thought to. He's kind of cruel to dally this way, because deep down, all three of them know better than this high school drama scene. But maybe not. I hear the World is just the same. I'll prevaricate and call it human nature. But, still. Don't get your hopes up, Breezy, don't entrust your heart to his skillfully clumsy hands. He'll put Tamora's face on you at every turn and it will lodge in your stomach and hurt like flame. Tu ne joues pas au basket. And, Tamora. I told you not to make the same mistakes that I made with John and failed to mention that getting back together with him was one of them. My bad. But don't do this to Alex, I beg you. He's trying to rebound and move on, so let him. And, you, you too, Alex! Please stop playing pretty and show your hand in your heart. We're not dumb, but nor are we all powerful. Though this is your social position at the moment, please don't be a tyrant and crush all your circling wolves at will. I know the power is heady, but cruelty cannot be justified by that sensation. A solid block of writing marches down the page, confusing and unorganized, but I just can't restrict to one topic today. I'm a sea of contemplatias, happening all at once and I'm trying to convey these processes, but there's so much going on. I'm a miasma of stifled rage and virulent hope (go bacteriophages!) and I only want it to work out. I want a diamond perspective on everything in life, a cleansing of arsenic, to put it matter of fact blunt. I'm mixing adjectives for nouns, trying to be original but only managing odd, maybe bombastic. I've always seemed pretentious, with an obsession to control and detail. And there it is. I said it myself. "Control freaks are the ones most often helpless." And I can't wave a magick wand and make this entire situation disappear and be forgotten. Cause I don't think Breezy can really trust you now, Alex, you were so ready to turn back time. And I intervened once or twice before, if you'll recall. I didn't know you so well then; I only knew Tamora. But I was so sure that you were the best thing for her at the time. She was in love and I could see something similar in your eyes. I knew even then that it would end like this, though I ignored myself and hoped that life would surprise me. How bitter... No such luck in that arena. Tamora and I, we are so much the same in so many ways, though not interchangeable parts in the same machine. And she made my same mistake(s). And maybe I'm in the process of committing those same mistakes once again. I am nothing if not honest in my hypocrisy. Breezy and Alex will end, too. I don't know when and I don't know how, but I see it in their future. (Why are people so predictable?) And I can predict everything but myself. Or, rather, I can predict myself, but I'm too scared that I'll be right. My pathways are just as obvious as that of everyone else, but for the way I obscure my vision. It's rather sad, but it explains a lot. I'd rather be self-aware, but that does not amount to safe over sorry. I won't go so far as the other way around, but I could see it without squinting. There are so many stories and so many facets to a side. Crystalline may be clear, but it is complicated. How does one choose where to look through? (It's that ethics BS coming back to haunt me soundly.) I can see what he is thinking and I am debating how much I care. I've bound myself to him in a few soft swoops and I don't know if it is healthy. I've got to deal with all of this, so censorship would be counter-productive. I must treat this as I would any other. My wrist is beginning to cramp with the ferocity and velocity of my word flow. And I'm just getting started. There's this vomit of consciousness staining my notebook and I'm not entirely sure it's in the business of making sense. I'll write until I'm stopped, then volunteer to stop someone else. Do I really want to work so closely with the Bat? I'm volunteering myself for such prestige, though I know it spells frustration. But why not? Anything for that perfect college application. Don't harangue me with these constant reminders that I've got the world at my fingertips, because I want it in my fist. There may be no such thing as perfect, but my ambition won't believe it. And part of it is competition. I can't stand to come in anything but first, and I see backs in my field of vision. It's a dangerous compbination - apathy and ambition. I'll kill myself with the pressure to overachieve. And I don't care. I'll raise myself a race of people just as drunk on success as I am. And there's the bell. Vomit of consciousness ended.

Flashing Fang

Go ahead and call me out, take me down, pin me to the carpet for all to look down on, and I'll smile. I'll smile with fangs and an evil intent, and that'll be that. You'll have gotten your wish - I'll be devoid of all emotions, I'll have given up all attempts at giving, and I'll turn to stone. It's all you need - for me to be even colder and less caring than I've ever been before, and it's already a well known rumor that where my heart should be, there's a hole. Go ahead - call me out.

Make me the epitome of all that shocks and disgusts, and do it with a grim 'for-the-better' visage. I'm all too familiar with your brand of concern - I call it 'persecution'. Tie my hands behind my back and toss me in the river for a trial. There's only guilt to be gathered from where you stand, and I can't show you innocence. So go on - flog me like the well-chosen scapegoat I am.

And when I'm back to being your favorite Southern arctic bitch, you can smile and vaguely wonder what might have changed. I won't tell you that - I won't tell you anything then, except with an icy contempt that shows how little this life was worth it. So shrug and glance away, just happy that I'm no longer the same - never mind that the change wasn't for the better. I'm down on the carpet, pinned for everyone to look down on, and you can see my fangs with my smile. (Hey, why should I bother to give a care for my damnation?)

How Badly

How badly can we scare each other? Me, with a bleeding-scared slash to the wrist, and you with morbid thoughts of "what-if" when looking towards the trees. Both of us smiling, hiding, and not saying a word until it all breaks down with the softly empty statement. ("The knife didn't slip.")

How badly can we scare ourselves? Rock back and forth with tears down your face, staring at the phone and wondering if you should dial, while across town, the other's doing the same hesi-moment thing. Roll along the carpet, body over body, holding the rope and worrying yourself back into your head. ("It almost feels like rape to me.")

How badly can we hurt each other? Bites in every kiss, like a baritone between our heads. A struggle on the floor for dominance and pleasure, a game of who will submit first and how far will we have to go before we get there. ("I'm always hurting you.")

How badly can we hurt ourselves? Holding ourselves separate behind mental walls, reaching through solid brick for comfort. We rot within our insecurities, our thoughts as acid in the veins of our logic. ("You have to trust that I'll catch you when you fall.")

How badly, darling? How much can our flames flicker, and fan, and burn us?

"I spent the week thinking about driving into a tree."

"I'm afraid to be blind."

"These marks aren't just from my baritone case."

"I'm fine - I was in complete control."

"You scared me last night."

And the unsaid words - ("You hurt me.")

Panting-Smiling-Glaring

They rolled across the carpet and came to a stop with him on top, face to face, panting-smiling-glaring at each other. His hands encircled her wrists as she was pinned to the floor, his pelvis resting in the cradle of her hips as his knees held her thighs apart. He came down to claim what was (at the moment) his to take.

But she tossed her head to the side to avoid his kiss and in a feat of flexibility and lower body strength (thank you, marching band!), got her feet on his ribs and pushed him away. In seconds, she was on top of him, the tidewater tables having suddenly fallen into Luna's sway.

She pulled the handcuffs from her jeans and got them behind his back, slamming them into place with the ease of practice and passion. He groaned and surrendered as she straddled his back and chuckled in his ear, her red-stained hair forming a momentary curtain around their faces.

Then she kissed him, finally (briefly) gratifying him, before her lips began to nibble a path down his neck, behind his ear (to make a chorus of his moans), and then down his spine, taking pains for symmetry of pleasure. She smiled wickedly as her fingers played him and plucked at their mutual puppet strings.

And then he twisted beneath her, deftly working the safeties on the cheap restraints, catching her and switching the situation as quickly as they fade. But she managed to swing her arm about his waist before she was wholly captured.

They rolled across the carpet, face to face, panting-smiling-glaring adoration.

Update of Overanalyze

Don't be so sure that everything's fine, 'cause I'm fallin' short on every line. I'm searchin' for words that just aren't written, and my masterful improv... Well, let's just say it's been a while since I last took the stage.

I'm a whirlwind balancing act of do this and do that - never ever let on that you're stressed. There's a word for what I'm doing (or maybe it's a phrase...) - "Deception grin to bear it." And who am I deceiving? Myself, but not anyone else. (They all know how little sleep I'm getting.)

Would you stop calling me 'love' when it seems to be falling apart? We've no more to say and so resultingly scream 'romance'. I can feel the gulf growing large and I'm not sure what to do. (Is it not ironic that the control freak is the one most often helpless?)

We are the contrast, the highlight and the shadow, the OCD and the ADD of people. We balance, we turn, we dance, we tumble. And I think you're winning. What the HELL'S going on?

I tell myself to trust, to stop doubting, to let go and ride on out to the end destination (wherever that may be.). But I am just too scared. I once said I was the Queen of Overanalyzing, and it's truer than ever. I want to know what's happening and why and I know it'll be the catalyst for my decadence. (It doesn't mean I can stop.)

Are you resorting to nonexistent scripts, too? 'Cause I don't think everything's fine, but maybe you're blind or the folly is mine. (What's going on?)

After School Enthusiasm (Go Band!!!)

Gaaah! I don't want to go to band practice today! I mean, for once, I have minimal homework, so I could have spent the time squirreling about with my friends, but, no. A force of nature called Hurricane Hanna has to intervene and get tomorrow's football game moved to tonight. And, for some reason, the band director thinks we're a source of school spirit and finds our attendance to these things to be mandatory. So, damn! After school band practice. Yay! (Such enthusiasm.)

Instant Relationship

It's pretty damn convenient, wouldn't you say, to find out that she's bi only yesterday? Within hours, you ended that first affair, and then texted her to make her yours.

What the flying French teacher??? I don't believe I've seen you speak two hundred words to each other before then!! So, allow me to paraphrase your thought processes.

YOU: She's bi!!! OMG, she's so hott!! I didn't know she was bi!!! My girlfriend isn't as hot as she is... And I'm really only going out with her because she's one of the few lesbians in this school.... Hey! I'll tell her that I just want to be friends and ask THIS girl out!!

Fae nough, on your part, if slightly on the shallow side of the pool. Now here's her part of the bargain.

HER: She's a lez, and she asking me out.... Hm, since my last boyfriend dumped me I haven't had anyone all to myself. And I've been lonely. And, hey. She's lez. And the guy I ACTUALLY like needs time to mature.... Why the hell not?

There you have it. The substance of your instant relationship. (Seems kinda petty when put like that, does it not?)

I Dare You

I dare you, baby, to question life's sweet smile. There's a twist to being unhappy, and it's an extra mile. Sunshine falls easier than rain, and the wind clears the clouds as fast as it can. So why bother to hold a frown? Think of curtains and throw your gloom down.

I dare you, darling, to stop painting shades of blue. After all, there's one radiant shade of gold for all of those darker hues. And to ponder on a problem not yet found? That's just trouble, like putting razor teeth on a clown.

I dare you, sweetling, to dance with every step. It may seem like extra effort, but it gives you more energy for being off the ground. Besides, it's impossible for your spirits to drag when your body makes a bounce. (Let's have none of that heavy melancholy - not a single ounce!)

Just try it, baby. I promise that it works. You'll be far happier than any smug downer who reads this and smirks. Darling, adopt this policy of positivity and you'll discover what it means to go on and live! Sweetling, I've drawn the picture, so all you have to do is step on in. Go on...

I dare you.

An Important Issue

Since when is a pregnant teenager a national issue? She may be the daughter of the Republican nominee for vice president of the United States, but she's the duaghter of the Republican nominee for vice president of the United States. It's not like the preggers one is up for election. Just her mother.

But everytime I turn on the radio, someone's gasping over a girl's mistake, like it has some bearing on the next eight years of anyone's life but her own. And she's beating herself up for it already. It is ABSOLUTELY necessary for the global media to join in on the fun.

People may think I'm ornery for not wanting to hear about some Alaskan seventeen year old's oops with birth control. But I just don't see how that tidbit of controversy is pertinent to who shall be the next President of our nation. God forbid that the media should expend their time & effort analyzing the candidate's POLICIES. (That would be frightfully dull.)

"If her mother didn't want her in the media spotlight, she shouldn't have taken a position that she knew would expose all the UGLIES." OHMYGOD!!!!! Someone who would govern our country isn't PERFECT???? *faints* Honestly, you'd think people would have gotten that message after George Bush took office. But, somehow, it's still a lump of shit underneath the Christmas tree.

As much as I am loathe to agree with Obama (Though I do it quite often), he's right. The girl having known a man in the Biblical sense is a family matter (or at least none of OUR business), of inconsequential bearing upon our government, except for insomuch as the Republican candidate for VP can now be called "Grandma".

So... What are McCain's straight plans for health care, and how effective might they be? (Don't rightly know, since an unwanted pregnancy is all the media seems to see.)

Switchblade Duets

She's a dazz-demona dream in all her reflective glory. Bats her eyes... "I'm you, don't you see?" She represents everything you ever wanted, all you wish to be. (Point blank. Nice change of pace, don't you think?)

He's the mystery, the innuendo smile that's all made of rubies. You see him and he is dark, the contradiction you can touch. He's the clearest perspective you have, but also the one you least comprehend. He puts out his hand in an offer to dance.... (Where she's a dazz-demona dream, he's a scarlet nightmare.)

Stop breaking down my beats! There's a certain trick to their switchblade duets, him dodging her blows, and she evading his courts. (You have to sing it in a certain order, or else the song will end.)

She puts it on her calendar, gifu marks the date, and he waits for neid to take its place. They love and they hate, but in the end, they are tied to the self-same coin, the only pay-off their struggle (dance).

So, you might as well smile as you look in the mirror, even though you're SO confused. 'Cause all this is what's inside you, personification just a ruse.

First Day Biology

It's the first day of Biology, and predictably enough, I'm already bored. (And I was concerned about not having time to blog.)

Compared to the rest of my classes today, this is a veg fest. Better than Survey Science, but still watered down and dull.

Hey, hopefully I'm wrong and this will run me as ragged as History, English, and French. That'll be amusing. I'm already so busy I suspect I'm going to do some spinning outside of dance. (Gotta practice those pirrouettes!)

In the meantime... Can that clock tick any faster?

Because I Dared

I know little of the world and even less of myself, standing here in the doorway of Hell. Smiling wide to make a point that isn't there, playing pretty beneath a friend's fickle stare. A greatness within is all I can suppose, thinking the best of myself and the worst of everyone else, the other way around on the good days. (But what qualifies a day as 'good'?)

Short sentences made run on in a dash for sense, falling flat on every race. My face is bruised, but that doesn't make me special. No, 'cause I can look around and see that I'm not the only one bearing marks.

We strive, we thrive, and we strive to thrive, just all looking for the same end of a circle. My soul is your soul, and your soul is his - the only difference is a turn of mind.

And my mind is humbled, knows little of the world, less of myself, standing before the door to power. Gaze intent upon a point to be found, alone and not alone... Greatness is all I dare suppose.

Poetic Confusion in Prose

I'm feeling a moan here today. Now where's here? Well, darling, wouldn't you crave the knowledge of that particular trivia tidbit?

In all honesty, I'm just confused and dressing it up in pretty chains of poetry. It'll make no more sense with them on than with them off, but it'll certainly look more appealing. (God knows there's a Domina snarling inside me.) It's the smile, I think. But, no, that's not right. Or the eyes - that's quite possible. But, nah. I'm merely searching for excuses and finding none to satisfy my inner cynic, who is insisting, quite adamantly, that it is lust. (I hate it when she's right.)

It's that lazy way that I'm not in charge that does it. I've spent my entire life playing the one in lead, the woman with whip in hand, bored with the man bound by his own hands at my feet. (It's simply no fun if they don't struggle!) The fact that I can't win against him is infuriating. Sure, maybe he'll back down, concede the point, but that's not winning. And then when I try to gain some of my own physically, all games lost verbally, I'm trapped there, too, his hands soft chains on my wrists, like the look I used to imitate. (It's even sexier now than it was then.)

But the ethics of it!!! The ethics are a cold sweat of a nightmare, tangling me in the bedsheets and refusing to relinquish my ankles! I barely know the guy and he barely knows me. Conversation with him is, at times, awkward and unwieldy. I don't feel comfortable with him unless he's touching me. We have little of the big in common, from what I can see. But, then again, how would I know? I don't KNOW anything about him!! All practical aspects of me, save one, is coldly telling me that I am wasting our time. (The one that isn't has been drugged into submission by the word 'sexy'.)

How's that for poetic confusion in prose?

"Boyfriend" Stealer

I feel incredibly guilty. I keep telling myself that I am not at fault; I didn't do anything wrong. But I think I did. I should have known better. But I was a selfish, self-centered bitch, and I did it any way.

I tell myself that the other girl, my niece, had no claim, that he was open and offering. But, damn. I hurt her and she did have a claim, if not a good one. One of friendship. I should have respected that claim and kept away. (Way to step all over the laws of Girl World, SD.)

But I'm justified in my actions! (I think.) He never wanted her; he wanted me. It would never have worked out between them. Besides that, he never asked her out! And he liked ME. It was me, not her, that he chased down in a mall food court and called sexy, me that he drew close and protected.

I'm such a bitch. The girl's my niece, and so fragile. What this must be doing to her self-esteem, to lose the guy she likes to me! And I don't think I would be justified in begging forgiveness. If our places were reversed I wouldn't grant it, either.

Damn it, what have I done?

Intervention Draft Five

She regarded the prostrate man before her with carefully constructed aplomb. Despite having held the throne for a little over five years, she had yet to grow used to adults, powerful and peasant alike, throwing themselves upon her mercy. After all, she was only fourteen.

"Rise," she commanded. The voice that emanated from her painted lips was high and cold, contrasting with her warm nature, if not her regal bearing.

The man pushed himself off the flagstone floor, pale and trembling, sweat gracing his balding head like a crystal crown. He made to wipe it away with the sleeve of his polyester blend shirt, but thought better of it, his hand settling like a bird on his belt.

"Please...." His tongue darted out of his mouth to moisten his chapped lips, reminding the teenager on the throne of a serpent scenting the air for danger. "Queen Darsellradibi-"

She cut him off with a sharp glint of fury in her flat blue eyes.

"I don't remember giving you permission to be so familiar with me, Donahue!" She spat his name. "If you will learn decorum, I am to be addressed as Ra Majesty."

He nodded hastily, his eyes polished to a quartz-white.

"Yes, yes! I- I mean no disrespect, Queen Dar - Ra Majesty, ma'am!"

Darsellradibi stayed deathly still in her seat for a largo beat, her normally animated features impersonating a statue's.

"Home-Worlder," she finally sneered, the expression sitting askew on her fair visage. "You know nothing of our culture, yet alone our laws, and still think you are justified in whatever you do."

She rose abruptly from the high-backed chair, her dress falling into place around her slender frame in a cloud of red and black velvet. The material was much too warm for the chamber and the colors too harsh for her skin tone. Darsellradibi hated the 'august' garb.

"This dimension," she continued on, glaring glacial thumbtacks upon the convict's upraised face, "is not your America. Nor your Angland, Frence, Spend, Cainda, Morko... What-have-you. No. We are ONORE."

There was no mistaking the matriarchal pride that possessed her in the name. It pulled her already vertical spine straighter and brought the sparkle back into her sapphire eyes, her chin lifted high. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced once more by the martinet's stern bearing.

"You have, in a matter of days upon our soil, managed to desecrate a major temple, trespass onto cloistered ground, offend not one, not two, not three, but six high-ranking government officials, and nearly incite a riot in the Plaza," she ticked off his offenses on delicate fingers, recently hennaed in a bout of ennui.

He swallowed loudly, the gulp resounding in the commodious chamber and setting his Adam's apple bobbing.

"That, Donahue, is a ridiculous number of cultural faux pas. My High Priestess is demanding your gruesome death for that statue you destroyed in the sanctuary. The Orphanage Matron is demanding the entirety of your bank account in compensation for your mistaking her business for a brothel. Two of my Colony Heads want your skin for a pelerine for your disparaging remarks. The other four only ask your head. And the general public...." Darsellradibi shook her head, her chestnut mane momentarily concealing her face. "Well, they just want you dead."

At this, Donahue, already on edge, began to weep softly, pleading with the young monarch for mercy.

"Puh-please! No.... Didn't... Kn-know..."

She caught some words, but the garbled English was difficult for her to comprehend, and she was forced to dismiss the rest as gibberish.

"I have no choice," her voice cut through his histrionics like a diamond through chalk. "Robert David Donahue, on the charges of Willful Public Enragement, Willful Public Desecration, and Prostitution Seeking, you are henceforth sentenced to-"

"Dibi!"

The Ra of Onore found herself cut off in turn as a tall woman with leathery bat wings ran through the hall and immediately enfolded her in an all encompassing bear hug.

"Gach!" The fourteen year old choked out.

"It's so good to see you!" The woman burbled out, oblivious to Darsellradibi's inability to breathe in her embrace and the stare of the man on his knees. She was, as said, tall, barely dressed in cut-off denim shorts and cropped cotton top that left all but her breasts and an inch of her back bare, allowing her twelve-foot wingspan freedom. The paleness of her skin contrasted dramatically with her midnight stained wings and long auburn hair, caught up in a ponytail at the crest of her scalp.

"I've just been sooo busy!" she continued. "You've simply nooo idea! Setting up the university, convincing Vorndain that being vampiric isn't the same thing as being demonic, keeping Soronto and James from killing each other... Ugh!" She sighed, exceptionally animated for one supposedly so slammed. "God is still insisting that the highest rank I can hold in Home World is 'death angel', putting me at HIS beck and call, practically doubling my responsibilities. It's simply ridiculous! I'm a full-fledged Goddess for an entire DIMENSION. I don't have time for HIS grunt jobs! And, you know, that's not even counting all the other stuff I have to do, like come visit my favorite cousins!"

"Agch!" Darsellradibi protested, her face slowly brushing into a lovely shade of plum. "Darch! Ahghch!"

"Oh!" With a blush of chagrin, the woman released the teenager and waited with concern as she coughed and sputtered. "Are you alright, Dibi?"

"Fine," she panted, blood slowly beginning to circulate normally. "Just... fine."

"Sorry," the newcomer grimaced, a light pink color staining her ashen cheeks. "I'm just so happy to see you again after so long! You are my favorite cousin."

The teen's brows arched incredulously.

"Darcellbi, I saw you a fortnight ago."

Darcellbi spun around, her wings lifting her a few inches off the ground.

"Was it?" she asked, emerald eyes glinting in the torchlight. "It just seemed like sooo much longer." She shrugged, the picture of bubbling nonchalance. "I guess I'm just a little too busy to keep track of the time."

The younger girl suppressed a sigh. She loved her older cousin, but Dar was a creature of extremes; warm and bubbly one minute, grey and sobbing another, hot and searingly furious after that. And she had a habit of bringing those mood swings into Onore and interfering with the federal workings accordingly.

"Dar, I'm slightly in the middle of something," she hedged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Why don't you go up to your suite and I'll be there in a few minutes."

It was not a request.

But then the winged woman noticed the man on the floor, and her green eyes shifted to a concerned hazel-brown.

"What's on, man?" she inquired of him, kneeling, her black-painted nails resting lightly on his shoulder. "Why are you so upset?"

The balding man beheld her in bewilderment. She was an angel, he decided, a messenger from God in this heathen place. Her association with the cruel Queen made no sense, but what did he know of God's ways? Surely she was a miracle.

"Thank you, angel!" he cried, pulling upright and seizing her elegant hands in his pudgy ones. "Save me from these pagan devil-worshippers!"

"Whaa...?" Darcellbi looked to her younger cousin for elucidation.

Darsellradibi merely rolled her eyes and hoped that her cousin's interference would be minimal. There was no avoiding it now.

"He touched your statue in the Temple and knocked it over, shattering it. Then, he went to the Orphanage and asked for a prostitute. After which, he went to the Place and completely disrespected Anella, Arama, Cinnai, Dratelle, Dannun, and Hesserenne, implying that they were common entertainment, Home World style. They were all with a large group of their respective Colonies. They nearly lynched him."

Darsellradibi sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"They want his blood, Darcellbi."

The Ra's older cousin knelt for a long moment, ignoring both Donahue's pleading whimper's and Dibi's expectant silence. The man was obviously just a tourist, someone who'd thought a quick jaunt to a neighboring dimension would make a solid vacation. It was not his fault that Onore was so different from Home World. How could he have known that her statue was so fragile? How could he be aware that prostitution was a capital offense? And considering the way the Colony Heads tended to dress.... He was ignorant, certainly, idiotic, definitely, but did he deserve to die for it?

She made her decision.

"Go home," she told him, flapping her wings once to pull the both of them to their feet. "Don't ever go traveling inter-dimensionally again. Learn to respect women." Her gaze swept over him with something like disgust. "Cut out the junk food, start working out, lose the polyester, and get a girlfriend." She clucked her tongue. "Prostitution solves nothing and a girlfriend is cheaper."

The man stumbled out a confused thanks and was escorted from the room by a pair of guards. He believed he'd just been insulted by the miracle, but he was alive. It was enough.

Darsellradibi rounded on her cousin.

"What was that?! They'll want his head! There'll be further riots when I can't provide it!" Her voice broke as she yelled, frustration, panic, and admiration mixing freely.

Darcellbi merely shrugged, a smile playing at the edges of her lips.

"Just tell them that I dealt with him," she said reasonably. "They'll presume that I visited some horrible torment upon him and consider it justice. No one will bother you for evidence. They'll just think that there's not enough left of him to examine with a microscope." She shrugged again, content with her solution. "You'll be fine."

The monarch of the dimension Onore deflated, settling slowly back on to her throne with all the angsty posture of an ordinary teenager. For long moments, she slumped there, resigned.

"How is it," she began, eyes slowly rising to meet the other woman's gaze, "that I rule the dimension, but you have more influence over it?"

The woman laughed, tugging her scrunchie from her hair, sending auburn waves cascading down her back.

"Easy, honey." The goddess grinned. "I created it."

A frown stole across her features.

"I might want to think about creating a guide book, too...."

The Wall

I have said it before, sang it out in slow lyrics and shouted it in angry prose, and so shall I say it again. Romance is a wall on which one can sit or from which one can fall. I have never said more than that, never contemplated how two people could possibly build a structure steady, yet tall. But now is the time, I believe, to regard that creation.

I have found the answer, I think, or more accurately, NOT found it. The only way to build that wall is to lay it brick by brick, the tempo set only as fast as those two people can haul. For only two can build it. Otherwise, the wall will not hold, and they will fall, two eggs against the dirt, and neither of them shall ever be whole again.

I seem so sure of myself, do I not? But I say I have not found the answer, so let me explain. I'd started my brick laying long ago, setting one stone upon another, lovingly and liberally applying to them a mortar of my own design. Sometimes I walked away, let the weather have at what I'd done, but always I returned, drawn by something I still cannot name. And this time, he started helping me, starting at the other end.

We were well on our way to a proper altar of romance. Sure, the going was slow, a largo beat a minute, but all good things take time. But someone saw our endeavors and thought to help, to speed up our rhythm of labor.

A ton of bricks, that person layed, all at once, on our little wall. The mortar had no time to set and the stones beneath no time to adjust to the additional weight. And now I fear all our work, all our careful hefting and measuring and waiting, was for nothing, our wall broken beneath the pressure of that third person's good intentions.

Well... Isn't it?

On the Potential of Godhood

We are in charge of our destiny. Not what it is, but how and if we reach it. And I believe that destiny to be godhood. That's right - godhood. We all have the potential to create universes and populate them. Each and every one of us has the possibility of supreme creation within us.

But how to access it? Or, more poignantly, is it wise or even ethical to do so? Do we, lowly things that we are, deserve to have such power at our command? I should say so! Because only with utter benevolence and exaltion will such power come. Yes, we deserve our godhood, to be the best we can be.

Methodology is shaky, however. It is all much easier said and ruminated on than actualized. But I doubt it is impossible. It shall just take a bit of work. And I believe that work to include stepping into one's self completely. Or perhaps that is the work itself.

Athama

Her name is Athama. She tells the truth in sweeping strokes, painting the tapestry of reality. There is no one - only many.

Her grey-black eyes regard the world in a cold haze of heat. She used to be the victim and she remembers every injustice that wracked her slender frame. But now... But now she knows that there is no such thing as fate, that destiny is malleable, and she holds the hammer. She smiles and the world freezes.

She's sharp, with her long blue-black mane, a study of blades in gray scale. Her entire existence is stark and she cuts away all the threads that might tie her to color. After all, she got tired of whisking the cobwebs off of things and emotion bites like a spider.

That poor Athama - she tells the truth, makes reality. But she never learned that logic cannot rule. If we all are our God, then living without emotion deprives us of our worship.

Teaser

Hi, my name is SD. You may call me 'sexy'. With a toss of my hair and a twitch of my hips, I'll have you entranced. Keep your eyes on mine, lest you get lost.

I wink and smile, trace my tongue slowly across the sharps of my teeth. Yes, that is an invitation. Come talk to me, exchange your light with my glowing, radiant darkness. (Yes, taste the sour-sweet burn of blatant desire!)

Haven't you wanted this since you first scented my perfume, your back to the door? Didn't you sense the raw sensual power as I brushed down the staircase into your life? Don't lie. I know you did. I saw it in your eyes as you beheld me.

Enough of this talk. I pull you to me with a small sound, your lips to mine. Never mind taking anything slowly- this was meant to be.

Teeth in neck, fists in hair, tongues in dark, secret places. Then I push you away, still smiling in my confidence. I find my feet and sway towards the door, sultry over my shoulder.

Make no mistake- I want more. But the tease forces the torture sweeter. (And there is nothing wrong with sweeter.)

Flat Stomach

The resentment strikes me like a fist to my newly flattened stomach. I knew they'd be like this, but I rather hoped that they'd find the strength in their soul to be happy for me. I guess no one is that resilient.

Though, mark my words in this notebook in permanent ink, I shall be.

Snickers

There's a chocolate bar sitting in front of me. Oooh, the possibilities. I could savor it, tooth-width by tooth-width. Or, I could take large bites and roll it about my tongue, feeling the texture in the taste. I could lick it like a lollipop, layer by heterogeneous layer. So many ways to eat that chocolate bar... (But I'll just sit and stare.)

Reclaiming Nature

I am an extrovert trapped in an introvert's mindset. I should be the bold, charismatic one, but I have been ensorcelled into the silent ghost of the times.

No more! I shall reclaim my nature, twine the vines of truth about my waist, and wear a laurel crown. (Not much else, for I want to be free.)

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

I am alert, aware, a white-marble queen at the head of the social chess board, millions of teams spread across the blocks. It's always my turn, my move, and with skillful feints and invitations, I can rule the scene.

I am flushed flesh, pounding the streets in an attempt to find a door in or a door out. I am a pawn at this juncture, shifted, pushed about, strings plucked by the shaking fingers of circumstance. It is never my turn, and I cannot make it so if I am always running from that possibility.

I am packed muscle, a lithe tigress with a smile stamped across my claws, the kitten that'll just as gladly purr as hiss. I can control myself, slink and prowl and stretch, and by doing so, allow others to hitch along for the ride.

I was the runner. I am the chess queen. I shall be the tigress. Let's play now- yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Dangerous Turf

This is dangerous turf, the edge of the precipice. Walking that razor, I can fall either way. I must be perfectly balanced. (But there is no perfect - only close facsimiles.)

I should really leave well enough alone. Heave myself off this ledge onto solid ground and run. Why play where you know you'll get hurt? Oh, yeah.... Because if I don't, someone else MIGHT get hurt. Why do I care, again?

All I have is cheap justification, like a rich girl deciding to become a whore because she wants to buy a pack of gum. (I think there must be multiple oral fixations if THAT's her reasoning.) But I'm really no better. I say I'm helping him to 'better my social circle as a whole', but perhaps my reasons are wholly selfish. I am well aware that his are.

Woah, dizzying! I shouldn't spin in circles when the dirt is crumbling from beneath me. Um, duh.... Common sense is a good thing to pay attention to. And it's screaming at me, lecturing like a dowdy matron at a party in a dorm room. "Damn it, it's dangerous! You're going to fall and break yourself on the barbed wire you spilled at the bottom!"

But, perfect balance....

Oh, Please.

Because it's truly not obvious what thoughts are a-churnin' through your head.

I'm not dumb, you know.

But, hey.

Maybe you are.

The Drink

She draws her fingers along the rim of a glass. Does it contain poison or does it contain wine? The only way to know is to drink it down and hope it doesn't kill her.

She curls those same fingers about the diamond stem, her Satin Blue nails contrasting with its clarity. She breathes in deep and holds it there, a slight smile playing across her tiger-marked lips. You would think that she'd be scared but it is not fear that pulls her pulse to a presto beat, but anticipation. This drink has been what she's been waiting for her entire life - who cares if it kills her?

She blows out the breath in a long, slow breeze of nervous energy, crossing the crystal rim with a sonorous moan of a sound. She raises it to her lips, rests it there. Her eyes flutter closed....

She drinks.

Edged Vantage

I am, as always, hidden from view. But not for long, I refuse to dwell in obscurity any length of time more than I already have. This little side portion of the stage will become the spotlight, this vantage my advantage. For not only will all eyes be on me, I shall be able to see who those eyes belong to. The edge shall no longer be the outlands.

Possibility and Chance

The signs point forward, but two people are possibilities. Who is who and what do they want? Eye contact is brushed through the cold shield of glass and then is lost, but who is to blame? The one with the physique or the one idly playing Hide and Go Seek? (Damn it! I just described the both of them!)

Fluorescent Pursuit

Night shatters into a cold, fluorescent non-reality, harsh and sharp. A girl stumbles and cuts herself on the edge of the water, plunging her eyes into a blind time. Her pursuer whirls after her, a figment of her locked imagination, determined to find the door back.

Blades of grass stand in sharp relief, coaxing blood from their feet as they run from (towards) each other. Hide and Seek is pointless when everything is laid visible at once - no one and no thing can be found.

She swims toward concrete, thinking it to be the surface and salvation in her confusion. He dives in afterwards and freezes in the ice of her attitudes. (She used to be so warm and giving!) She strokes forward again and hits her head, hoping for dark's claim to find her.

No such fair fortune! The world is still a crystalline chaos of light that pierces the both of them through. (The deities of night laugh at their predicament.) From the wound she just inflicted, ruby flowers bloom and swallow the water, the ice, and the boy. Only she is left alone, the sensation a dragging torture on her soul. (The boy is unaffected - he sees the door.)

Static creeps across their screen and they are left to wonder... What does it all mean?

The Secret to the Drug

A smile breaks the winter sky like a dolphin's fin parts the sea. She recently discovered the secret to lighting up the room. (Small hint: It does not involve darkening it before entering.) And now she's sure that her smile is a drug to which all who know her (and even those who don't) will become addicted.

Like a small silver sphere in a pin ball machine, she shoots between two extremes. One minute, she's a banner for all who dream of greatness - the next she's a threadbare rug, stepped on and unnoticed but for the occasional mutter about needing to replace her.

But today, she's a bird, the sunshine in the thunderstorm, radiant and whole. The flowers turn to her for sustenance, the trees reach for her light, the songbirds sing for her approval. For, today, she has the secret and her smile is a drug. (But tomorrow she might lose it all and be a threadbare rug.)

Is That Confidence?

She stands tall, perfect hair, at ease with everyone she meets. They all love her, want to be around her, want to be her. But she starves herself, covers her body with too big clothes. Is that confidence?

He knows all the answers in class, gets the homework turned in on time. He'll ace every test, graduate valedictorian. But show him a pretty girl and he studies only his feet, unsure what to say. Is that confidence?

She's not afraid to express her opinions, blasts them wide to the world. One on one, she's over the top, acting out every bit of fun for their entertainment. But in a crowd, she hugs the edges, back to the wall, silent and unsmiling. Is that confidence?

He can make every shot he takes, every goal. His body is his tool, and he knows how to use it with fluid ease. But academically, he falters, afraid to try because it's so hard and he might fail. Is that confidence?

What is confidence?

Falling Back Into Place

I'm sunshine, stretched out in the sky, a tigress languidly sunning herself in the darkness. I am a parted lip smile swept from beneath long, sooty lashes. I am the heat in your room, in your bed, in your heart, in your jeans. You hearing me yet?

I'm the husky voice, desire sung in a whisper. I'm the orchid, an exotic flavor you've yet to taste. Lucky you - I happen to be handing out samples. I'm an arched back and a side to side sway. You're desperate to watch, so again and again, you click 'play'. I understand - you're curious. What do I have that's affecting you this way?

I've got charisma on the climb, that's your answer. Yes, I may fall yet, but I found the ladder that leads to the thunderheads. (I know the name of every lightning strike.) An angel? Me? Hardly! I gave up that illusion a while back. (It wasn't quite working out.) But what have I become? A bite on your ear tells you that if you'll only just listen, I am what you'll hear.

Purpose (The Meaning of Life)

Do you believe that everything and everyone has a reason, a purpose, a meaning that makes them who and what they are? Can you resolve that with the confusion burbling around in your head and your heart? I can't. But what's the alternative? Acknowledgeing that we're all lost little children wandering aimlessly about? That's just so cold and desolate. (Maybe TRUE, but not pleasant.)

I'll play along though. If one accepts that we have a purpose, one must also accept that someone, somewhere, has some sort of plan into which we fit. Which, in my experience, isn't likely. What sort of being plans like a haphazard monkey, tossing his toys in the shit only to fish them out and play with them again? (Well, a haphazard monkey, but we're presuming that anything that's playing ruler of our universe is slightly more sophisticated than that. But maybe that's just vanity talking.)

But some part of me wants to believe that I'm meant to be something more than I am, that there is some sort of reason to the madness that I whirl through, that I somehow am a part of something big. It's comforting. (Especially considering that desolate little alternative.) So, maybe I have a purpose and life has a meaning. And maybe we're all just covering our eyes and playing pretend. Does it really matter?

We've debated its existence. Now what is it?

Spring's Fickle Weather

The caterpillars are out now, the season boasting its fickle weather. I know because the dead and dying float in chlorine water, having been either too stupid or too lost in our concrete jungle to avoid falling off the edge. The dog ignores them and frolics amongst their pathetic graves, conscious only of the power in her paddling paws.

The flowers burst into being on the trees, and every breath induces a sneeze. The pollen pods are crushed against the asphalt and no car can retain its color beneath the yellow stain. But the trees look so pretty. The only solution is to stare towards the sky rather than contemplating the ground.

Soffe shorts are everywhere in public, girls prematurely celebrating summer. It matters not that tomorrow the blooms may freeze off the leaves and that the caterpillars who've managed to avoid the swimming pools may die of the cold. All it takes is that fickle weather to want towards winter once again.

Loves Her Not

She's the light at the end of her tunnel, head lamp of an oncoming missile. She's headed straight for destruction, on down the tracks to pain. She crashes, burns, tries again, plucks the petals from a daisy. But every bloom claims 'loves her not', and she's so silly - she believes them.

The ring of truth spouted faeries, and that kicked her to the dust. The memories are back again - they never really left. Her eyes regard the midnight sky, envious of stars. For once in an upon a time, hope held her high and there she was, if not a goddess, at least a human.

And now she wastes away, alive but dead upon the ground. Trampled on and never noticed, she waits for the ending chime, but it never comes, it never sounds. (After all, if there is no start, there can be no finish.)

She knows those stars were once her friends, she knows she might join them once again, but does she try? No, never does she lift a finger except to grasp another stem. Left up to luck, her gamble's gone, and now she knows the answer. She crashes, burns, cries again, plucks the petals from a different daisy. And every bloom know 'loves her not', but that's the question she gave them.

Hear Me

I don't know why I bother. I really don't. I don't know why I try to be happy, why I still attempt to dwell in that elusive world of existence. It's not gonna happen. I'm as worthless as always, as bitchy as ever. A waste of space, if ever I took up any.

Maybe if they knew, they'd be sorry.... But, no. I can't even TRY to fool myself with that old ploy. They don't know, they don't care, and they don't even realize. I am bloodstained, and they can't (won't) see it.

I hate how they take things that are pure for me and corrupt them with their derision. Like my dancing, my words, my walk. I can't find sanctuary anymore. Even my hope has been tainted. (Where is that scarce entity these days, anyways?)

There's blood on me, on this notebook. Don't ask me if it's real, 'cause I don't know. Hell, I don't even know if I'm real. How am I supposed to answer for a bit of red-brown stain?

I want to cry, but I can't. I'm so scared that things are going to go back to the way they used to be. I'm so scared, so angry, so bitter. I FOUND sanctuary, I FOUND hope, I FOUND safety. But what am I kidding? Certainly not actual circumstances. If I really had those things for even a moment, I definitely do not have them now. (Please, please, don't let things go back to the way they used to be!)

I get told the same damn things over and over, like it's something new for me to learn. "Ignore them." "Rise above it." "Don't sink to their level." Well, guess what? I been there, I done that, and it DOESN'T WORK. So there. Will you shut up with your platitudes off the mountain now? (They only have value when dispensed from the valley.)

This is a cry for help that no one will hear. (To hear would be an inconvenience, because then they might be obligated to DO something.) I'm running out of hope, I can't smile when I dance, and I am alone. There are cuts on my hands from where I've hit the glass too many times and bruises on my knees from where I've fallen. I am scarred and bloody, and I don't remember when all that grime accumulated. I won't lie and say that I'm not angry, but don't try to oversimplify the situation to that one word. It's more than that. I keep trying and trying and failing and failing and I'm fairly frustrated because NOTHING'S WORKING. I can't separate myself from how I feel and I'm well aware that that's a bad thing.

So, this is it. This is my last call out, my last plea, and I know all too well that no one shall hear me.

Bored to Insanity

Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me! Let me wander from this pen of a concept, marking me up with good intentioned beating! Stop! You're bruising me with your attentions to my attentions to the subject.

Let me see.... Ah, yes. Here's a fairy, flittering about in my brain. The first thing I see are her wings. They're twin jewels, gold and red and green and black, severe knifes protruding gauzily from her bare back. She's a whirl of colors, a blur of gemmery. With her exotic, burnished skin and cat-green eyes, the illusion is compounded. And then she parts her sanded-peach lips in a poisonous bloom of a smile. This fae creature is more dangerous than her miniature size would lead one to believe.

You're STILL talking? What the hell FOR? You're only rattling on about things that don't matter, the noise emitted from your mouth even more irritating when contrasted with the potential of other things you might have to say. (Like *SILENCE*) Your words are crates of glass in the back of a pickup truck driving on a gravel road. (Yeah, slightly toward the annoying side.)

Hm... let's try this. A girl steps from a white Cadillac, swinging her denim-blue toenails encased in four inch espadrilles elegantly off the side of the brown leather seats. The black grosgrain straps twine up her golden-brown calves. She ducks out of the car, snapping down her shades with her perfectly manicured fingers before anyone can glimpse her eyes. She's hiding from the world, and doing a perfectly acceptable job of it.

And you're STILL yammering on. Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me!

Winter's Return

Why is it so cold NOW? It was so warm and sunny, spring having returned in all its glory. I spent the entire weekend stretched out in the luxury of the sunshine. Then I woke up, prepared for pleasant spring heat only to shiver in winter's evil return.

Why is it so cold NOW?

Superhero

He wants to be needed. No, he NEEDS the sensation of being relied on, of being integral to some existence. (Don't we all?) I know what this means, even if neither you nor he have figured it out. You're too strong for him. You stand too tall without his support. You'll never view him as the superman that his nature demands he be. The clock ticks on and soon he shall be gone. (I knew that this would pass.)

The Inkstain

Nondescript, like a story gone wrong. An ink stain on an otherwise blank page. There's no telling what that blot does or does not conceal. Or, perhaps that blot is the story itself - just spewed out on the paper, too many words at once. That's me then, my form in a nonform, a contradiction of symphonic beauty ugly for its all-at-once nature. Maybe it's better than I am a stain, though. There's a lot of ink there. If it was all written out pretty, no one would bother to read the book. Not that it matters - no one reads it anyways. So am I an inkstain - so are we all.

A Good Question

I am so close to giving up, to ceasing trying. After all, I have seen no evidence of progress, only the slow traces of what I hoped would never be again. (Traces is probably understating it, but I have to believe that SOME things are better.)

So why am I still struggling?

That is a good question. And I do not know the answer. (Who does?) I only know that I remember the intoxicating calm adrenaline rush of reward with a sobbed longing, and that I regret every time I ever flinched and looked away. I also know that every day brings more regret when it contains the possibility of finally finding that rush I crave.

So why am I still struggling?

It is still a good question. And I still do not know the answer.

Escape

Help me escape. I don't want to be me anymore. Since that's not a possibility, I want to be reminded that 'me' is not such an awful person. You could do that for me, and I could do the same for you. Let's do it! Let's hold open the exit doors and sweep through them - forget all the things, both good and bad, we'll leave behind.

No? Oh, okay. I guess I got ahead of myself. (Yet again.) After all, you barely know me and I hardly know you. From what you've seen, 'me' really is an awful person. Besides, you're content in your life and have no need of that exit door. You probably don't see a reason why the lot of them should not be filled through with cement. I don't know why I thought you'd help me escape. (What was I thinking?)

Regrets

From now on, I am a force of nature, glorious in my wrath! How dare you! I was polite, I was pleasant, and yet you crossed me. No, not just crossed me. You entangled and strangled me with your ropes of duplicity! (We shall not discuss what I was doing that I was standing still long enough for you to tie me so securely.) No more! The fact that I often hide my fangs does not mean that I do not have them.

I am neither blind nor stupid. (Though I must admit, the prescription in my lenses is pretty strong.) Quiet, perhaps, but that is mere artifice on my part. In truth, I'd rather watch the back and forth of other's interactions rather than engage in my own. But, oh.... Let's see how you handle when I not only use my voice, but scream with it. (I wasn't the lead in all those school plays for nothing.)

I did try to be nice, you know. I smiled, laughed, played pretty. I already have so many enemies, regrets that I cannot change. Despite all appearances, I like people and rather prefer it when the feeling is reciprocated. But after all of this sordid affair, I am forcibly reminded that the only way to shield myself from harm is to rack up those regrets.

I am sorry that we couldn't be friends.

Consequences

Here I thought I'd won something, gained a little ground. But, no.... Not only am I not moving ahead, I've fallen behind. I lost a decent reputation and that scrap of scarce comfort along with it.

How much of an idiot can I be? Once was a risk and dented my reputation severely, but the second time just made me crumble. I know better! But I wanted the attention, the admiration, that I thought it would bring. HA! I guess I got what I wanted. And like a wish granted by a genie in a bottle, I got it in the most awful way. I knew that's what would happen, too. But I suppose desire blinds you, makes the world an opaque blur when mixed with desperation. (THERE's two liquors that'll put you on the bathroom floor.)

So, I'll just have to deal with the consequences of my wish, my actions. God, I was so stupid.... This is gonna hurt me. (Pass me more to drink.)

Vice Versa

Have I not been pleasant? Have I not played pretty, managed not to saw their heads off with my fingernails? I thought that I'd kept a civil tongue in my mouth, a soothing smile on my face. Revise that: I KNOW I did.

And yet they still hurt me. The kick me like a cur despite the fact that I'm a bitch. They pull the rug from beneath my feet though I'm standing on hardwood floor. Well, enough is enough! I'm sick of this whole bitterscratch affair!

You're going to leave me alone, let me be. You'll keep your fabrications inside your head and your nose securely out of my business. (Unless you want it chopped off.) Since you're a bitch to me when I'm nothing but nice to you, maybe my assuming the role of bitch will make our roles reverse.

The Not Escape

She sits still, dressed in silk ribbon and fine lace, letting her life go by. She watches it as though from a distance, exchanges of words mere meaningless gestures playing out across a cotton screen. She views every indignity, every insult, every stray bit of shrapnel that impales her, passively.

This can't be happening to her! After all, Mother always told her that if she smiled wide and let it seem as though emotions didn't matter, that everyone would love her, love her deep indeed. So, she followed advice well meant off a cliff to discontent. Look where it has gotten her! Her heart has forgotten how to bleed, but wiped from its memory along with that is its ability to beat.

She sits alone, resplendent in her china finery. But what good are the clothes if SHE's the one no one bothers to see? She wonders what she's doing there, imagines all the ways things could change. All she'd have to do is get up, move, tear down that thin linen sheet. It wouldn't take much, just a twitch of motion, to set her free. And yet she doesn't move, transfixed by all the horrors she has 'seen'.

There's an exit door off to her left, the sign glowing poison-go green. That's another option for her - walk out that door, don't glance behind her, be reborn as someone new. She could escape - the movie that passes for her life, the binding clothes, that valley of discontent. Never again would she have to endure the bite of those emotions or those false 'I'm just fine' grins.

And yet she still sits there. Still, she doesn't move. Poor girl - she's been sitting there for so long, she's forgotten what it means to feel in truth.

Happy

This is what happens when I'm happy. I smile more, frown less. I make large gestures, take up more space. I am more alive than you could possibly conceive. I stop worrying about the pointless to and fro of social drama and simply ride the waves out onto the golden beach of contentment. I know I'll get there eventually.

I let my dialogue snap. Ironically, I'm more likely to be called a bitch when I'm happy rather than when I'm angry. I guess that people would prefer me to sulk instead of toss witticisms. But when presented with an opportunity to let a zing fly, I'm not likely to find any answers to the question "Why not?" I'm thoughtless that way.

I stand taller. Some people may say that that's not possible, but it is. My neck extends and my jaw tilts up and I am undeniably more vertical than moments before. I move more fluidly, like a dance of fire lapping at the soles of discontent. I am simply more alive.

(Now if only I were happy...)

A Move in Motion

What was that? It was a move, a fluid motion made as though in dance. I must confess, that caught my eye. It was graceful, smooth. It makes me wonder how you'd handle on a dance club floor, the music pounding in our blood. Consider my attention captured with a foot-cross-under spiral-down. Show me more - I'm curious.

Lines of Slates

I'm going somewhere else. Please don't wag your finger at me, dress me down for stepping out of line. It's pointless. Of course, I'll understand if you are unable to comprehend that concept. After all, you've been trained to believe that we're all blank slates upon which a specific formula must be written. It's hardly your fault if I've already marked my slate full.

I am someone else. I am not the person who came before me, nor am I the individual who follows after me. I am unique, with my own plans, own ambitions, and own specific needs. And if you will not address those needs for me, I must find some other means by which to fulfill myself. Forget it- I am not such a contortionist that I can fit in that little velvet box you're holding.

I'll be completed somehow. But you don't have any more pieces to my puzzle - you don't even know what I should look like. So give it up. Back down. Watch me sway away, feet finding ground you've never dreamed of treading. You can wait for me to fall, to fail, if you'd like. Whatever - I don't care. But stop trying to squeeze me into that velvet box and realize that not every life thinks linearly. You've got to let me go, or else risk damaging everything that's within me that's already been pressed into place.

Love & Hate

Oh, dear.... What is love and what is hate? Hardly can I discern a difference. Both are born of a passion red, forged of fire in the hearth of caring. But which sword bites harder? Which dagger digs deeper? For love or for hate am I consumed? The rocks fall and they crush me with their weight. A funeral cairn! And still I wonder, and yet I ask.... What is love and what is hate? Or are they match for match?

The Goddess

Here she stands, on top of the world. Oh, how she's fallen! Or, didn't you know? She's a bird without wings, bound from the sky. Exalted for once, bitter for ever.

But then she twirls, begins to dance. Every eye is fixed on her, no spotlight needed. And in that song, she'll be okay, she'll fly again. But when the music stutters, stops, once more is she forgotten, the word stamped across her forehead.

Yet she survives, carries on, draped in the shadows of who and what she used to be. And all those that used to follow her titter and laugh, pleased that she stands no taller than they themselves. 'Great mercy' is a mute plea if it should ever pass beyond the gatekeeper of her lips, for if 'compassion' is an alien term, 'altruism' is truly nonsense.

She grows smaller and smaller, dreams of her glory days forcing her to shrink. When she looks to the future, all she can see is all the ways it'll never be her past. But if that song should only return, she'd strain back toward the sun, resplendent in her power. Yes, she was once the ultimate, above the world in her sinuous twines of flight. Angels held no spark to her sacred glory. But never ever again will she dance, for the DJ that knew the mix abandoned his pulpit in Hell, seeking exaltion of his own, leaving her to fall forever.

The Empty Audience

The empty audience need not agree - only smile and nod. The empty audience need not think - only have ears and the appropriate face. The empty audience need not exist, the performer is so caught up in herself. The empty audience has walked away - and no one, not even the orator, either bothers or cares. The empty audience is dead and gone, and still she talks, on and on.

The Ghost

I am nameless - a ghost of an unnoticed thing, left adrift in an existance uncertain. Who would notice, who would waver at the edge of uncomfortable uncertainty were I gone? Perhaps none, stretch far for one. Forget me, for I've already been forgone.

Save me, please! Name me kindly, graciously. Endow me with an identity all of my own. Let me not usurp another's - I am nameless still in that respect, a petty player hiding behind a clever mask. Save me!

Never mind. It's already too late- I have fallen beyond all reach. So silent in spirits, the ghost of an unnoticed thing walks these halls and dreams of sound.

Fire

Like never in a moment, I fell to the flames. One death, two deaths, three deaths, more. No matter how high the numbers run, they'll only be ignored. And the ashes! Oh, those pity-pathetic remains! Even the wind will not touch them, those products of fleeting fame. Fire does not consume- how presumptious to say so. No, fire is a dancer, stepping on what it wishes to destroy. I am a dancer - or is that just a clever ploy?

Societal Standards

That's IT! I hate this, I really fucking hate this! I am better than that, more confident than that, prettier than that! I should not be reduced to tears by a sizing system, should not look at emaciated models and envy them, should not hear the word 'anorexia' and think 'good idea'. No! NO! NO!!!

What happened to me? I used to be so happy in my body, so content in its shape and its curves. What happened? I used to look in the mirror and see the length of my neck, the pronounced collar bones, the delectable hips and thighs. Now I only see bulging cheeks, fat ass, thunder thighs, nonexistent breasts, rotund belly, chunky calfs.... The list continues. What happened? When did a size five become fat, a size seven scary, and a size nine exceptionally obese? And more importantly, why?

Perhaps it's the people I hang out with. Pretty much everyone I know is obsessed with getting down to a size zero, a flat stomach, a perfectly toned ass and totally trim legs. Starving yourself doesn't become anorexia until the other girls get jealous and working out is great until someone else can do it better. And even the girls who are going on concave, ribs showing through their three layers of t-shirts, are looking down at the scale and hoping to drop another ten, twenty pounds. What's the matter with them? What's the matter with me?

Eating disorders are often linked with life threatening depressions. One feeds the other, a vicious spiral staircase that only ends in falling. Yeah, I know this. Models are at an unhealthy weight and will pay for it with years off their lives. Yeah, I know this too. But get this - IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I KNOW. No matter how many times you tell me that these things are unrealistic, that these ideals cannot be acheived, that it's unhealthy.... No matter the ways you tell me that this is not a good thing, there are forty other people simultaneously telling me that thin is in and that I'm not thin. The standards are so sharp, I can only impale myself on them, no matter where I turn, they so surround me. Yeah, I KNOW the facts, but the loudest thing I hear is that chant, coming at me from every side, in every voice that's ever spoken.

"Bulging cheeks, fat ass, thunder thighs, rotund belly, chunky calfs...." "Thin is in, fat is laughed at...." "Five is fat, seven is scary, nine is grossly obese...."

STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!!!! That's IT!!!!

Prince Charming

Why is that every guy thinks that every girl wants a prince? I mean, really. After all - this is no fairy tale. Any prince presented will inevitably be vapid, insipid, or just a plain out jerk. And even if this weren't the case, not every girl sits in her window and waits for a prince to happen along, nor does every girl go adventuring off to find one.

I can tell you right now that a prince would be wasted on the likes of me. No, chivalry in all its constance would bore me, serenades beneath my window drive me to stone him for the sake of my sanity, and bouquets of flowers irritate me irrationally. I'm simply NOT looking for Prince Charming.

I want a knight. His armor doesn't even have to be shiny. However, his sword must be sharp and his steed must be speedy. I want to be able to fight with him, to knock him down and be knocked down in turn. Prince Charming can go jump off a cliff. After all, this is no fairy tale I'm living, and I don't have the patience to wait for him to happen along, nor the time to go off and find him.

Regained Vision

Holy crap! The trees have leaves! God, I had forgotten what the world looked like, so long did I live blind. It's glorious - rather harsh, but sharp and pretty for its crystalline beauty.

There are signs all over, writing that I missed. Indications, indiscreetions, and intimations, all things I'd said but never knew. All these fine details that I didn't know existed are suddenly blatant in their self-evidence. How did I go so long with that veil across my vision uglying up my universe? It's all so beautiful, so beaten.

Even long familiar faces seem transformed by this newfound clarity. There are smiles and lines where before there were only soft, faint blurs of emotion. things are so different, so intricate, so obvious! (For example, trees have leaves.)

Lost at Death's Feet

How'd I die like this? How did I so expire? There will be no more flowers for me, unless they grace my thankless grave. Curses upon them! So close above me, and me without the energy to so much as graze them with my hand!

I am lost now. What shall I do? My eyes are wide with the fright of the situation, but I seem to enjoy the hellish sight. There's no point in this. Do you not hear me? There's no point! Let it be, all ready!

Oh, I see. Oh, yes. Not my fault - these things never are - but the end result is the same, regardless of my involvement or lack thereof. Nothing I can do, nor anything I could have done.

What a cold, bloodless charade. You'll conform yourself to the standards until your existence is shattered and you're too broken to even try. You're fallen at the feet of my bad news and everyone - everyone! - stops and stares at the spectacle. This cannot be! It simply cannot!

I can't do this! Not without you - not without Nobody Special. No more flowers for me- they've fallen from my broken, shattered hand and there they lay - scattered across my grave. I am forever lost and I shall not be found until I am fixed again.

V Day

Ah, Valentine's Day. The birds sing, hearts festoon the halls in a shower of pink, and presents are given to those lucky few. I am most certainly not among the lucky few.

Tamora, of course, is loaded down with gifts. Chocolate and flowers and stuffed animals and a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs from someone who knows her too well. I'd laugh, but I'm insanely jealous.

Kitty is getting her presents after school. Unlike Tamora, she'd rather be going steady with someone rather than flirting with everyone. Her boyfriend will do something sweet, something romantic, something amazingly sensitive and thoughtful. And she will love every minute of it.

Then there's me. I'm quiet. A bitch. I scare the guys off, and the ones that won't be scared.... Well, they don't know what's good for them. So, I get nothing. Happy V Day.

Discoveries and Change

Wouldn't it be amazing if things mutated, changed, somehow came my way? Wouldn't that just be remarkable? I think so, but others might not. As it is, I feel a tightening in my stomach and I recently discovered that I have curves. Such odd concepts to contemplate....

I miss the days when I could ignore everything and retreat into a shell. But my eyes have been opened and the colors are simply too bright for me to sqeeze them back shut. I'm learning things like never before. (It's almost too much.)

I'm going to shed my human skin and become a faerie. No particular reason - I just want to try on something lighter. I'll dance down the halls and burn myself on iron rather than words, just for a change of pace. But it'll be fun, the freedom in the hollow bones and dense muscles. (After all, it's that freedom I want.)

I think I'll go find something new. A dance class, a hoodie, a book, a hobby. Just something that I've never seen before, never done, just for the rush of all that newness. I'll make a change, something seemingly small and inconsequential, and maybe it'll completely reshape my world. 'Cause wouldn't it be amazing if things mutated, changed, somehow came my way? Wouldn't that just be remarkable? I think so. As it is, I feel a tightening in my stomach and I recently discovered that I have curves.

Bereft

Ne'er in a moment did perfection come to call. I cry - how'd I manage to lose it all? I'm nothing, in case you forget. Aspire back to something - what you don't see is what you never get. Who needs happiness, who requires hope? Bread, butter? Clothes, tears? Pah! I scoff at those who might need these things. I mean, look at me. I seem to be just fine. (But what I wouldn't give for just one of those to be mine....)

ME

Yay! I finally managed to piss you off enough to make you leave! Funny how I managed it, too. I could have given you a right dressing down, and I intended to, but there was no need. Just laugh, giggle, and burble on about flirting with another guy. Poof! You're gone.

It's nice! I have the freedom to move, the space to think! I can be me again, flirty, silly, shallow me. I can be myself! What a concept.... I'm stuck on it. I can dance without the burden of your wish for your eyes, I can toss expletives without concern for your violence, I can think of myself and what pleases ME. ME, ME, ME! (Simply for the joy of my ability to use the word.)

Interesting how you were undeterred by the word 'no' but that the word 'yes' falling on different ears was what finally gave you pause. Gonna be jealous? Yes. Gonna be angry? Yes. Gonna call me a bitch, a whore, a slut? Yes.

Am I gonna care? No.

Because finally (finally, finally, finally!) I don't have to think about you. I don't have to factor you into my decisions. Finally, I am free. (ME, ME, ME!)

The Narcissist Who 'Loves' Me

You are so fucking self-centered! Really, you are. Full of yourself, too. Makes sense- you're your world. But you've got nerve, asking such things of me, as though you've a right to them. Well, fuck off buddy. You don't even know me.

Never once have you expressed any interest, not even twice have you really wanted to know what's wrong. You're so quick to judge people, so quick to declare things wrong. What are you now - God? You know shit about anything, less than that about me.

Yes, I listen, yes, I care. But I can't keep doing that. I'm not an endless well spring of empathy and interest. I need someone to fill me full, to return just one of my constant favors. And you don't get that - you never will. You can apologize all you want, but you don't try to understand. Too little, too late.

And after all we've talked, all that's been said.... Fuck off. Your sense of entitlement? Shove it up to there. You don't even know me - you never even cared.

Falling Unfixable

I thought things had changed, I thought they were better. Hell, I thought I was better. I thought (wished, hoped, prayed!) that I'd become likable, appealing, someone-worth-something in the eyes of others. But of course not. Never in these years that matter.

Searing glares, a keep your distance walk- my smile tightens and I try to pretend that I don't notice, that it doesn't matter, that I don't care. When they laugh and they point and they talk, I shut down and pray that the blush I put on that morning is the only thing coloring my cheeks. And I thought things were different!

And no one cares if they aren't. So what? Just the usual outcasts in the outlands. Nothing new, no matter. Really, no substance to the situation. So what if she reads self-help books non-stop in the desperate, desperate hopes that things will get better, that she can make it so? So what if she's a brilliant conversationalist, makes people feel special, as long as she gets the chance, the opportunity, to do so? But, no. Her face must be stone or else her heart would be smeared across these marble floors. As it is, it's what's happening to her soul.

Don't you understand? I try, try, try to be the empathetic ear, the one that listens, comprehends, makes it better. But how can I? I can't even fix myself, yet you expect me to make you all better. God, I'm so empty, so silent, so stuck! Please, understand. If I just have that, there's glue enough for me to finish the job.

I didn't smile today, because all I saw were frowns. Please, I thought things were different, I thought things were better. I thought I could manage, I thought I could sing, but now I see that I never knew what those things really mean. All those searing glares cut me from without, all those keep-your-distance walks stone me with boulders from within. Please, understand, I implore you. I thought that things had changed - I thought that I was better.

Inferiority

I really do worry that I'm not pretty enough, not perfect enough. I sometimes think I'm nothing on the physical scale. Because all my friends wear size one jeans and I have to squirm my way into size fives, I feel like I'm worthless. It doesn't help that I can't move like they do, can't stretch like they do, can't flirt like they do. I feel inconsequential, an inferior little bug to their goddess glows. Why would a guy go for me when Tamora and Kitty are in the same room?

It's the ultimate 'feel bad' dilemna. I want to believe I'm the sexiest thing ever, but it's just so difficult when my best friends collectively hold 30% of the male population in their palms. I have maybe 5%... If that. I'm just too shy, too silent, too much of the scholar and not enough of the slut. Sure, I'm a bitch, but that's about all I have going. I can't dance, I can't flirt, and I can't do a split. Why should ANYONE look my way?

Free Write

I called for Heaven in a state of molten grace. I deemed myself worthy- no one puts me in my place. I've clawed my way up from the bottom of the pile. I've gained inches, almost feet, and that's nearly an accomplishment. The weight of those on top keeps pushin' me down. I've got to get stronger, or this will always be the case. I must be a demon, I must be an angel, I must be a virgin, I must be a whore. I've got to loan myself out until I get interest back. Perhaps not the best method of the lot, but it'll certainly get results. Lift me up to Heaven? Most likely not. I'll always be a wagging tail at the bottom of the puppy pile. All my friends are natural leaders, so I must be a follower. God, do I resent that idea. I am in charge of me, no one else. Do you hear me? Of course not, I am silence. I tried to climb a mountain only to discover it had no top. I was just dieing, no intent to go to Heaven. And isn't that a catchy turn of phrase, ringing through the halls? Yes, it's a pretty sound, but it loses its charm when it's overplayed. I'm going to dance a pole, become the sexy queen. But I'm never the queen, am I? There's always someone better suited to the title. I'm searching for a sense of belonging, and, God, it's hard to find. All my interactions fall empty. After faux matchmaking, I feel guilty. I should apologize to the both of them for wasting precious time. He's not for her, and he's not for me, I 'm not for that other - This triangle was never what it seemed. I'll just have to talk to him - perhaps he'll understand. But again, there's someone better available to take the job, so why should I bother to try? I'm second string, third string, not on a string. Friggin A - I never made the team. I'm the last tier of the hierarchy, and it's made of three. First there's perfection, then there's devilry, and then there's nothing. And nothing is guilty, nothing is sad, nothing is neglected... Nothing is sad. So I aspire back to something, and that's just too damn bad. 'Cause I've always been nothing, and the monarchy doesn't even glance down.

Dancing the Pole

I blast my music, ignoring everything else, my hips possessed by a dance that is the ultimate sensual showing. This is where I get my freedom, my confidence, my sense of "Hell yeah, I'm the sexiest thing to walk the Earth since ever." (Unfortunately, that feeling only endures as long as the song.) I curl around my pole, skirt dripping from my thighs. This is how I express myself.

I ponder about what would happen should anyone witness these dances that I lead myself through. What would they think of my fuck me pumps, my fishnet stockings, my lacy lingerie? I dismiss the thoughts. Who cares what they think? This is for me.

Cupid's Kitchen Sink Valentine's Day

Doesn't the tale go somewhere along the lines of 'Cupid shoots two people with her arrows and they are each other's Valentines'? 'Cause that's what I heard. But, oddly enough, I think there's somethin' screwy with that tale, 'cause last I counted, Cupid was a shootin' people left and right, destining three peeps for every five, and every one claimed the title 'Valentine'. So, either the legend's completely wrong or Cupid's mind has been spending time at the kitchen sink, droppin' her marbles down the drain along with some nuts from her fruitcake. One or the other....

Regardless, the confusion leaves a right mess for the social janitor to clean up. John's tears have flooded the halls 'cause the toilets are clogged with Miranda's morning sickness since she slept with Nick after Alan wanted to take Lynn to the prom instead of her. And that's just the beginning of this(these) hurricane affair(s)! The whole damned town has been caught up in Cupid's madness! (Though on second thought, she may have just lost her ability to hit a fifty foot target.)

And to further complicate things, we've got faux cherubs flying the halls as well, playing matchmaker like Fiddler on the Roof was just a trailer for the real show. Badly, I might add. (Their aim is worse than Cupid's!) Everywhere you look, there's drama drizzling from tear ducts making a bitter sauce for the St. Valentine's chocolates in that pretty wrapped box. 'Cause left and right, there's three Valentines thinking they belong to another five and wading boots are becoming harder to find. I'm somehow doubting that it's the legend at fault.... Maybe 'cause there's a clog in my kitchen sink....

Back to the Background

I feel as though I've reverted back to my usual invisible state, a phantom gust through the hallways. And here I thought I'd broken myself of that annoying habit of not being seen....

Well, what does it matter, anyways? After all, it's not as though I'll die of this. No, the scars of tribulations past will protect me from the mild discomfort of not being visible. This is nothing, no matter how inconsequential it makes me feel.

Whatever. The years have taught me that I am a minor absent detail in the tapestries of others' lives, so I should expect only to escape notice. What dementia possessed me with the recent delusion that my place is in the forefront? I know not, but I discard it along with the phrase 'I'm important.'

Too Late

What the HELL are you doing? Yeah, I get that it's less scary to hint around the edges of what you mean, but it's also less appealing. What am I supposed to think?

Besides, it's obvious. You COMPLETELY lack subtlety, which makes it even more frustrating that you don't just come out and say it. I mean, come on. You extol your 'virtues' when it comes to love, how it should be based on more ethereal standards rather than physical appearance. Nothing like swinging a brick at my head....

You're such a hypocrite. You want to be a hero to my damsel in distress, but there's a slight problem with that. I'm not a damsel, nor am I distressed. Thus, I need no hero. I need a dance partner, and as you said yourself, you don't dance. Ever. You also say that your love is based on values and what you see in a person's heart, but you're so busy looking at yourself in the mirror that there's no way you can see anyone else. Any 'love' you experience can only be lust.

Anyways, you're too late. You missed your chance by a large margin. Yeah, you were so busy hinting around what you meant and swinging your brick that something awful happened: I got to know you. And since you want to be a hero and I'm no damsel in distress, you can give this obsession you have with me a long, forever, stretch of rest via death.

Death in Her Grave

As a queen in my grave, I toss and I turn and I wish I were anywhere else. Can I not climb to heights unknown? Well, I may not do that if my dirt duvet continues to weigh me down! I must shed this suffocating skin if I wish to taste the stars.

Does Death pretend to those alive that she is among the living? No, she never bothered, never tried, for though she breathes and beats, her soul has withered inside. So, she poses no charade and goes about her business, and with every soul she guides to rest, she wants to be alone. How hollow her pursuits! If it were not for the strength of her wings, her heavy heart would not let her fly. Eternity is too long - she never wanted forever.

Like never in a moment, Death was a queen in her grave. But she was always still, her fingers wrapped around the blade. She'd already climbed to heights unknown, dwarfed the highest mountain - the warmest thing she'd ever felt was the weight of that dirt duvet. The ground was solid about her and she savored every taste. Who needs the stars? That open sky is but a waste.

Intrigued

By all the Gods in Heaven, I must confess! I am enchanted, bewitched! Who knew I'd ever meet a guy with just the right lazy smile, just the precise drawl in his voice! Perhaps it is mere infatuation, but I am feeling this in my bones. Damn, boy.... Congrats. I can't remember the last time THIS particular set of emotions possessed my soul.

The thing is, everything I do, everything I've learned.... None of it quite works on you. The way you hide in your shell, covering your face with a mask that is composed of a book and a steady look away glare makes me desperate. You remind me so much of who I used to be. (It doesn't hurt that you're the sexiest thing I've seen since Jake Richardson.)

I really want to get to know you, to learn who you are, what you're about. I want to know what you care about, the things you value, the substance that powers the clock (bomb?) waiting within your soul. In summary.... I'm intrigued.

Science Class (Required Course)

I find it so difficult to scrounge up half a care for the subject you teach. It might be different if I could mix it up by paying not the least little bit of attention. But, no. You INSIST that I provide you with the privilege of occupying 100% of my usable brain space. (Hate to break it to you, but my attention span only extends that far when it matters.)

Sorry, but I'm much too distracted by your awful outfit. (Pure white simply should NOT be paired with brown.) AND you have poor grammar! Talk about beating me upside the head with your lectures!

This is dull, darling, I am compelled to confess. You're reiterating information long learned, repeating conclusions easily reached by a languid twitch of common sense. Just, please, please, let me occupy my understimulated brain with some other task. It's either that, or doodles get stamped all over your pretty new lab notebook. Isn't it all easier for everyone in the long run if I pick up my book and read?

Kickback Eyes

I'm a dream with kickback eyes, come find my story. Let's forgo reality. Maybe it's not practical, but it's quite the scene. Soft hair and bidden touch, it spirals out in ink. I'm lots of fun, you need lots of sun - the dark is closing in. The candles flicker through the night, fire my dame. You're glorious, yes, you are, a dance to mark and deem. And here it is, once again, my eyes a kickback dream.

'Easy'

Have you even once heard me agree to the notion that I'm 'easy'? Hell, no, you have not and you never will! The reason being? I'm NOT easy.

I am as difficult to get as you can even dream of conceiving. I stoop in the doorway of life to even CONTEMPLATE seeing you. So, how DARE you imply that I'm free, a slut, a pre-paid whore, the one that gets you off at the count of three!

(Tactic switch.)

This merely shows how small you are. You're so teensy-weensy-tiny, it's adorable. You're a six year old, both in your behavior and everyone else's perceptions. Now, just because you'll never have me doesn't mean you can try and shoplift me off the shelf by claiming that there's no price tag attached. It just doesn't work that way. (Especially when the price tag describes something like 'good old fashioned hard work' or 'wooing'.)

Oh, I'm sorry if you don't have the right currency. Unfortunately, it's impossible to change out. Oh, well. Go see if you can suck your own dick. (Not that you haven't already tried.) 'Cause your claim that I'm easy? It kinda just makes me even harder to get.

A Realization

She's not so cute - just unforgettable. Merely a star visible in a cloudy sky, flashing bright. Of course you want her - she's the only source of light. What a shame if she turns out to be a flame to burn you. (Actually, that would amuse me GREATLY.)

Me? Bitter? Oh, you perish that thought. You seem to have forgotten that I am the DEFINITION of sweet, simple, innocence. (The fact that this is not the case will not be taken into your consideration.)

Okay, I get it. My body's telling me something, and you're not gonna like the message it's sending. It's tellin' me that I'm lookin' for love, and guess what?

You ain't it.

Don't get me wrong - you're a nice guy, but that's just the issue. I have this critical fantasy in which I'm arguing animatedly with my fellow and then he pulls me close in the moment, still debating some point or another. You wouldn't do that, and everything within me screams out that anything else would be a BAD idea.

No, she's not such hot stuff. You and I both have to accept that. For once those clouds clear, and they will, there will be other stars to guide you. And the star you choose won't be her, won't be me, 'cause I KNOW that I'm a flame which will burn you.

One Guy, the Emcee

I'm hyping myself up for this, and I'm not sure why. It's just a guy, one of many, who has just been persistent enough to warrant an invitation to check out the place I lived. I swear, something like a demon has siezed control of my body.

He's next to nothing to me, really. Just another diversion from the lack of true interests. He's bold though, a splash of sunshine in a cold pool on an August band camp day. He revives my interest in the male gender. He possesses the ability to create WORDS!! And not just innuendo - he has matched me stroke for stroke, blow for blow, somehow managing to switch my fighting waltz for a much gentler, much kinder dance. How the HELL did he manage that?

Okay, I'll admit it. I was impressed by his daring moves, his sweet smile and sense of romance. But then again, I was ALWAYS a sucker for romantic gestures, flowers and stars and moons and slow meanders body to body, in time, in step.

But he has too many of the right answers and not enough of the wrong. It makes me REALLY suspicious. No guy is that perfect, not without manipulation. It's so hard to believe that he's dealing me straight instead of spinning me across his finger like an emcee plays a record. So, I'm hyping myself up for the coming duel, placed conveniently on my living room floor. I just hope that there aren't any bloodstains.

My Ex is a Bisexual

This is the creepiest thing ever. I'm trying to repress the knowledge, but it just makes me feel so sick inside. It squicks me out!! Yeah, I know it shouldn't matter, but it's creepy. How can the guy I spent close to a year kissing and loving suddenly want all that with another GUY? It's screwy.

The thing is, I've got nothin' wrong with it, in theory. To each their own. But, honestly, I feel betrayed, stabbed through the back with a knife I never thought you'd DREAM of pickin' up. It tastes bitter, sour, warheads spiked blood, no sugar. Maybe if I'd known before, this wouldn't sting like so many hordes of jellyfish.

And perhaps if you'd told me yourself, it wouldn't be so bad either. But, no, I have to hear it from my best friend, the gossip queen, that you've moved completely under the status of 'man-whore'. I figured that's where you were heading, but I didn't... COULDN'T expect this.

Okay, I'm cool. I'm dealing with it. So, you're a bisexual man. Got it. You wouldn't mind having what we had with somebody else who happens to have a penis. Nothing screwy with that concept.