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.