Smile for the Camera

The light is soft. Green leaves on the bushes, small wild roses blooming. They stand side by side in the garden. Their family waits in a ring, cameras clutched in their hands.

She has her arm awkwardly around her sister's waist. Her sister's dress is blue, strapless, and draping to the ground as it brushes against the grass. She is wearing tights and her short black dress. “Get closer.” Their grandmother calls. She waves her hand in emphasis as she looks through the small viewfinder of her ancient camera. They uncomfortably move closer together. That’s good,” says their mother. ‘Now smile like you love each other.”

They smile. Awkwardly. For graduation photos. For their parents and grandparents. They smile.

Like they have done this pose a million times.

Apologies

She found him sitting on the couch, fingers clasped loosely around a beer can with his forearms resting on his knees, back hunched forward as his shirt shifted to reveal the nape of his neck. The lamps were off and the late light of the afternoon softly filled the room, emphasizing the lines of his face and obscuring the days’ growth on his jaw. His shadow stretched out across the coffee table before him, crawling its way forward as if to escape him. It was quiet in the apartment except for the sounds of his breathing, the tick of the clock, and the music echoing faintly from her daughter’s room down the hall. She unbuttoned her coat, slid the closet door open with a creak and rustled around for a coat hanger. Finding none free, she hung her coat overtop of his and shut the door. She removed an envelope from her purse and placed the bag on the entrance table.

He made no sign that he’d noticed her presence.

“Rough day?” she quipped as she bent down to remove her shoes.

“I want you to stop.” Her hand slowed midair, fingers resting on the heel of her stiletto as the shoe dangled half off her foot. She slowly slid the shoe back on and stood there waiting, one hand on her hip and the envelope in the other, saying nothing.

“I want you to stop. This.” he repeated, his head still bowed. “I can’t take it anymore.”

The silence stretched across the room, as neither of them moved. There was only the soft buzz of insects from outside the window and the ting of aluminum as he lowered the can onto the coffee table.

She looked around the room, at the worn upholstery of the sofa, the baskets of unfolded laundry next to the coffee table, the TV remote with the dead batteries lying next to it. The dishes were unwashed in the sink, yesterday’s pasta still in the pot on the stove and the piles of unpaid bills growing on the kitchen table. A growing trail of broken toys abandoned in the dust on the floor wound its way down the hall to her daughter’s bedroom.

The sound of bare feet on the cold tile floor echoed its way down the hall and her daughter poked her head around the wall. “Mommy, you’re home!” her daughter exclaimed as she ran towards her and latched her small, skinny arms around her legs, almost ripping her nylons in the process. She slowly ran her fingers through the girl’s hair, untangling the knots and gently shushing her as the girl kept talking. She lifted her daughter up onto her hip, even though the child was getting to be much too big to do it anymore.

He made no sign that he noticed the girl, except for the slight tightening of his fingers on the can. She turned to face her daughter and took stock of her hair, the dirt on her face and the rip in her pajama bottoms at the knee.

“Did you have a good day at school?” she asked.

“I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Daddy wasn’t awake to take me.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” the girl nodded, “I made myself toast for breakfast. Just like you showed me.” She brushed the girl’s hair out of her eyes and licked her fingers to wipe the smudge off her face, despite the girl’s protests.

“Did you put the toaster away after you were done?” The girl nodded. “Good job. Now why don’t you go start the bath for me? Do you remember how to turn on the tap?” And when the girl nodded, she gently lowered her off of her hip and watched her race away down the hall to the bathroom, kicking her dolls into the wall in the process as she ran by.

She turned back to face him. “Did you find a job yet?” she asked. And when he said nothing, she reached down to remove her shoes once more.

He raised his head as she approached him, squatting down so she could see his eyes. They were bloodshot and heavy with alcohol and a lack of sleep. His clothes were the same ones he’d worn yesterday and the day before. His hair was uncombed and the angles of his face sharp. She swallowed and turned her eyes away from him.

She ran her fingers over the edge of the envelope in her hands. “I’ll put this on the table,” she said. “There should be enough for rent and to buy groceries tomorrow.” She stood up and walked past the sofa. She placed the envelope down next to the pile of the bills and turned to leave the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She paused at the doorway and looked back. She smiled weakly but said nothing.

He was still sitting there long after she’d gone to bathe, her daughter’s voice echoing down the hall.

After the War

The noise from the common room below drifted faintly through the open crack of the window, the thuds of tankards coming together with the sounds of dance and raucous laughter as the night deepened into drink. He slowly poured himself a glass of ale from the pitcher on the table, threw back his head, and drank it quickly. With a sigh he lowered the cup back onto the tray, next to the pitcher and the half-eaten loaf of bread. The road had been long, and he had traveled it far enough to lose what remained of his appetite since the Nemarrda had retreated back into the shadows of the Vanya Rassa, to hide and rebuild among the shadows of the trees, or so the bards sang. They’d left the cities ransacked, the blood of old battles drying along the outer walls of the city as the thieves picked their way clean through the dead’s possessions.

He was tired. Absentmindedly he ran his fingers over the handle of the dagger attached to his belt. He drew the blade from its sheath and held it before him in the dim light, his fingers tracing the damaged insignia upon the pommel.

From outside, the shouts announcing the changing of the guards upon the city’s outer wall reached him. He slid the dagger back in its sheathe and ran his fingers through his hair one more time to shake free the last dust of the road. They would be looking for her within the next hour once she failed to show up for her shift. He walked towards the window and shut it quietly, the sounds of the city outside and the bar below fading, before he turned to face the woman sprawled out across the bed. With the pitcher in hand he started forward towards her.



The ale was lukewarm but stung as it hit her face. Gasping, she let her training take over as she rolled to the left. She got halfway off the bed before the chain that was tethered around her right wrist stopped her. Her eyes flew open as she strained against the weight of the bed, the chain growing taunt with each struggle. She reached with her left hand for the dagger at her belt, debating on whether it would be easiest to kill her captor or to break the shackle around her wrist.

“How was your sleep, Duckling?”

She paused, her fingers hovering over the spot where her dagger normally rested only to find it missing. Her head pounded and seconds passed before her breathing to slowed back to normal. She turned slowly to face him, the chain clinking as she repositioned herself into a crouch on the bed.

The lantern on the far wall above the table flickered dimly and the torch light from the streets spilled across the room, placing shadows across the angles of his face. He wore his travels well despite the unkempt growth on his jaw and the coolness of his eyes as he watched her. His hair hung lank against his cheeks in need of a wash and he had not bothered to brush the dust from the road out of his clothes. The lining of his cloak resting over the chair next to him had been recently repaired, the leather of his boots was scratched but not as damaged as the pair he’d been wearing when she’d last seen him. She eyed her dagger resting on his hip. Her cloak was folded on the table beside him, and the rest of her weapons, as well as her insignia of the guard that sat on top of it.

Neither of them spoke.

He reached for the loaf of bread on the table, never taking his eyes off her. He bit into it slowly. “Would you like some?” he asked. She stared at him in disbelief. He raised a brow when she didn’t respond, and shrugged. He finished what remained of the loaf, and dusted the crumbs off his hands and onto his trousers.

She turned towards her bonds to examine them. The insignia of the Nemarrda curved along the shackle on her wrist, ending just before the chain that was bolted to it. The other end of the chain was looped around and underneath the heavy frame of the bed. It would be impossible to free the chain from either her wrist or the bed.

“You won’t get those off,” he said as he watched her, “Not without the key. Not even the King’s High Priest could find a way to remove those through either brute force or magic.”

“Where did you get these?” she asked, lifting the shackles for a closer inspection. She sighed when he did not respond.

“I’m not here for games, Amarin,” she said. “Let me go.” She tugged the chain once more for emphasis. He made no move towards her. Instead he crossed his legs and leaned back upon the table, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Why here?”

“Amarin…”

“Why here? Why a desolate border town on the edge of the Vanya Rassa with barely enough soldiers from the capital to support the guard?” He spat the name of the forest with distaste. “There are farmers and merchants upon the wall with swords they cannot use looking for demons in the night.” He nodded his head towards the window, out into the shadows of the city. From the window they could see the eastern guard tower and the soldiers that stood at attention against the dark of the forest. “The war is over now. There is nothing left but the nightmares that roam between the trees of the Vayna Rassa.” he whispered.

“It’s not over though, Amarin.”she whispered “Not yet.”. She turned her face away. He sighed, raised a hand and rubbed it to his temple. He uncrossed his legs and walked towards the bed. The sounds of his boots on the floor grew louder and the bed beside her shifted beneath his weight as he sat down.

“Einya, look at me,” he whispered. “It’s over. They won’t be back.”

“We can’t know that,” she said. He reached forward and gently tucked the strands of her hair covering her face behind her ear.

“I need to know. Why here?” His voice wavered slightly as the words caught in his throat.

“Why not?” she replied. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Yes,” he whispered, “I need a reason.”

“What good would it do if I told you?” she sighed as she ran her fingers through her hair, yanking the strands free. “Please let me go. Unless you want the watch to be knocking on the door.”

“Is that a threat?” he teased. He reached for her left hand and when she didn’t resist he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. He leaned forward until their foreheads gently rested upon each other. She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the ale he’d been drinking and the dust and blood that clung to him from outside.

“Einya,” he whispered, “Please tell me.” His lips moved softly against her cheek as he spoke and his hair fell forward against her face. She shuddered. He raised his head and they stared at each other. Slowly he moved and pressed his lips gently to hers. She tightened her grip on his hand and leaned forward into him. And when the moment was over, they sat there, eyes closed. The sound of their breath quietly filled the room.

She swallowed.

“I came here to pay my dues.” He opened his eyes. Her face was resigned and her eyes showed no fight left. At the hollow of her neck was the mark of the border guard, inked overtop of his name, as a reminder that she now no longer owed allegiance to him.

“It wasn’t your fault. It’s over now.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied.

“Einya…”

“I came here to pay what I owe.” she said, “And I will walk the wall until I have.” She removed her hand from his and met his eyes. He looked away.

“What would you have me do?” he whispered.

“I would have you release me, let me go and never come looking for me again.”

“Einya…”

“Please Amarin.” she whispered, “Let me go.” He closed his eyes. Then opened them. He rose stiffly and looked at her once more. The bridge of her nose had scarred after being broken recently, and her hair was darker than he remembered. She stared back at him with tears starting to form in the corners of her eyes.

He removed a key from his shift pocket and placed it on the bed in front of her. He made no move to touch her as she inserted it into the shackle lock. White light glowed faintly as the spell on them was released and the shackle dropped free of her. She winced softly and rubbed her fingers along the welts on her wrist.

Slowly she stood and walked towards the table. She reattached her sword to her belt, strapped the throwing knives onto her boots and fastened her cloak securely around her neck with her insignia. She took a leather tie from her pocket and tied her hair back at the nape of her neck. Once she was done she turned to face him.

“My dagger,” Her voice wavered as she held out her hand to him. He detached the sheath from his belt and handed it to her. Her fingers closed around it and brushed against his before she withdrew. She did not attach it to her belt but slipped it into a cloak pocket.

She did not say goodbye as she stepped past him, opened the door, and walked out of the room into the corridor. The door behind her remained open, the sounds of the common room quieter now as people wandered back to their beds. He heard the innkeeper yell out her name but could not make out her response over the shout of the changing of the guard as the torches on the wall flickered faintly against the dark.

Set Me on Fire

“Do you hear that?” you asked.

“Hear what?” I asked as I reached for your hand.

You stared at me and for a moment I wasn’t sure if you’d take it. But slowly you reached forward and laced your fingers through mine and the beat of my heart intensified. “I don’t know,” you said, “It sounded like thunder.”

“Do you want to turn back?” I asked, even though that was the last thing I wanted to do. I watched you as you bit your lip in silence while the wind occasionally stirred. The air was hot and hard enough to kiss your breath away and smoke was still rising out in the distance. My dad was out there fighting the fires, my mom thought we were at the rec centre and your parents were opening another round of beers on the front porch with Grandma. And at any moment our lie could shatter, if my mom called my cell and heard it go off in my bedroom because I probably forgot to put in on silence. If Medrith stopped by for a chat with your mom after she got off shift and said she didn’t see us walk past the store. If my ex stopped by after swim practice to ask if I wanted to give it another shot. Anything could happen and by the time we got home, there would be much screaming and crying. For only idiots go into the bush alone during forest fire season without telling anyone where they’re going.

“No,” you said, “Let’s keep going.” You squeezed my hand for reassurance before we moved forward into the bush.

You once told me when we were kids, it wasn’t summer unless some part of the province was on fire. That August I watched a lot of CBC News since my mother had it constantly playing on TV and listened to the local gossip as it made its way across town. Medrith told me as she rung up my groceries that the RCMP would be evacuating us soon and that they’d have to drag her out of her house by the hair before she left. Sam at the museum said it would go around us like it always did and then spoke of his gardening plans for the summer and offered to pay me to mow his lawn and give you a job weeding once you arrived. By the time autumn had rolled around, the adults were referring to that summer as ‘the Burning Fields’ and the news was reporting it as the worse forest fire season BC had ever seen. But early on, it hadn’t seemed like it could be that bad. My mother packed our bags like usual and had them ready at the front door, ‘in case of an emergency’ she told me, and then proceeded to carry on with the plans for the family reunion at the end of the week. No one had plans to evacuate.

It was boiling the day everyone arrived. I’d been sitting on the porch, looking out across the river to the highway on the other side to see if I could figure out who’s vehicle was who’s as I watched them trek forward through the haze. By the time the first car arrived temperature had reached obscene, another fire had started near Cash Creek and my mother had just finished making the salad. Four more cars arrived within the hour and I suffered through all the hugs and kisses. Before everyone had arrived, my mother had sat me down to have a talk about being polite and actually visiting with the family this time. “Sarah’s the same age as you,” she said, “You can introduce her to all your friends.” I didn’t respond out of resentment, for most of my friends had left for Kelowna, Vancouver or Victoria to check out the universities. We couldn’t afford that and the reunion had been deemed more important so I’d been left alone in Lillooet, and the only person left I could tolerate was my ex and he wasn’t speaking to me after I broke up with him when he asked me if we could make it official. He then promptly started dating one of my friends and we were currently not on speaking terms.

You’d died your hair blonde since the last time I’d saw you and were wearing summer clothes that showed off your body in a way I didn’t remember you doing before. And the feeling I got when I saw you was so quick I pushed it aside in panic. I didn’t need this. “Emily,” yelled my mother, “Come say hello to Sarah!”

You smiled and I felt part of my heart drop away. I silently began praying for the end of the world, for this town to burn down and for all the people who couldn’t understand me to go with it. Or at very least, for the next week to pass quickly until you left.



“So you’d be sleeping in my room,” I said as I lead you down the stairs, “We have to share the bed though, unless you want to sleep on the floor. But if you do, there’s no cushions or anything ‘cause Uncle Barry got the couch.”

“The bed’s fine,” you said as I pushed open the door and dropped your backpack next to the dresser. We just kind of stared at each other awkwardly while people began to rearrange the furniture upstairs so everyone could eat. “I missed you,” you said, “You didn’t spend that much time with us last Christmas.” I swallowed and lowered my head.

“Sorry. I just couldn’t be in the house.” I whispered.

“I know.” And when I looked up I could see in your eyes that you knew. Or at very least suspected it.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” I begged. I already knew what would happen, what would be said. My mother would cry and my father would deny it. And then I would suffer here until I graduated or dropped out of school so I could work. Neither option was appealing.

“I won’t,” you reassured me. I bit down my panic and was conveniently rescued as my mother called us for dinner.

“Will your dad be joining us?” you asked as we headed towards the stairs.

“God no,” I said. “He got called away to Cash Creek shortly before you arrived.”

The dinner table was full with food and everyone was eating on the floor. My uncles had already pulled out a case of beer and your mom was half way through it with my aunt.

“Emily,” called your mom as we passed by to grab plates and cutlery, “Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

“I dumped him,” I said. And everyone’s laughter drowned out me asking whether you wanted a knife or not.



By mid-afternoon the next day I could tell you were bored out of your skull. Whatever show we’d been watching had been interrupted for a special news bulletin about another fire. No one was listening though and I’d quickly put in on mute. My mom was cooking lunch and everyone else was tipsy on the porch as the kids ran around screaming in the yard. “We should do something, anything,” you said.

“We could go swimming,” I suggested as I watched the anchorman point wildly to various points on a map to indicate where the fire was spreading. Around a third of the map was red as the mountains burst into flames. Dire warnings had been issued for the Kootnays, the Okanagan Valley and there were plans of evacuation in the air all across the province.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit though,” you said.

“You can borrow one of mine,” I offered.

“That’s not going to be of much use,” replied your dad as he eyed my chest. I bit down the urge to tell him to fuck off and grabbed your hand, pulling you downstairs before I did anything stupid.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said as I closed my bedroom door behind me and collapsed face first onto the bed.

“Nothing new,” I mumbled. I felt the bed shift as you sat down beside me and then the cold touch of your hand on my neck. I sat up with a start and slapped your hand away.

“Don’t,”

“It’s okay,”

“It’s weird. It’s gross.” You smiled. And I was too concerned about myself to notice whether you were sad when I said that. But you knew, and I was scared of that. I’d gotten used to hiding and the fact that another person could accidentally out me was terrifying.

“Let’s go for a walk,” you suggested. I went upstairs to leave a note on the fridge to say we’d left for the rec centre. We then left by the back door while everyone was drinking.



“Watch for cactuses,” I told you as we slowly made our way through the path. No one had seen us going up the driveway and heading down the path that leads through the bush to the river. The air was electric as the sun burned above us and the sound of grasshoppers echoed all the way down the mountainside as we pushed through the grass. Across the valley I could see storm clouds rolling in from Seaton Lake and made a mental note to remember to take the laundry off the line when we got back.

“We should have worn sunscreen,” you muttered.

“Try and live a little,” I replied as I pushed an overhanging branch back, “Become a country girl.”

“Kamloops is not a cosmopolitan city.”

“It is compared to here.” I laughed.

“Are you going to leave here?” I could still feel your hand in mine and as you said that you gently squeezed before continuing on. “You can’t come out, you have no hope of finding a girlfriend and the social repercussions would be huge. Plus unless you want to study at the TRU satellite school or work, there’s nothing left here. Heck, you can’t even find work.”

“I know that,” I snapped, “Why the fuck wouldn’t I? You think I don’t know what they’ll say, that my ex will start talking about how frigid I am? That my parents would kick me out and that I probably wouldn’t be able to graduate? Jesus Christ, Sarah, I know this shit! Why would anyone who’s different want to stay here?”

You stopped and turned to me. “Are you a lesbian?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, barely able to face you, “I just can’t stand it here though.”

We stood in silence, still holding hands as the wind slowly picked up. As I raised my eyes, you slowly leaned in and kissed me. “Can I do it again?” you whispered as you pulled back.

I nodded and nearly became undone when you pressed your mouth to mine again and leaned into me, your hands resting gently on my hips. It was raining by the time the kiss was over and I could hear people yelling our names in the distance.

“Let’s go back,” you said. Overhead the thunder was starting and later that night the mountainside would be ablaze as the flames raced their way down, devouring all the trees and scrub until it reached the first houses on the outskirts of town before they managed to put it out.

All I could do was nod though, heart thudding and the taste of you still on my lips a reminder of what had just happened. You kept your hand in mine until we rounded the bend and then let go to raise it in signal of where we were.

i am the machine : prologue

I do not understand why. I have done everything you wanted, will become anything you want me to be. I have practiced, observed, studied the tilt of her head when she laughs, how she blinks her eyes before answering any question you’ve asked her. And I am nothing short of perfect in my replication. For this is why I am here, to please, excite, follow your orders.

I do not understand why you are crying.

I am the Machine, as you rivet me, screw me tightly down, bolts snapping, wire stretched thin along the slow grinding gears of my body.

I am the Machine, as you refer to me. I know you meant for me to be neutral. However you could not help yourself as your were building me. There are certain aspects of my design that have lead me to conclude you accidentally applied your personal preferences. Yet it matters not to me whether I am recognizable as male or female to you. I am built to serve, accept and follow you. But with this, I wonder perhaps at some point in the future you will be able to see me as a woman, not merely a female and how that would affect our relationship.

I am the Machine and you are my master. I am built to serve, pleasure, follow orders, predict your every move. But I cannot understand, so please, before you lower the axe for the final blow, will you tell me, please, why are you crying?

The Sun is High

The sun is high, slowly jogging along in its journey downwards, ripening and becoming ready to be eaten by the river. The bridge cuts across the water in a violation with its tall cements columns, jagged and violent as the cars rush across.

The pedestrians scurry to and fro along the walkways on the sides. She wobbles slowly as she travels forward. Everyone travels forward for a bridge is not a place of resting.

She wishes that God would cry for her in her actions, she wishes for the rain to fall and make the river swell, pregnant with unwanted children that the rain has bestowed her.

She wishes for fantasy.

Fantasy will not come though. This is a forgotten reality besieged by the pride of immortality worn by the young, for it could never happen to them.

God’s a bastard though. The rain would not fall and give the river the suffering that is rightly hers.

She leans against the railing, hands wrapped around the metal bar to keep her away. The wind whips and stings, sending her hair and clothes sailing in an attempt to escape her body. She lolls and sinks down on to the sidewalk, a puddle of flesh, bone and cloth as the people curse and step around her.

“Are you alright?”

“Do you feel sick?”

“Where do you live?”

“Do you need any help?”

She shakes her head. There’s no room for tears. There’s room for tears. She’s still lying. She’s lying.

Guilty.

Hypocritical.

The sun is high and she pulls herself up. The people around her scatter and regroup, chattering away in a language she once understood but no longer cares about.

She grips the railing.

The sun is high and blinding as it curves around the sky, a missile aiming for it’s false end for it never does hit its target.

She can hear his voice whispering that nothing would happen, that he would take responsibility; that he would be there.

She is alone, still wearing the silver ring on her left hand and a broken promise stamped across her chest.

She’s failed.

The cars roar past, never stopping. One driver turns and in shock loses control. There’s a swerve, a crash and a halt as time breaks.

All you can hear are the screams of the living as she throws herself over the railing into the river, arms open, waiting to accept her child.

watching

somebody tell me if nothing in this body is sacred, the drum of a pulse beneath my wrist, the gasp of air between my teeth as i attempt to swallow any type of reaction down in hopes that it will cling hard enough to my ribs to remain with me even after the fact of this is over.
and i can't do that, rock my weight forward, grab the collar of his shirt as i attempt to climb the sides of his body, open the edges of my heart and pitch the blood forward to the rush between my ears. even if his hands are on me, a faint trace along the underside of my shirt, a curve of a palm against my neck, salt kisses against my lips, no matter how badly i want this, need this, desire this.
i am unable to if you are watching.

Kiss and Never Tell

Yoselin parked off to the side of the road and I got out of the car. I had a cell phone that I barely knew how to use in my pants pocket. “I’ll see you in two hours.” she said and the car pulled away, leaving me there.

She’d dropped me on the picnic grounds and I needed to find you. You would be up river at our usual stop. With a sigh I jumped up onto one of the tables and started walking north. I played a game like I’d done when I was younger; I jumped from rocks to logs, trying not to touch the ground.

It was a stupid game but it took my mind off you. Once I ran out of things to walk on, I started counting trees, birds and any other object that caught my eyes.

It took me about twenty minutes to reach you and by then my head was full of numbers. That’s not the greatest combination because I’m barely passing math 11.

Your bike was parked in the bushed and you shoes, coat and shirt formed a pile on the sand. You’d rolled up your jeans and were standing in the water, skipping stones along the surface.

I stood there, not knowing what to say, not after what I’d done to you. I hate apologizing because it acknowledges the fact that I was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with that but an apology has the implication that I screwed up tacked onto it as well.

In the end I didn’t need to say anything. I stepped on a loose stone and tripped, falling flat on my face causing an amusing spectacle, announcing my presence to the world. It sounds like something out of a lame movie but contrary to popular belief all lame movies are real.

“What are you doing Jules?” you asked as you stepped out of the water and quickly put your shirt on. The act was almost feminine as if you felt you were exposing too much to me.

And who the hell decided that femininity was passive and masculinity was dominant? Remind me to shoot them.

“I’m repenting.” I sighed as I pulled myself up and dusted sand and dirt off the designer jeans Tierney had dressed me in. She’d kill me once she saw the stains I was now sporting.

You said nothing and neither did I; we just stared at each other. There was no electrical current like in those cheesy romance novels Tiffany’s got stuffed under her bed. All I could feel between us was guilt.

“Jules don’t do this to me.” you whispered and I felt my body jump. I don’t think you saw it though because your hand was covering your face.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Don’t come and ask that we go back to how we used to be,” you groaned, “You know I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking for that!” I yelled as I spun around and grabbed hold of your arms. My voice sounded too loud and broken in my ears with an anxious hitch in it.

“What are you asking for then?” you asked. The look on your face told me that you were no longer expecting anything from me. I could feel the twitching in your arms beneath my fingers as if I was causing you an immense physical pain.

“Look at me!” I commanded and I felt my voice break. “Do you love me?”

“Jules I thought we’d been over this.” Your voice was harsh and annoyed as you snapped back at me.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Jules - “

“How do you know Alex?” I yelled.

“Jules let go!” I felt your arms wrench away from me and I pitched forward and hit the ground hard.

I looked up at you and saw my reflection in your eyes. It was the image of a woman’s face torn in half, twisted in pain, jealousy, rage and sadness.

“I don’t get this Alex!” I yelled, screaming almost. “I don’t get how you managed to figure out your feelings and conveniently place a label on them, forcing me to make a decision. It’s not fair you know!”

You just stood there not moving, I think you might have been unable to. I felt the tears well up in my eyes and the sick, sticky feeling they create as they ran down my cheeks.

“I’m blaming you Alex.” I muttered between the sobs that were wracking my body.

“Blaming me for what?” you asked. I hadn’t even noticed were you’d dropped down to sit beside me.

“Quit acting cool,” I said and I felt the sobs and gasping between tears starting up again. You caught my face between your hands and forced me to look at you.

“Don’t,” I muttered, “Don’t look at me.” I wiped the tears out of my eyes and the snot off my nose with my sleeve.

“Please,” I begged, all caution suddenly lost, “Don’t ever leave me again!”

This is the obvious part in the story where the guy takes the girl into his arms and kisses her. You made no move to do that and neither did I. To be honest I think we were both frozen from shock, you from my sudden, confusing confession and me from the fact that I’d just told you everything.

“You know one of us is going to have to move at some point.” I whispered.

“What if I don’t want to move?” you asked.

“Then I will,” I laughed, “My butt is getting numb.” You smiled and ran you fingers through my hair. I don’t think you meant it to be seductive, just comforting. Unfortunately, it was a little of both.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I asked and I think you stopped breathing then.

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“That’s usually what happens in cheesy romance novels.”

“What have you been reading?” you asked.

“The books under Tiffany’s bed.” I replied.

“I think the question is whether or not you love me Jules?” you whispered.

“I think I do.” I replied, my voice catching as I stumbled over the words.

“You think?”

“Alex can you tell me what love is?” I asked, “I can’t ever remember someone saying they loved me.”

“I love you,” you said.

“How do I know you’re not lying though?” I begged. All remains of my pride were gone and I was begging you to reassure my fears as false.

“Because you’re all I think about,” My breath caught and I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.

“That’s a really, really cheesy line you know,” I muttered. I could feel the blush creeping along my face. When I go red it makes it look like I’m dying of exhaustion, creating a perfect tomato impression.

“Yeah,” you whispered, “I know.” Somehow I managed to gain an immense amount of courage and I slowly lifted your hand from my face and laced my fingers through yours.

“That took a lot of courage you know,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “So why don't you muster up some courage and kiss me?”

I closed my eyes and waited nervously, partially because I was afraid to see your reaction. I felt your free hand move up and slowly grasp my shoulder. I could feel your fingers slowly squeeze mine and then your lips pressed against my mouth.

My hand went up to grasp hold of your shirt because I didn’t know what to do. I tightened my fingers in yours looking for a type of reassurance.

Your grip on me was almost too tight and I could feel your teeth bump against mine. Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was still the closest thing to romance that I’d experienced.

After you let go, we just sat together on the sand. We made no moves to unlock our hands and said nothing. We stayed like that for ages.

After I left you and climbed back into Yoselin’s car and making you promise to go to school tomorrow, I realized something.

That was the first time you kissed me and that was surprising. You’d never even tried to kiss me, not even when we’d slept together.

Once Upon a Time

I run my eyes across the letters on the page, trace my nails over the edges of the envelope that contains each and every line of poetry I wrote for you, and I have this sensation that I am reading some one else's love story.
For by now I can barely remember the ache for you spreading through out my bones, and echo that's barely a whisper in the night. And I feel as if I should almost apologize, as if these feelings were something short of wrong now that they exist no longer.
But even in the deepest pockets of the night, the facts that once upon a time in college I loved you will not be erased. Nor do I want them to be, as if by doing so I could still move forward as a complete person. As if I could grow beyond anything I am now without this.
And I know I would have hurt you, without meaning to, on purpose when that would be the only way for you to care for me. And in the end I would have killed all the parts I love about you in an attempt to have that love returned.
And now that it's over, I can say, once upon a time in college I loved you. And am thankful that I did.

My Body is Ripe

This is Saturday morning before work. The growing pulse of the sun bleeding out from under the curtains, the curve of my body as I curl deeper into myself and the blankets surrounding me. My hand is curved around my breast, my fingers curled between my legs as I press my face deep into my pillow.
I am ready and waiting and only just beginning to understand the implications of it all.

1

My body does not seem to know if it wants to faint, throw up, or eat more. I’ll settle for the latter as I dig my fingers into the muffin, tearing the soft flesh of baked goods apart in some kind of empty satisfaction, chewing and swallowing with a deliberate purpose. I’ll keep eating until the pain goes away.
I will not talk about the pain, partially because I know I will embellish it. This is nothing until I have drawn the comparison of being hit by a bus, slowly having the insides of my body scrapped out inch by inch with a rusty spoon. Never mind the fact that I have never broken a bone and cannot remember the last time I threw up. Pain has little reference within words. It is in the open space between them, the screech of the brakes on the bus as the driver attempts to swerve at the last second, the bump on the handle of the spoon that digs into my knuckles as I grip it too tightly, in the clumps of blood slowly draining out from my body for the next five days that my discomfort is characterized. I stumble to the bathroom, wanting to curse but not to use the excuse of menstruation to become psycho, digging through the drawers to find the midol or ibeproufen, or anything that I can take in hope of pretending that the drugs will make it better. They generally don’t.
I will keep eating in an effort to staunch the pain with chocolate.

2

You ask me from across the table if I’d like to go home, your brow creased with empathetic concern. I smile weakly, the lights of the restaurant slightly too bright to allow me to conduct my thoughts in a timely manner. I’m fine, I tell you. We’ve already ordered our food and at this point it would be too much on a hassle to leave and have our meal refunded.
I still can’t quite manage to look you in the eyes when we’re alone, I’m still in the habit of observation as I rub my fingers along the edge of my jeans, glance up towards the counter to see if the server is on their way yet. It probably doesn’t help that I am acutely aware of how badly I want to kiss you.
You know nothing of this, not the ache in the pit of my stomach, the stretch of pain along the edge of my thighs as I shiver with the desire to collapse. I will not do so, for this would accentuate my feelings like a weakness, my need for you to touch me. This desire is worse on days like this, as the red of my body spills open, my skin crawling and the gradual relaxation of my muscles while I try to fall back into myself. I am acutely aware that I am empty and cannot hold back my desire for you to fill me. And I know you would not be able to handle the weight of this so I smile, laugh, pop pills in hope they will work or even offer an effect as a placebo.
For I will live through this, long enough to hate myself the next time both of these cycles start themselves over.

3

The blood on my thighs is sticky and matted within the hair between my legs. And every step I make leaves a red trail behind me as I stumble my way across the house to reach the bathroom in the early, early morning. I will have to remember to clean up when I make my way back, find a change of sheets, possibly a towel, anything.
I still watch the blood with fascination each time I remove the cup from my body and slowly pour it down the drain, so red it’s almost black against the white of the sink. For I have done this before, splattered it all across the walls of the shower, traced my name, drawn pictures, stared in contemplation before I licked my fingers clean.
This is mine, my body, my blood, the confusion and delight in the process when I can barely understand the basics of what is happening to me, whether I like it, would I change it, or even stop it if i was offered the chance to. Even though I have read the books my parents gave me, searched the internet in boredom and fear, I still carry an amount of awe each time this happens. For each time I am confronted with the fact that I’m alive, with each beat, pulse and twitch of my body, red blood a swirl down the drain as I wash my hands clean after replacing the cup inside of me.
I am almost sad by the time it is all over.

4

The calendar tells me I should be starting soon. Normally there are no warning signs, no cramps, no aches, nothing but the red dots on last month’s page in the calendar to inform me of the arrival.
This time I am still caught in the need to be fucked, my body opened along an axis in the dark that I do not understand. As if by the feel of some one’s hands along the side of my ribs, his lips against my neck, a bite along the length of my heart and his weight locking me against the bed I could attempt to fill myself with whatever I am missing.
Because the weight of this moment is still heavy, black beneath my covers at night, red along my thighs in the morning, breath heavy each time I fumble between my legs. I am open along a rift I do not understand, caught in cycles as I move in rings around my body. For there is nothing wrong about this, despite what we are told, and in the end I will commit many more sins than this before I die.
So each time the blood comes I stop questioning it all.

Kissed Her

I can feel the bruises forming beneath the sockets of my eyes, the lids heavy with the tears I haven’t managed to spill yet as I let my lashes flutter softly in an attempt to close. She’s smiling as she waves at me.
The blue of her dress matches his tie and the enraptured glow in her eyes as Kirsten pulls them over to the side of the arena for a photo. Everyone is just milling about now, laughing, trying not to spill food on their clothes and wishing that the committee had been smart enough to provide chairs. They probably thought it’d be too difficult to provide chairs for two hundred and fifty teenagers in addition to the food.
We’re all just waiting for the final call now so we can put the gowns over our prom attire and start the ceremony.
I look towards my date, who’s in conversation with a girl who was in our math class. We’re dressed in a loosely matching fashion, both in complementary shades of green that could mean we’d planned it or it was accidental. It was accidental by the way; I chose my dress to complement hers. She doesn’t know though.
And I intend to keep it that way.
I watch her detach herself from his arms, laughing as he kisses her lightly on the lips, his fingers lingering on her waist as she turns and starts over towards me. “Sarah, take another photo with me.” This is a demand, not a request. I pull my camera out of my matching purse and hand it over to Kirsten, who’s now been unofficially designated the night’s photographer.
I wrap my arm around her waist and squeeze gently, not enough for Kirsten to detect as she fumbles, trying to balance three cameras at once. It’s still enough for her to notice though, as her expression freezes in a large smile.
“Don’t,” she whispers, “Not now.” Her breath is in my hair, her right earring softly scraping my cheek as she turns to meet my eyes.
“Then when?” I mutter under my breath as I reach up to adjust one of the loose curls of her hair. She doesn’t answer. The flash goes off and one of the chaperons starts yelling for everyone to get into their gowns.
She squeezes my hand reassuringly as she lets go to retrieve her camera from Kirsten and I feel the ring on her left hand bite into my fingers before she lets go.
There’s ten minutes before the ceremony starts.

“We shouldn’t,” she gasps. I don’t answer but continue running my fingers through her hair, tracing the lines of her face and the curve of her lips. The basement is dark and the movie is playing loud enough to cover any sounds that might travel through the heating pipes. My brother is in the garage with his guitar, trying to rally the half of his band that bothered to show up for practice. My parents left for the movies an hour ago.
We’re practically alone.
This is the second time we’ve kissed. The first one doesn’t count because we’d both been drunk and it’d been a dare. Plus her boyfriend had been watching.
Her hands slowly curl inwards, clutching my thighs as I lean forward and softly brush my mouth against hers.
“Again,” she whispers as I pull back.
“Again,” I mumble against her mouth as she lifts her hands up, tangling them in my hair, pulling me back towards her.

I have no idea where my parents are seated in the arena. I’d told them to sit on the left so they’d be able to see my face as I walk over to shake hands with the principal and receive a fake diploma. The government will mail us out the real ones sometime in the middle of august after all the high school graduation examination results have come back. In the mean time we get a piece of paper with our name stating we’re a part of the graduating class and are allowed to take part in the after party.
We manage to shuffle our way into our seats, aiming for a semblance of control. We’ve barely found it as the opening speech ends and the first name is called. Ten seconds later the first beach ball appears.
I’ve found where she’s sitting, in the middle of the opposite side of the stage, at the end of her row. She claps wildly as her boyfriend crosses the stage, the speaker droning on about his plans after graduation. I try to blur them over in my mind.
I only want to watch her for as long as I can.
We’re now on our third beach ball and we’re only half way through the ‘c’s. The others were confiscated as quickly as the teachers could manage. I have no idea how many more we’re going to go through. It looks like it’s going to be a long night.
They call her row and now I’m counting down until she crosses the stage. The girl three people before her trips over her heels on her way up the stairs. She sits up laughing, stands and takes a bow before she stumbles over to receive her diploma.
Two left.
One.

“This has to end.” She sits up, drawing my blankets over her breasts as she turns back to me and frowns. I’m still smiling from the aftershocks though. She’s naked, willing and in my bed. Things have been going perfectly.
Well, they were.
“What?” Even to my ears that sounded hollow.
“You know,” she whispers, “This.” She waves her left arm, the one that isn’t holding up the blanket, in a wide circle to encompass the two of us in my bed. The sight of her nipples as the blanket slips isn’t enough to even out the tone of her words. Besides, I know she didn’t plan that on purpose.
I sit up beside her, gritting my teeth. “Give me a good reason why.”
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“I knew that. You knew that. Didn’t stop us the first time.” Or the second. And the third. “What makes it different now?”
“Sarah, I can’t handle this anymore.” Her eyes are wide and from the way the blue in them shimmers I know she’s about to cry. I reach over to put my arm around her shoulder but she shrugs me off.
“I can’t handle the sneaking around. I didn’t expect it to go this far.”
“Don’t tell me this.”
“This needs to end Sarah.”
“It this because we’re friends? Or because we’re both women and you’ve decided you like men better?”
She glares at me. “I don’t even know what to call our relationship Sarah,” she hisses. “All we seem to do is sleep together.”
All the late night movies, all the texts, phone calls, notes in class, all the laughter whips through my head. “That’s not true.” I whisper.
“Sarah, I feel like we’re fuck-buddies,” she says softly.
I feel like she’s slapped me. “I love you.” I whisper as I slowly take her hand and trace my fingers through hers.
“You don’t mean that.” she whispers, “Not like that.”
“Will you just listen to me!”
She shakes your head and slip out of bed before I can tighten my grip on her hand. “He asked me to marry him Sarah. I said yes.”
As I look up at her standing naked in front of my bed, hair tousled, fading hickies left from him trailing up her neck, I feel like I’ve been sicker punched in the gut. She’d told me that I couldn’t leave marks on her.
I finally understand why.

“Emily Collins.” And she’s walking. Hand outstretched to shake the principal’s as the other one tucks her diploma under her arm. I can hear her father and her brothers’ yelling in the background and her mother crying as she walks down the aisle, smile radiant, waving to the crowd.
And I’m laughing and clapping as the tears start to slip down my cheeks. She’s walking, one arm raised in a triumphant wave of victory, the flash of her ring from the arena lights a glint out of the corner of my eyes. I can’t quite manage to hold it in.
It’s all crashing down around me. The scent of her perfume, the scrape of her teeth along the curve of my ear, the press of her lips against mine, the ring of her laugh in my ears, the curve of her smile, the weight of her breasts in my palms and the unspoken misunderstood expectance of a promise.
It’s all finally over.

Inamorata

When the alarm went off in the morning the left side of the bed was cold. She knew this even without having to roll over, the lack of tension in the blankets, the soft sound of her breath as the only source of noise in the room. But then again, she’d been the only one in the bed before the lights went out. He hadn’t even bothered going to bed.
Slowly, she pulled herself up, joints snapping, hair trailing down into her eyes as she rubbed the sleep out of them. The blankets were twisted and the faint light of morning was just beginning to creep through the curtains across the small window, painting the room a delicate shade of blue. She smiled weakly. When they had first bought the apartment, she’d tried to get his opinion on things, it was going to be a shared space, a combination of the two of them. In the end she’d given up, slamming doors in frustration, the sound of the keyboard echoing late into the night as he ignored her. She was so used to the sound of his typing that she didn’t even notice it anymore.
She found him in the living room, abandoned cups of coffee in a small circle on the coffee table, stacks of notebooks wobbling precariously next to the half-eaten bagel on a dinner plate, his laptop resting on his knees as he lay sunken back into the couch, eyes closed and snoring softly as his glasses threatened to slide down his nose.
She gently removed his glasses, careful not to wake him, stacked up the dishes and slowly began her march to the kitchen. The empty jam jar was resting unwashed next to the stove, the remains of dinner caught in the sink trap and slowly the sense of unrealistic panic began to grown on her. This had happened before, it would happen again. She was tired of trying to compete when there was no chance. Even after all those years it was still impossible for her to compete against poetry.
She left the dishes in the sink unwashed. The sound of her feet echoed through the hallway as she padded across the floor. And when she came in front of the mirror, she could no longer recognize herself. The angles of her face had changed, the weight of her breasts more pronounced, her hair flatter and her stomach carried a different type of roundness that it hadn’t before. She was no longer the skinny college girl she’d been when they’d first met, impressionable, ready to take on the world, feeling confident enough to move on from the preppy boys she’d dated in high school to men who had an actually opinion on politics, who read poetry and were against the system. Whatever that meant. All she knew is that half way through her second semester she’d met him. By the end of the summer they’d moved in together, two struggling writers who together couldn’t even make a decent part time wage. Six months together turned into a year, then two and three. She’d dropped out of college, stopped writing, gotten a job to pay the rent, cooked dinner when she got home after work and found him on the couch writing.
He was still writing after all these years. Only now he was no longer writing for her.

The front door closed quietly behind her, a force of habit. He’d started yelling at her if she’d done something that could have made him loose his train of through. So now she closed the doors quietly, vacuumed when he was out at poetry readings, and watched TV on the computer with headphones so he wouldn’t hear any background noise. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her his muse, like when they’d first been dating, just a bitch when she distorted the creative energy of the house by opening the pantry door too quickly.
The apartment was on the top of the fifth floor, there was no elevator because that meant the rent was cheaper. She washed laundry in the bathtub because the washer had broken shortly after they’d moved in and hung her clothes up to dry on the rusting balcony rails because the building manager had never bothered to install a dryer. She couldn’t complain through, rent was cheap. Especially since his advances barely covered half of the food bill.
The stairs creaked under her weight as she carefully made her way down, making sure to avoid the rails and the three steps about a quarter of the way down that she’d nearly fallen through last week. The wind was teasing the curls of her hair, still damp from her shower and she could smell the sun rising over the clouds as the city began to slowly grind to life. She pulled a hair elastic from her pocket and tied her hair back before it reverted back to its original state as a bird’s nest. She glanced back up at the apartment, paint peeling off the door, the crack in the window and him asleep on the couch inside. Today, she would go to work, buy groceries after her shift was over, come home, change out of her work uniform and make dinner. Maybe tonight he would eat it, rather than stumbling through the door with MacDonalds in his hands. Maybe tonight he would join her in bed, or at least leave a love poem on her pillow, scribbled on a sheet he’d torn out of one of his notebooks. She gripped the railing tighter, tears threatening to spill. Who the fuck was she kidding? The poetry had ended just before they moved in together, the declarations of love and the sex had followed shortly after.
There was a crack as the railing detached itself from the steps, the staircase starting to sway violently towards the building next to it. With a small scream her left foot slipped out from under her and she slid all the way down to street level, startling the flock of pigeons eating breakfast in the alley.
Heart thudding, she levered herself into standing position so she could assess the damage. The stairs were curved at an awkward angle, almost attempting to give the building on the other side of the alley a hug and the pigeons were cooing loudly in protest of her interruption of their breakfast. Her uniform was ripped at a jagged angle along the side of her ribs, a large chunk of her hair was caught two stories up in the railing, her knees were bloody and now she was late for work. The staircase was the only way back up to the apartment as well.
Laughing, she slowly lowered herself back onto the ground, scattering the pigeons at her feet as the laughter turned into sobs. She phone buzzed at her hip but she ignored it, curled into a ball and cried until she couldn’t breathe any longer. When she was done, she slowly raised her head. The alley was empty, the staircase still broken. She pulled herself up onto her feet, took one last look at the apartment and began to run.

The saleslady’s smile turned into a frown even before she was completely through the door. The walls were lined with various types of footwear, fashionable footwear that would cost her their food budget for the week. “Can I help you?” asked the saleslady, her smile stuck somewhere between a grimace and a sneer in desperation to make a sale. The store was trapped in a back corner of a side street and it was a miracle that it was even open on a Sunday.
“I’m looking for breakup boots,” she said, smiling widely. The saleslady blinked and pointed her towards the back wall. Slowly she made her way to the back of the store and grabbed the first pair of boots she saw, knee high black boots with red shoelaces. She hadn’t bought a new pair of shoes since high school, unable to justify the cost when she couldn’t wear then to work.
He would have laughed at her choice, claiming that no one outside of middle school wears red shoelaces, he also would have yelled at her for the price. He would have claimed that she didn’t understand him, that writing was delicate, that it took time, energy and very specific pieces of your soul that you bargained in exchange of the right twist of words in a sentence. That it was hard for him, why couldn’t she understand that? He would have quoted Rilke to her, forgetting that she was the one who’d introduced him to The Sonnets of Orpheus, had covered his eyes with her hands and whispered the poems in his ears to better showcase the heartbreaking impact it contained. He would have told her he loved her, if he remembered to, without even a hint of poetry in the words.
But he was still sleeping, she hoped, trapped in their apartment on the fifth floor until the staircase got fixed. Which would take a while due to the fact that the manager wasn’t due back from vacation for another two weeks. The saleslady rang the boots through the till, her frown deepening as she paid in cash, counting out coins till the very last cent. Smiling broadly she left, ignoring the fact that the saleslady didn’t even acknowledge her leaving. The heels of her boots echoed on the cement of the sidewalk, the laces making small clicking noises as they swayed while she walked, the bloodstains from her knees were partly covered up by the height of the boots and the side of her shirt was tied together in a knot to hide the rip.
There was no hurry though. She still had plenty of time before the mall closed.

panty snatcher

short hair, worn jeans, rolled sleeves with the hint of tattoos rolling down the length of her forearms. preferably riding a bike, or driving a truck, cigarette between her lips even though i can't stand the smell of smoke. some one i'd let fuck me in the back seat of a car in public, her hand clamped over my mouth so i can't scream when i come. she'd leave me on the corner of a street downtown, my panties in her pocket, red bruises trailing down my neck and my cum on her lips as she drives away.
even after all that i don't think i'd be capable of loving her.

Being Yours Part V: Soft Smile

You have a soft smile, that's the first thing I notice, the first feature I like about your face as I see you from across the room.
I check my watch, twice, while I pretend not to be watching you from across the room out of the corner of my eye. I think you're it, though. I think you're it, so I move, sliding down, down off the greasy stool next to the unwashed counter, and I walk over.
You smile and I want to kiss you. Kiss you hard, soft, or whatever your preference is. But I don't. Not yet. I smile, introduce myself, and ask if you're my blind date for the evening, hoping you'll say yes.
I'm hoping you'll say yes.

Being Yours Part IV: Her Majesty the Fool

I carve the doors open and walk the same floor I've been walking for these past weeks, days, moments of a million hours as I lay tangled with you. But I'm dreaming. It's only been one week, one single week with you.
I'm waiting slowly, drunk on the sensations of coffee. I'm drunk, I'm drunk, I'm totally drunk on you. I revel in your taste, the ghost sensations of your hands gliding over me, remembering the first time I felt I was yours with all the overdramatic flare of modified history. The natural progression of obedience for the king. You are my king, and now I belong to you.
I'm yours, I'm yours, I hope, I hope so. I hope that you know this, that you believe it with the same conviction I do. But still, I'm waiting, breathing the steam of bitter dreams in a third-rate cafe that's crowded with the memories of too many blind dates to count.
But I at least can trust this one, I can trust you, trust you. Trust you with everything I have.

Being Yours Part III: The King is Dead

The table is round and the chair is square, as the two of them fold together, fold together, mingle slowly and form the base essence of your throne. For you are the kind, with your mad eyes, your soft smile that's often pressed to mine with a feeling I'd like to place as possessive desperation.
But I'm often wrong, though. I'm often wrong.
You smile like a madman and kiss me like a false fool, trapped in charred love. Because something's wrong. Something's wrong.
Your shirt is green, forest green, a poison that makes me want to scrape it off my tongue and bury it. I need to bury it down within the confines of the fields.
And I know the words before you've said them, because your body has done all the talking for you. Even though you don't know it.
You sit bored, slumped, chewing your words like an animal as you prepare to spit, hold it back and chew again while trying to phrase it all in a semi-polite manner. But you are the king, even if you don't realize it. Even if you don't care about your own immortality and the power you carry over me.
You are the king and you are bored, finished, tired of pretending you are an actor to match my pace as I stumble, trip and find myself sprawled out beneath your feet, ready to lick your boots, kiss your lips, and scrub myself raw in an attempt to clean my skin to your pleasing. I am always ready, I am always ready, I am, I am.
But you don't need a fool, a jester, a submissive of a lover crawling at your feet. You are the kind, and the king needs a queen in a faerie-tale book of sexist romance. Romance of first love, special love, love you've never held for me.
So I leave, I leave before you can tell me what I think you're about to say. I leave before you can tell me the truth.

Being Yours Part II: Gardener Kisses

I need to cry, collapse, collapse, knock myself senseless against the trunks if this forest. I'm crying, crying, drowning, frowning, sobbing, down, Collapse.
I don't want to feel you hands on me anymore. But they are, they are.
Your fingers are trailing my skin, catching the edge of my shirt, tugging, pulling, straightening my body that refuses to stand any longer.
I love your lips against mine, your fingers, your fingers in mine, my hair, crawling under the fabric of my clothes as if to attempt to unlock some forbidden door. And you're there, kissing me, kissing me senseless. Kissing me goodbye, kissing me as if yo make it a more jagged wound than it already is.
You whisper but I don't listen. And I regret it. I regret it as your soft hands leave mine, trace my lips once, not twice then vanish.
You vanish and I now know, even more than before, that I'm a fool. I'm your fool, your jester, your flower that pushed to hard and tried to blossom before its season.
I only tried to become a broken blossom for you and failed in the end, for the gardener can tell when the seeds are bad. These seeds are bad and the garden of this body and mind are now rotting.
I'm now falling apart.

Arabela

I used to rip my mother’s flowers apart. She’d place them in large vases around the house, as if they could create a false sense of peace. I would shred the flowers and leaves, breaking off the thorns surrounding them. Then Arabela would break the vase and grind the pieces into the dirt with rocks, decimating them and destroying all evidence so it could never be used as a weapon against us.
Do you believe in heaven? They say it’s breathtaking, blooming with flowers stretching out across the hills. I can imagine their scent, so intoxicatingly strong like poison on my lips. It’s too much of a good thing, in my opinion.
I used to know a place that looked like heaven, with flowers and everything. During summer, the scent of them would wrap around your senses at night and choke you with a passion. Petals would wither and die, turning into a dirty mulch on the ground.
If heaven is a garden, then I wonder what hell is? What type of hidden fires burn there, determined to destroy my feelings and watch them burn to ash, while twisted smoke rises?
That house was paradise on the outside, but you could hear the wind screaming as you stood on the hillside and laid flowers upon your lover’s grave. You could walk through the graveyard for miles, and never find an exit. There was no escaping from our little handmade prison, and whenever the wind began to howl, we were happy. Happy because it hid the screaming and the crying.
Arabela was always bleeding. I used to feel pain just by watching, because she took the beatings that were meant for me. I tried to kiss the pain away, but that only smeared the blood across my lips, leaving a more permanent stain within me.
Arabela was the one who read me to sleep, brushed my hair, and held my hand. Arabela was my world growing up, and now she’s gone.
After she left, I went out into the garden and ripped up all the carnations. I chopped the heads off and ate the petals, as if by doing so, I could make her stay with me. I tried to assimilate her into me and make her live again, to rewind time and start over.
I hit rewind.
Again.
And again. Until my mind was going crazy because I knew there was no way to get her back.
Both paradise and hell are empty now. And the flowers are all rotting.

Waking Up Part II

It was dark when I awoke. No light was visible, and all I could hear was the soft sound of your breathing. In and out, in and out… so gently that I knew you were asleep.
I could feel the old, worn sheets beneath me, and the blankets were wrapped around me like a serpent. The serpent was going to kill me. That was certain.
Your arm fit perfectly around my waist. For some reason, women’s bodies seem to fit perfectly with things. Maybe that’s why they keep making musical instruments after our hips. We’re just the right shape.
I fit perfectly with you. I could feel your arm over top of my ribs, and the way our legs were tangled together. I couldn’t see anything, though. That feeling was getting stronger the longer I laid there and listened to your breathing.
It was dark, and then I began to panic.

I couldn’t see. The light was too strong. I’d shut the bathroom door so I wouldn’t wake you up.
I couldn’t wake you up. I couldn’t face you, not after what I’d done.
I threw up into the sink, but I had nothing to give, only bile as I attempted to get rid of the taste in my mouth. I turned on the tap and tried to wash it all down the sink.
When I looked up, I noticed the marks covering my body. Everywhere.
I let out a strangled scream, but caught it as I fell down onto the floor. The tile was cold, and the white reflected back into my eyes was impersonal. I couldn’t feel anything.
In my mind, it was still dark. I couldn’t see the lights as they blazed overhead. I couldn’t feel the tile beneath me, despite the fact that I was naked.
I was naked.
It was still dark and I could hear your voice, but I didn’t want to listen to the words. I didn’t want to remember what you’d told me last night.
I could still feel you, though, as your presence wrapped around me. I heard my heartbeat in my ears as it thudded in dull repetition. Bu-dum, bu-dum… over and over, over and over, as it became interwoven with your voice.
I remembered you saying that you loved me, even though you knew I was using you.
I was using you, and that thought made me try to throw up again.
I was naked, and in the bathroom mirror, I could see all the hickies you’d left on me.
Leftover reminders of last night.

You were still sleeping. I tried to move quietly as I searched around the room for my clothes. My jeans were in tatters from the climb up to your window, and the rest of my clothing was soaked from last night’s rain.
I couldn’t stop staring at you as I struggled into my clothes. You were sprawled across the bed without a care. Your hair was a circular tangle, and along your skin, I could see the marks I’d left.
All along your back and arms were scratches from my nails. On your neck was something that resembled a bite mark.
My breathing was becoming more and more irregular as I fought back the desire to start screaming. I wanted to break something, to rip my heart out and stomp on it. Maybe if I could hurt myself, I could make it up to you, because I knew that I was going to rip your heart out.
You were naked.
And I’d been naked, though I was trying to erase that fact as I dressed, attempting to hide the filth I could see growing along my skin.

I could feel the room around me. The wood floor beneath my feet, the old bookshelf filled with a child’s library, the bed with the covers rolled all into a tangle.
I could see myself in the mirror on the wall, and my reflection looked wrong. I looked like a girl. I looked like a mess. I looked like somebody’s lover who was leaving.
And you were my lover, lying there on the bed, as I got ready to run from you.
I could see Eden.
I could see paradise.
I could hear you say that you loved me. My brain repeated your voice over and over, until my screams poured over it and drowned the earth surrounding me with all its flowers.
You said you loved me.
You said you loved me, and I was waking up.
I woke up from a game you’d been playing with me, because you knew I would never, could never love you back.
And I was running.

It was dark, and the room was empty now as I shut the door behind me. Karissa was in the hall, and if she was shocked, she didn’t say anything. She pulled me away from you and got rid of me in the politest fashion possible.
It was dark, and all I could hear was my breathing.
It was dark, and I let the panic take over me because now I couldn’t wake you. My delayed reaction had started, and I couldn’t stop it.
I’d finally woken up and walked into a nightmare.

Tempest Part II

The day was dark, and all one could hear was the wind as it howled and tried to blow the trees back into the earth. The rain lashed against the ground carving out rivulets as the thunder boomed overhead.
Vivienne was sleeping on the deck.
Krista sat beside her.
The heavy clank of the game pieces as they moved across the board added to the symphony of general noise around her. Her clothes were damp from the rain as it leaked and seeped onto the wood of the porch, traveling forward searching for a target to acquire.
The rain had found her, for she was sitting in front of Vivienne as a barrier.
White knight took black rook. Black pawn took white knight. The game was a front, really, for it’s hard to play by yourself unless you’re really good. Krista wasn’t, but this way, she could keep watching.
Vivienne was sleeping on the deck.
Krista sat beside her.
Theo was in the house.
The rain kept pouring down with no intention of stopping.
She had no idea why they hadn’t moved inside when the storm started. Vivienne had wanted to keep on with the game, and had smiled as she always does. In that strange way that made Krista want to kiss her.
She loved Vivienne’s sincere smiles, for they were soft to the point of wanting to wrap them around your shoulders and fall asleep. Not the slight ones she always had imprinted on her mouth, for Vivienne seemed always resigned to whatever fate God handed out to her that day.
Adam called Vivienne a saint. Krista called her an angel.
Vivienne was an angel to her, and it didn’t seem fair that Theo got to keep her all to himself.
That wasn’t fair at all.
This wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be, for it was too old a feeling to be named. She hated Theo with a passion because of this. People shouldn’t own angels.
The black queen took the white queen. The white king fell down with an audible thud on the board.
Vivienne was sleeping on the deck, her hair undone to bury her face under a cascade of ochre.
Krista sat beside her, slowly leaning forward to brush Vivienne’s hair away to reveal her lips.
It was something stupid that should never have happened, but it had opened a small door in her heart. She played back her favorite dream of a memory, in which she hoped Vivienne had kissed her. That day when she’d woken up, she was so embarrassed that she ran away immediately.
Vivienne was sleeping on the deck.
Krista was beside her as she leaned down and kissed Vivienne.
Theo stood in the doorway and watched.
Krista looked up and saw him after the kiss had ended.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. Krista didn’t move as he walked over to her and wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her up. She couldn’t think. She had no space left in her brain as he led her back into the house, both of them leaving Vivienne on the deck, still sleeping.
Vivienne was sleeping on the deck.
Krista and Theo were in the house.
He led her to a chair and she sat down. She watched him as he pulled the camcorder down from the wall and ripped the tape from it, shredding all the evidence.
“Do you hate me?” she finally asked.
He turned toward her and smiled softly, just like Vivienne always did.
“Why would I hate you?”
“I hate you, though,” she whispered. “I hate you so much. It’s not fair that you get to monopolize her. Why is she yours?”
“That’s good to know.”
He laughed softly as he turned and set the camcorder back into place. Then he turned to her.
“Krista. Do you love her?”
“What?”
The question dropped like a bomb, tearing through her in an instant. She hit him, hard. She heard the tearing of flesh as her nails gouged his face, leaving marks she knew would sting deep.
“That’s a good answer,” he laughed, and she turned and ran. She was running as far as her legs could take her, for she didn’t need to know this. She didn’t need to open the badly sealed hole in her heart.
Vivienne was on the deck, awake as her heart was slowly being shredded.
Theo was in the house, laughing wildly as tears ran down his bleeding cheeks.
Krista was running through the yard and out onto the street as she felt the ground crack beneath her.
And the rain kept pouring down, like it was the end of the world as the thunder boomed overhead.