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.

Being Yours Part I: Harvest

I can't hear you.
I can't touch you.
I can't taste your excess as it covers my face, plugging up my nose, mouth and ears until I've stopped breathing. I've stopped breathing.
I can't see you, let my eyes carve themselves across your skin, devour the scars and blemishes until I'm blind. I'm blind.
I can't smell your scent as it chokes me back and strangles me with soft tendrils of desire whispering around my neck.
I can't be with you anymore for you're still in possession of my heart, in all its broken pieces.
I can't, I can't, I can't.
I can't love you anymore.
I can't be with you anymore.
I can't let myself flower, bloom and self combust spontaneously into seed. Because you've already weeded this garden, pocketed the seeds and turned towards a new profession.

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.

Waking Up Part I

I want to sleep
long, without disturbance,
as I’m wrapped up in an angel.
I can feel the feathers
of those wings pressing down
with a smothering affect
of warmth, and I find
that I don’t want to wake up
anymore.

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.

Tempest Part I

I want to be hit
by lightning
and feel the flash of pain
as a burning realization of thunder
sets in upon my skin.

The Birds of Paradise Part II

All children grow up. That’s a fact of life.
You grew up too fast, I think, maybe because my life spun wildly out of control every now and then, causing me to neglect you and our friendship.
I can still remember when I fell in love with you.
You’d just turned nineteen.
Everybody else had just left for home, and you were sleeping on the porch, the wind blowing through your hair, a tangled mass of black that swirled around you, creating abstract patterns against the wood.
You were sleeping, and I did something stupid.
I used to play games in my head when I was a kid, where I would create a new world in which things were the way I wanted them to be.
I wanted you to be mine. And with that desire in mind, for I couldn’t get rid of it, I slowly let myself bend forward until our heads were touching.
You were perfect like the image of a painting, features symmetrically aligned in an attempt to ensnare and seduce.
I did something stupid.
I don’t remember making the decision, or moving to act. All I know is that I kissed you, and that was a stupid idea.
You were soft and sweet, just like a china doll with the red lips, white skin, and black hair all tangled up with mine, creating an earthy mix. You didn’t stir or make any sign that you’d woken up. I felt like my heart was going to burst into a thousand pieces any second.
Any second now, and I was going to be punished for my sins.
“Vivienne.”
I looked up with a start and saw Theo watching me from the doorway.
“Has everyone left?” I asked.
“Yes.” He smiled softly, like he always did.
“Do you hate me, Theo?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, even though I wanted to bite my tongue off and swallow it. Maybe then I could keep my mouth from acting on its own.
Theo was always smiling. He was always laughing, just like he was now. Almost like we weren’t married and he hadn’t just seen me kiss my best friend.
“Why would I hate you, Vivienne?’ he asked. “You’ve got a more logical reason to hate me.”
“Why would I hate you, Theo?” I asked.
He was already gone, though, leaving me there stunned, you still asleep beside me. Although thinking back, you could have been awake, seeing as I lost track of how long I sat there in shock.
“Hey Viv.”
I looked back and you were getting up. Your hair shielded your face so I couldn’t read your expression. “I’m gonna go, so I’ll see you later.”
“Alright.” And with that, you were gone as well, the screen door creaking shut behind you.
I don’t know how long I remained on the deck, wind pulling my hair free and your voice dancing in my ears, but eventually Yoselin dragged me inside to play dolls with her and Helena.
I needed to talk to Theo. I needed to bury myself in a pot and slam the lid on so nothing could escape. I needed to wake up and realize that I was in love with you.
I was in love with you.
I was in love with two people, and even now, I had no idea that they would both leave me so soon.

The Birds of Paradise Part I

I want to see you
laughing,
just like your ghost
as she whispers in my ear
of a memory I silenced
and my enjoyment of
staining the two of us
red, with a ticket
down to hell.

You're a Movie Part II

I loved to play with camcorders.
It was the act of creating something permanent, something that could outlast me and the wishy-washy attitude I carried around with me like a fashionable handbag.
I’d set them up in random areas around the house. Then I waited to see how long it would take for people to find them, and what shots I could get before I had to take them down. My brothers would complain loudly to our parents when they discovered that I’d ‘accidentally’ taped parts of their experimentations with girls.
Film was my form of adolescent rebellion.
I kept it toned down, though, because as girl, I wasn’t supposed to have a large presence.
The camcorder is the perfect woman. She’s soft and compact and never speaks. She’s silent, as she listens to the world around her and takes note of everything that happens.
The dutiful, perfect wife.
And film was my lover until I got married at nineteen.
Now I sit back and watch the memories as they play over and over again on the small television screen in the dark.
I did something stupid and Theo forgave me, though Krista wasn’t as gentle. I watch my mistakes over and over with a dulled passion for justice.
It was stupid to try and attempt to keep those feelings of mine hidden, but I did and I tried to become a camcorder. The perfect woman for Theo when we got married.
Theo was a crystal statue’s lover as he touched me tenderly as to not cause me to shatter. He was too gentle as his presence slowly ingrained into and over my flesh. I loved the fact that eventually the only thing trapped in his vision was my reflection.
I was in love with Theo, there’s no question about that. I loved being near him, and the way we were together. Sometimes I pull out his tapes from their space under the stairs and watch them, trying to imagine that he’s still alive and with me, as opposed to lying in the graveyard up the hill. That’s the only way I can physically meet him now. When I go up the hill once a day and spread flowers across his tombstone.
I was in love with Theo, and he was in love with me, yet it was never enough.
It was never enough, but I could always hide that desire underneath the skin of a bubbling mountain, ready to explode. Krista and Theo left before my alarm could go off, though.
The one clip I watch over and over is the moment I let myself fall into hell. When I leaned over and stole a kiss from Krista while Theo was watching.

You're a Movie Part I

You’re a movie
as the camera rolls
and quakes beneath the fear
of failing.

Lover Part II

The room was dark, like all of them were. He couldn’t remember the name of the hotel he was in. He never could.
There was no heat in the room, and she’d left the window slightly open from last night. She’d been lighting candles left and right, claiming it was romantic, so they’d had to leave the window open as to not asphyxiate.
She was dead to the world as he slowly slid out of bed. He headed toward the cheap shower that the hotel had tacked onto their rooms. The bathroom was small and designed with only one purpose. He turned on the water and shut the door behind him as he stepped in.
She was awake by the time he finished. He smiled the same smile he always used.
“You have to go?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine.” She rolled herself out and into alignment with the floor. She smiled. “It was good. I’ll see you again next week. Here’s your payment.”
He took the money she offered him, tucking it into his pants pocket before turning to get dressed.
“Wednesday again?” he asked.
“Make it Thursday. I’ve got a meeting on Wednesday.”
She stood up and walked to the shower, not bothering with clothes or any form of modesty. The door shut behind her, and he finished getting dressed.
Her purse lay on the ground near the door. He bent down and quietly opened her wallet, removing a small amount of cash. So small she wouldn’t notice.
Once the night was over, he would no longer be her lover, and she had to wait for next week.
He left her in the shower, like he always did. She knew better than to expect anything more.

Lover Part I

I just want to fall
headfirst into
a collapsible image of
silken white sheets
as they tangle around the body
in their forgotten erotic
desire.

Carry Your Wings

I carry your wings with me. Not with joy and happiness, to be given freely. I carry them broken, for I ripped them off your back.
If I cannot carry your heart with me, let me carry your hate. For if you curse and scream at me, I’ll at least know that you feel something for me. If I cannot make you mine, let me make you no one’s. Let me place you in a glass jar and hear you pound against it.
I carry your ashes with me. Your earthly remains after you have grown still. They grow heavy in their jar, growing bigger, almost forcing me to drop it.
But most of all, I carry your screaming laughter with me, a constant reminder of what you wouldn’t give me.
I watched from the inside while you danced upon the grass, running up the hill to sit with the dead among their gravestones. You ripped a butterfly’s wings apart and let the wind carry them into my face, letting them dance before my eyes.
I carry your tears with me, willingly, because you cried so hard for what I had become.
I carry nothing with me, for you are already gone.

Regional Library

The sound of the early autumn traffic came floating through the window. She curled up into a ball beneath her blankets and stuffed the pillow over her head. The small room was cramped, with clothes in piles on the floor and boxes shoved under the bed. She’d been living in the dorms for almost three weeks now, but she hadn’t made any effort to unpack. She didn’t want to make her moving seen as real. She’d buried her books in the back of the closet, but they were spilling out the door and onto the floor. It hurt too much to look at them, and she couldn’t bring herself to put them on the shelves that boxed her room in around her.
The books reminded her of him.
She rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was after midnight and she had an early lecture in the morning, but she couldn’t fall asleep. She’d been moving through the past few weeks like a zombie. She took notes perfectly, did all her work with a deadly precision, but once she ran out of things to do, she went back to bed even though she knew she wouldn’t fall asleep.
She hadn’t even gone to visit the library yet. That was a thing she’d promised to make her first priority once she arrived on campus. She couldn’t even hear the word without remembering what had happened the last time she’d been in one.
The memories flooded her in a haze of fog. With a sob, she buried her face in the mattress, hoping to muffle the sound of her crying. She wanted to forget, let everything be washed away like the grime on her body as she stood in one of the dorm showers. She just let the water run over and down her skin as she stood there like a corpse.
She’d given up ever since he left her.

The sun was hot as it burned into her hair and skin, warming her body. She squeezed his hand ever so slightly and felt him squeeze her back. His hand was limp in hers, though. As if he was performing a routine action he’d gotten tired of.
They walked down the street, almost wading through the summer haze. It stuck to her skin and dampened her clothes. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes with her free hand. She’d thought about cutting it before, but he liked long hair, so she left it alone.
They walked along the sidewalk, following the street going toward the mall. Then they turned right and headed for the back doors. He pulled her out of the way as a car drove past them through the parking lot. She looked up at him and smiled, but he didn’t notice.
She pushed down the nagging feeling in her and sighed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just hot.”
“It’s hotter in Arizona,” he said, “I emailed my advisor yesterday, and she said it was a hundred and ten degrees.” She felt the words sting her like a slap in the face.
She smiled to hid the bitterness, ducking under the overhanging cover before the entrance
The doors came to life with a soft metallic hum, opening slowly. They felt the chill of the air conditioning wash over them. She heard her flip-flops hit the tile floor over and over again, creating a slapping sound announcing her presence. His shoes made no noise, though. It was almost as if she was walking alone. If she hadn’t felt his hand in hers, she would have really thought so.
They rounded the corner, turning left. They passed all the shops around them, not caring to stop. She took note of them all. The sale that the clothing store was having for jeans, the lunch special at the restaurant, the frantic mother trying to keep her child from falling into the pond.
She stopped him at the pond and pulled her wallet out of her purse.
“You know you’re not supposed to throw coins into there,” he said. “It kills the fish.”
“I know,” she said, and with one movement, she emptied all her change into the water.
“What the hell did you do that for? That was about five dollars, there.”
“It’s fine,” she said. It’s not worth it, though, she thought. No amount of spare change could pay off the inevitable and keep it from coming. She was praying, though. Praying for the world to end along with that moment, so it would be the last thing she remembered.
He pulled her into the bookstore and she watched him conversing with the clerk about the latest releases. She wanted to go check the new display, but she didn’t want to let go of his hand. She looked around the store, taking in all the details as if it was her first time there. The way the shelves were laid out in a warm square pattern. The color of the false wood floor, and how it made your footsteps echo. The tables in front of the cash register with the remaindered thirty percent off titles on them. The racks of magazines on the side wall. She loved this store, but the air felt painful now.
She slowly pulled him out of his conversation, laughing along with the jokes between him and the clerk. She crouched down on her knees, still never letting go of his hand. She began to pull books off the shelves, skimming over the reviews on the back.
She chose one at random, although she was sure she’d read it at some point. They then walked over to the counter and she paid for the book. The clerk put it in a green plastic bag with the store’s logo printed on it, and with her receipt stuck in between the pages.
They walked down the hall to the sign announcing the Regional Library. She pulled a book out of her purse and left it on the check-in counter. A librarian came over, and she heard the beeping of the machines as the book was scanned back into the system.
She started over to the shelves that held all the books on hold, but he steered her in another direction. He took her past the check-out counters, the information desk, the tables where people worked, and through the shelves of non-fiction books.
The numbered shelves flashed by her eyes, but he continued to pull her forward, his grip on her hand tight. They left the stacks of books and entered a small space at the back of the library. A cliché sign with the legend ‘Teen Scene’ hung down from the ceiling in an attempt to make teenagers believe that reading was cool, the rotating shelves full of paperback books below it. On the wall were metal racks with books propped up for display.
She moved to go look at the new releases set out front to promote them, but his grip on her tightened and she couldn’t move.
“Let’s sit,” he said. His voice was hoarse. She could feel the sweat on his hand.
“What?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Let’s sit,” he repeated, and she could hear the hollow echo in his voice. The world swam before her eyes. She had to concentrate to keep from collapsing.
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“Alright,” he said. “You can stand.” He sounded like he was parenting her. A slow, soft buzzing began in her ears.
“Not that,” she yelled, and she felt the pressure before she realized what happened. His hand was pressed over her mouth, blocking off her scream. She could hear the general chorus of hushing sounds and people telling her to be quiet, but all she could focus on was his face.
In his eyes, she could see her reflection, and it made her want to cry. She looked panicked, her coloring reversed, white where her cheeks were normally pink. His eyes were glazed over, like they were a shield, trying to keep the pain from reaching him.
“I don’t want to,” she mumbled from under his hand. “Please… no…” Her voice trailed off as she bit down on her tongue to keep herself from crying.
“Don’t do this,” he moaned. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. “We can still keep going.” She was aware of the tears running down her cheeks as she babbled on and on, trying to get him to agree with her.
“We can’t,” he whispered. “We’ll be graduating in a few weeks.”
“So we’ll just have a long-distance relationship,” she laughed shakily. “Lots of people do. They all work out fine.”
“This won’t work out, though,” he said. “You’re going to Vancouver and I’m going to Arizona. We can’t keep going, pretending that everything is fine.”
She watched his mouth move, but she couldn’t hear the words. He was clarifying what she’d been trying to ignore for the past few weeks. The feeling of distance that had been growing slowly in the back of her mind. The feelings between them had been stretching thin, and at that moment, she finally felt them snap.
She felt his fingers slowly unlink themselves from hers. Her hand dropped to her side, no longer suspended by his.
She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed before she realized that he wasn’t in front of her anymore. She could see his back retreating away from her, and she watched as he stopped before the hold shelves to see if he had books to pick up.
She dropped to the ground with a broken sob stuck in her throat. She looked around for some support, crawling over to the plush chairs beside her.
They were too low to the ground for her to hide under them like she wanted to. She could just imagine it. She’d seen it a million times. The way his hands moved, and how he positioned his body as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, opened it and handed the clerk his card. The way he leaned against the counter while waiting for his books. The way he tucked them under his arm after pulling out the receipt, reading it over and then recycling it.
She could imagine this time his body tensing with pain, him tearing the receipt and tossing it in the trash. She hoped he felt this pain as strongly as her but she had no way of telling. She wasn’t there to smile at him and take his hand like always as he walked out the double doors. He wasn’t there to wipe away her tears as she cried.
It was over.

She sat up in bed in her dorm room and was still. The air was colder than before. It had started to rain, a curtain of water hitting the window and sliding down onto the sill.
Tears were drying on her cheeks, and she still felt the hollow pain of something having been torn out of her. It was duller than it had felt before though.
The clock read six in the morning, but she didn’t feel like she had slept at all. She slid out of bed and let her feet touch the floor gently. She readjusted her shirt and bent down to pick up the books on the floor. She slid them into the empty shelves, creating a thudding rhythm as they hit the wall hard.
She grabbed the laundry basket from under her bed and piled the dirty clothes into it. She reached deep into the closet and pulled out a new towel. Then she grabbed hold of the small bag that she carried her shampoo and soap, and she bolted out the door.
She felt the door slam back into the frame and heard the click as she turned the key in the lock. She was running down the hall, skidding to a stop before the bathroom door. She pushed it open and turned the corner, pushing the shower stall door open and hiding behind it.
The door locked as she slid the bolt. Her towel and bag hit the floor with a thud. There was a scuffle as she fought with her clothes while trying to take them off.
The hot water hit her with a blast, then ran down her skin, burning her. She was moving fast, though, as she scrubbed the shampoo into her hair and soaped her body hard.
After she was done showering, she tried to dry her hair with her towel, even though it was soaked. She dumped the shampoo bottles and soap onto her bag, wrapped the towel around it, and headed back to her room.
She didn’t know what time the library opened, but she needed to find out.

Lotus

I could hear them fighting down below. The force of the blows on the walls traveled through the house. The house never talked, because the only time it opened its mouth was to scream. Its eyes never left you, even after you were gone. The five little birds that had come before me had disappeared years ago, and they left a deafening silence meant to be filled by happiness. Yoselin was first to go. She couldn’t stand the feelings she’d been drowning in as the hands of the house wrapped around her neck.
I lay alongside the wall, my back on the floor. I could feel the hands brush along my body, fingering the paint flaking off my skin and clothes. I brushed them off, ignoring their protests. I didn’t care about them any more. They’d lost their hold on me over the years I’d been with you. Now, I was waiting, although I wasn’t sure what for. I think I was waiting for you, but I was scared that you wouldn’t come.
Maybe that’s why I’d taken my fury and directed it against the room. I beat the walls and pounded the door, leaving marks and stains from my hands when they began to openly bleed.

The bed was next. I hunted through the dresser drawers until I found the knife. The blade was perfect, pretty and personal, deadly in the arch from the handle to the point and the weight it carried in my palms. I gripped the handle and let it sink into the mattress. I hacked away, the stuffing spilling over onto the floor, as if by massacring my bed, I could cut away the ugly parts within me.
The balance in my mind tipped, and I fell off the scales. When I awoke, it was dark. That was the end of day one. The rest of the week was a blur. Food arrived at the door twice a day, and through the open space, I could see Nicole’s face twisted with some strange emotion. The door remained locked except for those brief intervals of time. The food I was given remained untouched. I just sat against the wall, day in and day out like a broken doll, unable to move.
On day three, a set of oil paints with brushes arrived instead of dinner. On day four, I picked them up. I suppose that was when I achieved a type of mental clarity. From then on, I gave up sleep. My room became a hell-like jungle with flowers blooming on the walls. I painted the lotus again and again, its sizes varying from small to large. I guess I was trying to find a non-painful way to bind myself to you. The knife lay forgotten on the corpse of the mattress.
I painted words across the floor, the walls and ceiling. Paint crinkled and cracked as I moved my arms after it had dried onto my skin. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. I repeated those words over and over, like a spell.
I waited for the reaper to take me as a kind of punishment for everything I’d done. I gave up hope of being rescued by you. In my mind, it was a realistic fantasy.

On the seventh night, I ran out of paints and gave up my soul to the devil. I always thought that you were an angel, so in my delirious stupor, it was no surprise that you appeared in my room through the balcony doors. Maybe it didn’t seem quite real, because the moment you saw me, you began cursing. That’s something angels don’t usually do.
You picked me up and swung me down onto the ruined bed despite my protests. Maybe I fell asleep after that, or I fell unconscious from hunger and lack of water. I heard a car door slam, although I didn’t see anything. You were talking with a woman, your voices low enough for me to catch only random words. Suicide, food, school, tickets, money, address. All words leading to an escape.
The woman said thank you as I felt the car begin to move, and I thought I saw Nicole watching us as you drove away from the house. You told me to sleep, and I did.
That moment went on forever as the car slowly headed off to its destination. I felt safe with you, despite the fact that I didn’t know where we were going.

People say that heaven is full of flowers. I think that’s wrong. For hell is a garden, and its flowers bloom madly during the night. In the center, on a hill, sits a house. When you walk down the halls, you can hear ghosts whispering about the devil that haunts the building. The devil locked me in that room to pay for the sins I’ve committed. One can never fully escape from hell, though, and I’ll always pay for what I’ve done. I ripped the lotus from the walls and spread the petals across my face, crushing them into me.

The Egg Part III: Scrambled

She looked up from her table. The bells chimed. He pushed open the door.
“You’re late.”
“I know.” He pulled the chair across from her out and sat down. She smiled and he smiled. Then both of them laughed.
The waiter walked over and she asked for more coffee. He nodded to make it two. The waiter left and then came back with the drinks. She tore the lid off a container of cream and he added sugar. She then grabbed a spoon and began to stir, almost violently. He just let his cup sit there.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you getting married? Everyone is talking about it.”
“What?”
He felt like smiling, but he lacked the strength to move his facial muscles. She sat there, looking calm and composed like always. Neither of them knew how or when, but slowly, the tears began to fall.
She was crying silently as the tears rolled down her face and clung to the hair cascading down her shoulders. Her makeup began to run as it smudged and mingled with her tears, creating patterns as it dribbled down her cheeks.
He ran his fingers through his hair, catching hold and tearing through the tangles, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her. They sat there awkwardly.
All outside the café, it continued to rain, an attempt to drown out the sirens, the traffic and the voices as the neon signs blazed weakly in the gray.
Around them, the air was warm and stuffy, for the heat in the café was turned far too high. The potted plants drew flies, their soft buzz noticeable over the clanking of the silverware.
Neither of them said anything.
Slowly, once the tears had dried, she began to move, gathering her purse and swinging it up over her shoulder. He pushed back his chair, grabbed his briefcase and followed her out the door.
The bells chimed. “Thank you for coming,” floated above the traffic noise on the street.
They were holding hands as they walked down and across the road. It was the only form of relief they’d been given. The ability to go unnoticed in a crowd.
She wasn’t going to say it and neither would he. It was too delicate and strong a chain that was wrapped around them. Even though they both thought that the two of them should have been one person or had no relation at all. Then they would have been on the same playing field as everyone else at least.
God’s a bastard, though. It was still raining as they left.