start and stop.

---these are mine. and everyday i want to reach out. i imagine you reaching out. slow motion, camera scanning the room, i turn around and you are there. it will be in technicolor. if i picture it so perfectly in my head, i wonder that if by imagining the elusive i have thus eliminated the future. i have been sleeping on top of the blankets with the windows open and the curtains drawn and all my dreams are illuminated by the cold.

cut to the next scene.

a man cradling his mutilated heart thump thump thump with pulsating curiousity. it will spread, i'm going to have to amputate that, says the doctor. save what you can. no no, says the man. its all i have left.in a society that swims against the tendencies of human nature, the need to respire, to sleep, to eat, to execrate becomes accordingly more and more deliberate. the concept of absolute power and absolute beauty implies a specific pinnacle, a limit that can and will be reached. this is only a breach.


---it was late at night and we were walking; whisps of words arching over the air. sleep was set aside because these things only come around once in a while. people who get it are a rare breed.

"these are the steps that harbour secrets unkempt," he said and turned a little too eagerly. "when you look at beautiful things do they give you a kind of feeling?"

"what?" i said. "no. i don't know what you're talking about."

sometimes you do not know you are lying until the words have already left your mouth.
no was never an option, you see.


---either/or.

she grew to love the taste of lemons. at first, she despised it, but it was everywhere on her.

and at night you dream of burning embers that scorch your fingertips {only yours} and the stench of death that clings to your skin like a cloak covering, sorrounding, encompassing you {only you} and the darkness within. "I'm going to cut my conscience out" and plunge the knife directly into your heart.

except you miss. crack a few ribs instead.

murphy's law and the curse of the damned! forced to live -to remain living- endure the horrors of everday life and the neverending hum of bodies that culminate in masses on the street, screaming in dark alleys and black cats chuckling to themselves as they run by grizzled old women standing underneath ladders with death stamped upon their wasted visages.


--- it's as if there is nothing but bone and everything else is a fantasy; how it began and how it would remain. hollowed out with whisps of plasma and phantom organs doing their job. though it had been a fantasy, you did not want it manifested in reality. still, there is an intake of breath; a process both as smooth as the slide of muscle against the loin of the young and as slow as that of the old. initially, after the stun when your breath has knocked you out, there is disorientation as your face meets the gravel. eyelashes crushed in an effort to protect, cheekbones bearing the brunt and frustration; bile creeping at the base of your throat. the sticky red river overtakes the sandpaper'd skin and you are fertile brown of freshly dug graves, langorously lazing til the wake of winter's audasity. ashes that filter in from the cold and dissipate at the slightest breeze.

My protruding hip bones craved the soft touch of a female. Not the harsh rubbing of a lumpy male body. I yearned for the powdery scent of another such as myself. The void left inside me by my absent mother no longer needed to be fuled by the lack of food.

I thought I had to keep the fire burning. Keep that emptiness at the forefront of my mind. Feel my stomach lining eating itself as I idly sat back and watched my body burn itself up.
Women cared about such things as low-fat. No-fat. Low carbohydrates. No carboyhydrates. A cardboard box. It seemed to fit in with our beginnings. The temptation of the golden apple, only to be punished once consumed.

I lived daily by sacrifice. The serpent slithering through my body, whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Tempting me with the forbidden fruits of desire. I succomb ocassionally, only to live in horrific repulsion.

I want a place to call my own. He'd never understand that more-than-slight inkling of mine. I probe deeper and deeper into the flesh of uncertainty, whirling and twirling; my merry-go-round of ambivalence spins faster and faster and no carnies wait on the other end to press the red button.

I always fancied myself akin to Shakespeare's Desdemona. His dancing marionette, blinded by the passions of love. My Othello shares similar qualities to that of the scripted version.

He weeps.
He wallows.
He wonders.

And he hurts.

The first time it was merely a bruising of my wrist. A short yelp and he released me from his firm grasp. I rubbed furiously, trying to abolish the past 5 minutes which had taken me by complete surprise.

He only smiled after and brushed a stray piece of my hair behind my ear. Kissed me softly and asked me what time I would be home after work. I thought nothing of it, pushing those terrors out of my mind and banishing them to Luciferous' hell.

Cacoon.

"It's so safe here."

She stared at the cement wall, mesmorized by the sea of lights and colours dancing on the surface, the shadows moving haphazardly across the patterned texture. She clutched the mauve blanket closer, stroking its woven knit and closed her eyes.

She placed one hand on her temple, massaging the delicate skin as she rocked back and forth.

He took a step forward, arms outstretched, in an attempt to comfort her. Alas, to no avail.

She trembled when he came within an inch.

"Don't!" She screeched. The sobbing started. Tears poured out of her ducts, streaking her pale face with their salty residue.

He felt a lump in his own throat and sank to his knees.

"God, tell me what to do. What do you want me to do?" He begged, his disshelved hair falling across the fresh scar on his cheek. He winced at the contact, but brushed aside whatever pain he was experiencing. It was only about her, the woman seated before him.

She wrapped the blanket around her frail shoulders, pretending it was a cacoon and it soothed her. Hiding beneath the baracade, where no one could look upon her. No one could stare. No one could pretend to know what or who she was.

The Jig is Up.

I feel out of control. Losing my lease on a life that I fought so hard to make.

It takes over me. Sweltering heat and then a frosty chill. I no longer know what to feel or how to feel or what is expected of me.

Expectations take over. External forces of nature working their magic on my soft hands. I know they are moving in one direction and yet I push them in another, striving to work against the grain, swim into the waterfall and attempt to drown them. They squirm in the new cold, wet environment and I grimace, for I feel their pulsating vibrations reverberating through the encasing of the short hairs on my knuckles.

I push them deeper, farther, searching for a source.

I find nothing.

Frustration sets in and then anger. A flash of blinding torture as my veins are filled with an unquenchable rage. My thirst for an outlet suddenly envelopes me and I scream. A hollow sound to which there is no response. Silence for my unjustified quest.

I allow a gust of wind to carry me over the depths of the valley. Greens and reds and golds and browns pass below and I close my eyes; the waking state ends and the nightmares take over.

I always wake up shivering. As if someone has drained me, sucked out every morseful of heat that my body manages to muster up. I would perish if it weren't for those deep-set hazel eyes that send tremors down my spine.

It scared me how much one person can make me feel. In the abyss of my once aching, souless body, I had found life. Revived. For what it was worth, I could smile again. Those pearly whites came storming out of the closet, more flamboyant than any of my previously closeted gay lovers.

I fought against it though. I struggled, hoping for redemption in the depths of my guilty conscience. I knew it was wrong, I knew I was running against a torrent too strong for my undertaking. And yet, I persevered. Continued. My knuckles were scraped to the bone and bled, raw with emotion and carried with it heavy baggage that I thought I had left behind on the path to my past.

I tried to get a grip. Reclaim myself; that bitter, cynical personna I had grown comfortable with. She was a friend, a soulmate in my miserable times, and I called to her frequently. She greeted me with open arms; arms that now crush me, break me, hurt me in ways I never dreamed possible.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She'd shriek at me. If she had hands, I'd imagine them to be like the legs of a spider, long and thin, but fast and moving constantly; always in control, spinning a web of lies that sticks to me.

I'd shake my head, rid myself of her hold. For a moment, a second of pure euphoria, she would disappear. I'd have enough time to gulp in a breath of fresh air, allow the oxygen to seep through my lungs, and then she'd be back.

Physical this time.

I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I was frozen solid. All I could do was listen. I screamed, I yelled, I threw punches I hadn't attempted since self-defense class in junior high.

"You're so goddamn full of it, you know that?"

The exhilaration of careening violently down the rutted rails of a rollar coaster likened itself to the conversation I thought I was having.

I holler back, unabashed and unashamed of my words, "You just can't handle the thought of being with someone who makes you feel something other than wretched sadness. You want to live in your miserable, little shithole and close yourself off to the world. For Christ's sake, let him touch you!" My last note carries with it a small sob and now I am embarrassed to realize that a saliferous teardrop has escaped the conduit that I had sectioned off for so long.

There is a pause. It is the longest silence of my entire life, drenched in a tense barrage of unspoken enigmas.

Vacant Expressions.

He had spent half his night driving aimlessly and now, drumming his fingers harshly on the dashboard, he wondered why he wasn't utterly and completely lost.That was the problem.He knew exactly where he was. Sailing past the old gas station on the corner of Johnson and First. The tree stump where everyone and their mother's dog took a piss. The dirty alleyway where he first lost his virginity. On and on he drove, but the circular path came back to haunt him time and time again.

********

I mingle with unjustice, placing the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle in the right-hand corner, where an empty space has been visible for quite some time now.I walk down the concrete sidewalk, marveling at how my seemingly frail legs can carry me such a distance. I've walked all night along the vacant alleyways, searching for something I've only just begun to lose.

Bitting my bottom lip, I'm abruptly aware of my surroundings and shudder, a ripple effect that causes me to stumble for a brief moment. I catch myself before I hit the ground, the cold hard pavement looming before me; it suddenly seems refreshing to tumble, fall off my high horse. So I do.

Its a few minutes later before I taste the blood. A harsh, metallic sting that catches the base of my throat, leaving a pungent aftertaste that I don't wish to revisit.Its amazing how a thoughtless action can leave a profound impact on the rest of your life. That's what caused my stutter.

Abhorrence. For my stupidity.

********

It consumes, impatiently searing my soul. At first it was a tiny blimp, a small freckle on my wrist that I would flick almost hourly, rubbing toothpaste and any other home remedy I could reason myself into believing would work. It spread quickly. A virus with no cure. No doctor would take me. I didn't even try. They'd think I was crazy and lock me up. White padded walls. White like my bones. White like ivory under the ebony on a piano. The notion imposes tranquility for a fleeting moment and the demon returns.

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I grab at my throat, desperately tearing at the delicate casing which protects my vocal cords. Thick red blood oozes immediately, but I disregard the liquid substance; it is only the outer shell of the demon, trying to scare me from my own insides. He knows I have the power. He's the parasite. I'm the host. I have control. If I were the cold-blooded reptile, I would beckon to Eve as well, her soft curves would entice me; rapturous in their own flesh.

Gavin and Mae.

Her breath often reeked of liquor, so she smoked menthol cigarettes. She thought it would make the bad parts disappear but it only made her double over in dry heaves every few moments. She despised him when he preached.

"A fag's a fucking fag. If you want to kill yourself, go ahead. But at least don't smell like shit. God..."

She peered down at the cacophony of bodies infusing the busy street. Her hand joined her mouth where she sighed in the nicotine wreath wedged near her palm; a gesture knee-deep in apathy. She changed the subject. "What are people doing up at seven in the morning, anyway?"

He looked at his hands but couldn't see them. His nose wrinkled unconsciously in disgust. "They're not all nocturnal, you know."

"I know." The smoke crawled out the open window, slowly making its way toward the concrete cement below. A long pause before: "Do I make you happy?"

It overcame them suddenly, permeated the air, uninvited and raw. He lifted his eyes and turned his head to meet her stark gaze. Her skepticism was thick, and he fell back to his hands. It was safe there. He hesitated. Swallowed. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I know what that means."

He smirked. "You know everything, right?" His assertion was saturated in sarcasm.

"Jesus." She laughed, shaking her head fast until the lassitude of the alcohol kicked in. "You're th-oooo full of it," she slurred.

"Full of it?" His anger faded quickly, replaced only with self-loathing. "Fuck you, alkie."

She was quiet.

"I hate you."

"I love you, too," he said.