Black Bird

"Why is it not okay that I want to die? Other people are allowed to want to live, and I don't see the difference frankly."

"That's selfish," replied Mal.

"No, it's not. Everyone else is being selfish by making me feel tied to this body, to this time on earth. It's not like I feel this in bursts of emotion, but rather, philosophically I don't believe I belong here nor do I want to."

"It's selfish not to spare the mourning of so many because you're too weak."

"Weak? Weak. Heh."

"No, it's true Em. You and I both know it. The only reason you really want to die is because you think there is no purpose, so instead of fighting for a purpose you want to disappear."

"It would have been easier on everyone else if I died an infant, or before, deep in my mothers womb, and best if I had never existed in the first place."

Mal froze, " you can't mean that..."

"I can't, yet I do. My existence is irrelevant aside from the emotional connections I've made and what do those mean Mal? What do those emotional connections really collectively mean in the end? That I existed? I don't care for that."

Emory took a breath. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself or anything." She wiped a trickle of blood from her nose. "But you were right about one thing: I am weak. When this bleed stops can we just forget the nightmares and go back to sleep?"

"Since the nose bleed's not over yet.... What do you think really happened to Nadyia?" asked Mal shyly.

"If I knew I would get a lot better sleep," Emory said while refolding the cloth the use the clean side. "Mal...."

"Yeah?"

"Everything is going to be okay, you know? Sure, I don't think this suffering is worth it, but since I think you are worth it, and for some reason you don't mind the suffering, I live another day. You don't ever have to worry about being alone." Emory wiped her nose off one last time then pulled the sheets over the both of them and then turned away from Mal and pretended to be falling asleep. Instead she stared at the knots in the wood until they turned into suns above a golden field. 

In the distance, on the next hill, a silhouette burned into the horizon. Emory waved a small wave to get the person's attention. It turned toward her. It was Nadyia. It was Nadyia! Emory began to wave both arms back and forth and Nadyia seemed to see her at first but soon turned away.

"Nadyia!" she cried. "Nad!! It's me, it's me! It's Em! Please wait up!" She was now jumping up and down, but neither her words nor springing body seemed to be enough to catch Nadyia's attention.

Emory began running through the waist high weeds but there was not distance to be gained. 

"Nadyia!" she screamed hurtling over the big bushes and taking thwaps from the small ones.

In an instant Nadyia whipped around and began charging full speed straight toward Emory. As the gap began to diminish Emory realized that the shape she was so sure was Nadyia was something much darker. A petrifying fear left Emory motionless as she began to be able to make out the beast. It's face had two columns of eyes leading to it's crooked beak. 

On two limbs it raced at an alarming speed toward her; Emory turned to run, but within seconds it was ten yards away when, abruptly, two shimmering black wings unfolded from its torso. In one swift movement it lifted off the ground and penetrated Emory's abdomen with it's razor sharp talons taking her high into the sky, towards the suns. Her ears began to burst with sharp pains and as she slipped in and our of consciousness.

Emory gasped a final, painful breath and let out a scream.

She opened her eyes and realized she was sitting up in bed. Mal was still shaking her sweat drenched body.

"Stop... Stop... Stop," she managed to mutter through her heavy breathing. " I'm awake. It was just another one. I'm alright."

"Em, you're not alright. You're covered in sweat! You shot up with a blood curdling scream. And look now?! Em, you're nose..." Mal handed Emory a new rag to catch the fresh, raw blood. "You're not okay Em. Just be honest with me...."

A Wintery Flame

Bursting. Bursting. That is what my soul does against the paper.

And I love him, but my soul can't stop bursting. The shards have pierced my skin and made me rigid and misunderstood, for under that skin lies my lungs and heart barely moving because they are entangled in my soul that takes up too much space in my body. 

I held him too tight, I suppose, against my icy spikes. 

......................A Swarm of Sparkling Bees.....................

I was born to die so I laugh at the beautiful

like it were the art of a cannon ball

consumed with the idea of diving into the sun

Some things cause tears to brim in wells;

 prisms spread the light across rolling hills

but I laugh at the beautiful

queue glass finger treasure 

it's not the time but the measure

that takes you by surprise

 so high that my mind is a watery pit of flesh

together we gather it fast so the wave rushes in

and we laugh at the beautiful

key pleasure light leisure
I smile because you make me whole

Long Ride Home

On the bus I sat next to a handicap girl who danced to the overly loud music I was using to drown out the shakes. I get those sometimes, but mostly around people. They all start to look like eggs bobbling around and I hear the tension of each of their chicks scratching at the eggs' surfaces- clawing and begging to get out. The sound gets kind of numb and dull but there's a ringing inside of my head to sing out over the roar. Everything gets hot and beads of sweat form on my brow right before the nausea sets in. The tremors start in my chest as I constrict my body to try to fight back, but they ignore my defense and squirm through my appendages. Everything begins to fade into a deep well of blackness.

I shiver and my eyes burst open as I reemerge to the surface.

No one has noticed my world crashing and I am grateful.

Slug

My back is broken from the world; it collapses my spine one vertebra at a time to make me small, to make me cower before it. You see, I've lost, or at least I've been losing for quite some time, and it's not the fault of the people around me as much as they want it to be. The truth is I am mushy. I hate to move quickly, I hate to say my funny thoughts, I hate to make people think I am anything more than an equal to the chair that they are sitting in. I need a shell. I need a shell; I am mushy.

I thought I was strong, witty, and fun to be around until I remembered what I was when I was a child. I was unafraid to be ridiculous, climb too high in trees, move a little too fast, breathe hard. Everything from the era of feeling has seemed to dissipate in the monotonous days I am thrust into. I'm not so sure I like the part of me that was aged in the process. That is to say, I have more knowledge and understanding of the world but my wonder did not grow in the same sense. 

I grew up in a bamboo forest where the water rippled past and quenched my soul, and I dug deep into the earth to squeeze the grubs below. I danced in a ridiculously tribal manner swiveling around my walking and no one existed. 

I don't want to be old, and I want to stop getting older because it hurts. While my bones are achy, it gets much worse: I can feel the anxiety of just having to exist in a world I don't fit into piercing my rib cage with such vigor. I've always known that my body would age in a grim way, but I never imagined my emotions to age in such a way as this. Everything sparks this dim hatred, this feeling that I am serving men who don't deserve it. 

I want to make something beautiful on its own, not something I create in response to the suffering being inflicted on me. There is already a natural order of suffering, so why do men take it upon themselves to amplify the pain in every one of us? Pain is treated like a common place event when it doesn't have to be. 

As humans we have to deal with loss constantly, which is something that is inevitable and what makes us all the same. Loss is a natural thing because time and age does exist and we get wiser in this measurement. The unnatural suffering is derived from what is taken from us and while a majority can relate to this, is it something that can so easily be diminished if the greed of the minority was wiped away with it. 

I am here to love and be loved.

I am here to smile and make people smile.

I am fighting for that, but I have been turned into a slug that people are waiting to throw salt on because I move slowly and stick to my surroundings. I don't take a definite shape of the culture therefore I must be ugly. I must be. 

Woman Warrior

It was amazing.

I looked in the mirror and saw a woman.
I've never noticed age in such a way in myself.
My brain in unraveling, swelling and convulsing.
But I, I am a woman.

What's that writing on your everything?