State of Rampant Regret & Superfluous Earthquaking Shivers

You unnerve me.
You make me question myself.
You make me feel like I'm on a roller coaster,
            careening into the Grand Canyon,
            about to fall off of the tracks.

I am over-analyzing your words;
actions, phrasing, tone.

Its not that I miss the 'us' that we were once,
its not that I miss your kiss,
its not that I want you back in my life.
            The hell am I doing?
            The fuck are you doing to me?

Now we are strangers.
And I over-think you.

I remember when you were all I dreamed about.
A vampire that I brought to stunning life,
a whisper in the shadows of my fucked up mind.
            I loved you, for some reason.
            Reasons I try not to remember, or can't remember.

La Douleur Exquise

I shouldn't let you break my heart.

Looking through old pictures, my heart always skips a beat.
It does a funny little flop in my chest,
like a fish out of water,
like a bird hitting a window,
like all those silly cliches we play with in school.

I shouldn't let myself feel this way about you.

What I tell my heart and what I feel are two different things.
It has always been this way,
I fall for you,
You let me fall,
I hit the ground with a sickening thud; bone crunch.

I shouldn't hold on to you, when its clear what you feel.

Have to laugh sometimes, or else I'd cry.
All I have are memories,
Long forgotten "I love you,"
Teenaged wishes,
A few glasses of gin and tonic in Seattle.

In the end, I'm a stupid girl for chasing dreams.

What a stupid heart, to keep longing for you like it does.
I should've let you go quietly,
drift into the memory landscape,
fade into distant dreaming,
instead you're lingering around the edges, a ghost without being dead.

I know what I should do, doesn't mean I can convince myself to do it.

Aren't you tired of me always falling for you?
Is there any way to break me of your habit?
If I keep breaking my heart on your skin,
If I keep drifting on your oceans,
If I keep dreaming of your lullaby heart beating?

Help me. Put me out of my misery.

Give me something to cut my teeth on.
Maybe if I taste your bittersweet, I'll let you go.
We both know I have no self-control.
I have no shame, except when I do.
I have no belief, except when I dream.
Fuck. Can't you remove yourself in a way that will heal?

All of Her: Chapter One (Final Edit?)

Chapter One: Heartbroken
I know I said this wasn't running away, but I find myself running. I need to find Noah. Not 'want,' need. My feet are tattooing his name into the pavement. My heart is racing my lungs; a hideous lump is forming in my esophagus. My chest is heaving and my mind is in overdrive. I just keep thinking that if I could just get to Noah everything will be okay. He'll wake me up from this nightmare. He'll be able to to comfort me. Not that I am capable of being comforted.

I think my heart is going to explode. I am in physical pain so intense I may double over before I get to him. At the beginning curve of his apartment complex's entrance, I have to stop. I've been running for an hour and I can't breathe anymore. My shirt is soaked with sweat and sticking to my back. My hair is plastered to my face and neck.

And then, because this seems like the appropriate moment, the tears come. I stand there, on the corner, bawling like a crazy person, unable to see straight or breathe between gulping sobs.

Beyond all reason, Noah is walking his dog toward the park, which is just up the block from where I am standing. I don't even have voice enough to call out to him. As if he heard my thoughts, he looks up and sees me. He doesn't even pause; he starts running, barely waiting for Bett, his doberman, to catch up. I can't even limp to close the distance. I don't have to, however, because within a moment I am completely wrapped in his arms.

"Abra, honey, what's wrong?" he looks at me and holds me tighter. He murmurs into my hair, "Honey, please, you're scaring me. What happened?"

I can't respond. I can't catch my breath between sobs. I'm trembling violently; at any moment my body may fly to pieces. That lump building in my throat floods my mouth. Feebly, I manage to push away from Noah just enough to lean over and throw up. Reflexively, he pulls my hair back and moves to prevent Bett from eating it.

I keep heaving, despite my stomach being empty. I fear that, at any moment, I'll see my broken heart land in the puddle of vitriol at my sneakered feet. Noah holds my hair, muttering in a soothing way. I can't hear him over the pounding of my heart in my head.

After what feels like an eternity, I stop heaving. Straightening up, I take the first deep breath I've had since I started running. I look at Noah, concern etched into his black eyebrows and filling up his blue eyes with shadows. Absently, I notice that his glasses are smudged from where he was holding me.

"He's in love with her." I say, after several deep breaths.

"Who is in love with whom?"

"David and Alice." I choke out, my stomach tightening in warning. He doesn't say anything, just gathers me up in his arms and holds me. We stand there for a little bit, my face streaked with tears and Bett looking at us quizzically. Without knowing how it happened, we are walking back to his apartment. Once inside, I sit, cross-legged, on his 1970's style, burgundy, shag carpet. Bett rests her head in my lap and I stroke her ears, distractedly.

In the kitchen I can hear Noah making tea. This is how he deals with a crisis. Whether its a break-up, a bad grade in a test; it doesn't matter. Tea holds all the answers. He comes out of the kitchen, two steaming mugs of, what smells like, Earl Grey and a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips hanging from his teeth.

He sets one mug on a black and white coaster in front of me before he takes the bag of chocolate chips out of his mouth.

"I'm out of any other chocolate," he says, apologetically. "I've got some left overs if you are hungry. Though I'm sure your stomach is still a mess."

He pushes my tea closer to me. I take a sip, but am not really enjoying it like I normally would. I feel so out of sorts.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks, his voice cautious.

Do I want to talk about this? Can I? Do words have any meaning in a situation like this?

"He says he is in love with her. I've been tossed to the side. What more is there to say?"

Noah says nothing, simply placing his hand on mine.

No Parade
When I was twelve I met a boy. This boy was the most gorgeous, most intelligent, most wonderful boy I had ever met. It was obvious that I would fall for him. I was an awkward girl, not what anyone would consider pretty, at least in my own opinion. He was the first boy to say I was pretty. And I loved him.

Ten years passed, finding me sitting in the rectory of the church. I was about to marry the man of my dreams. A boy I loved since I was twelve. A boy I longed for with everything I had for so long I had nothing left to give. That beautiful, intelligent, wonderful boy leaves me waiting in the rectory. He leaves me waiting before the priest and God. He leaves me in my white dress and tiny white veil, my cream-colored roses and sprigs of baby's breath wilting.

He left because he had fallen in love with Alice. My childhood best friend. And, behind my back as I planned my wedding and my beautiful life with him, he planned a beautiful life with her. The most terrible of terrible things is I should've known, I should've seen it coming. How did I not notice how often they whispered to each other. Or how they sometimes gazed at one another? But I loved two beautiful stars in orbit around my sun.

I didn't know that I was the star orbiting their sunlight.

I am a fool.

I was humiliated. The church took pity on me and gave back the money I spent to have the ceremony there. The caterer was not so generous. I did get to keep all sixteen pounds of chicken and five pounds of cake. Isn't that sad though?

All of my calls were forwarded to voicemail. I must've left a dozen messages. They ranged in tone from completely calm to barely coherent sobs. Finally he agreed to meet me on the beach. How funny is it that its the spot where he proposed three years ago?

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, his hair disheveled from the wind. He looks so perfect. I love him. I hate him.

"I want you to say you love me and you're going to marry me. I can forgive all this. I can." I tried to sound even-keeled. To sound like this is all a misunderstanding and he has never once faltered.

"I can't do that." he said.

"Why?" I don't cry. I want to.

"I told you once that I loved Alice." he said. Cut to the quick, I glared at him.

"Loving someone and being in love with someone are two different things, David. You never said you were in love with her."

"I was in love with her. I'm still in love with all of her."

That fateful sentence. Those jarring 25 letters.

As I ran to Noah's, I kept seeing his face; that face I have memorized longingly for the past ten years. I kept hearing him say those eight words, like some nightmarish lullaby.

He didn't even hesitate. Did he ever love me? Was I anything to him?

Nothing else matters
Noah clears his throat, jarring me out of my memories.

"What will you do now?" he asks. To be honest, I have no idea. Blow something up? Binge drink margaritas until I bust from alcohol poisoning? I should think a minute before I do something rash.

"Listen to a bunch of sad break-up songs and commiserate with a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream? I really don't know what else to do. I feel like I lost a limb. Something is missing."

He squeezes my hand in sympathy. I know he would fix it if he could. But we both know he can't fix this one. Not even with his dry wit, Earl Grey tea and all the ice cream in the world.

"Do you want to stay the night here?" He is searching my face for any sign that I'll fly off the handle and kill someone. Or myself. He doesn't need to worry, yet.

"No, love. Thank you. I think I'm going to go home. I want a shower and some alone time. Do you care to drive me back to my car?"

The short ride back to my car is quiet. The only sounds are air rushing through the rolled down windows and Bett's happy panting as she sticks her head out. Noah gives me one last hug, kisses my cheek and drives off. I stare at the blurred line of the horizon for what feels like eternity. Its dark, barely a sliver of moon in the sky.

I'm going to be alone, I realize. Perhaps I should've stayed with Noah. Before I can think about it too much I find myself driving back to my apartment.

When I get there, David has already been there getting some of his things. A note taped to the fridge says he'll be back to finish packing up. It says he's sorry, but he can't love me with only half of his heart.

I sigh, heavily. I am too tired to cry now. Kicking off my shoes, I trudge into the bedroom. Some of the drawers are still open and the place looks like a tornado went through. In his hurry, he has left a few t-shirts, boxers and two pairs of tennis shoes. I pad around the room picking up miscellaneous items he has tossed to the floor.

While doing this I spy the shirt he was wearing earlier. I can't help myself. I pick it up, press it to my face and find tears rolling down my already puffy face.

How can I live without him? How can I even begin to start over? I have devoted the past ten years of my life to this man. I've given him everything. My heart, my life, my virginity. How could it have all gone so wrong? I sink to the floor, still clutching his shirt to my tear soaked face. I don't care that my mascara is running and that I have snot dripping from my bright, red, nose. I don't care that he may come in and see me falling completely apart. I don't have the strength to lie to him about it.

Somehow I muster the strength to stand and put his dirty clothes in the washing machine. I go into the living room and turn on the CD player. Unfortunately, every song depresses me further. I go back to my room and stare at the queen sized bed. It seems so much bigger now that I'll be sleeping alone.

Part of me wishes David would walk in and see the mess I am. I'd tell him that I'll never be over him. I could never possibly get over him, no matter how hard I tried. I refuse to be happy for him either. Not for him and most certainly not for Alice. Even if they are happy together.

I spend my night on the couch, trying to find some semblance of sanity to cling to. I try pulling myself together. And I fail at it; miserably. I don't really sleep. I drift, but I do not dream. I just sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, my cheek resting on one knee.

Things have to get better eventually. Right?

Twitter Prose (a piece posted originally on Twitter)

Living all year for the tax money,
suburban alcoholism,
climbing a hill of seashells that stab your feet.
This is an awful kind of reality.

Words

   hurt     wasting    hate     breathless
   heart    time       kiss     screaming
   pain     wishing    embrace  dreamed
   longing  stars      crying   lost
waiting   friend   resolve    alone
hoping    love     never      forgotten.

Would you want me to?

I won't cry.
I keep saying I'll stop.
Maybe I scare you.
Maybe I'm too much.

I blame myself.
Its always my fault...
when I am left.
How foolish to think you'd be different.

They all leave in the end.
Its inevitable.
And I'm always the dust,
settling into the cracks.

I'm different. I admit that.
Was my difference the final
nail?
I won't apologize for that.

I can't help that I love
too passionately. That I'm
crazy. That I long for stars
too far from the earth of my body.

Was it my love that sent
you running? Was it the Cheshire
Cat of my personality?
I can't apologize for who I am.

Would you want me to?

The Things We Claim

Flowers in your beard,
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...

Those are the memories I own.

The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...

Those are the things I miss most.

Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...

Those are the things I remember.

The First Time.

It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?

His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.

I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.

"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.

"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.

His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.

The Lie

"Excuse me," said a wiry man, his arms full of parcels in festive prints.

"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.

The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.

"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.

"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.

"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.

"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."

Scarlett

It was her lipstick. It wasn't subtle, much like the wearer. It was bright and loud, proclaiming just as much as her words. When she walked in the room everyone stared, locked on her lips as she passed.

"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.

"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.

She was dressed for battle.

The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.

"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?

He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.

It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.

Relationships.

At the beginning it was sex and candy,
whiling away all of our hours on Marcy's playground.
We dreamed in disco flavoured lemonades,
pouring all of ourselves into the world.

In the middle we were a year full of ninths,
building crescendos and falling notes.
The ticking clocks became symphonic, symbolic,
dipping down and screaming back up.

At the end the life we built in Eden had changed,
I painted pictures you couldn't see.
You said the angels had shifted their faces,
you'd forgotten the chorus to our melodies.

All of Her: Prologue (Alternate Version)

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?

She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.

How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?

"I'm still in love with all of her."

"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.

"I didn't say anything."

I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.

"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"

The gall. The absolute gall.

"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."

Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.

"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.

She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.

"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."

He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.

All of Her: Prologue (Edit #?)

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.

His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?

Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?

She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?

The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.

How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?

"I'm still in love with all of her."

"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.

"I didn't say anything."

I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.

I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.

"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

The gall. The absolute gall.

"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."

Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.

"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.

She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.

"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."

I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.

I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?

I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.

The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.

Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?

Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.

Now I'm just rambling.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.

He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.

The Meaning of being the Fat Girl

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."

Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.

Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."

Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.

Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.

Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."

Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."

Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."

Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.

Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.

Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?

Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."

Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.

Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.

Imperfect God

I am not looking to be saved.
Nor, am I looking to be rescued.

I don't need someone to come in and die for my sins.

I need someone who is willing to stand by me through the hard times.
I need someone who is willing to hold my hand through the worst times.

I don't need a God that exists somewhere in the ether.
Possibly listening to me,
Maybe answering,
Maybe not.

Maybe forgiving,
Maybe hateful,
I don't need that.

I need someone who can be God in flesh.
Someone who forgives me,
Someone who loves me,
Someone who takes care of me.
And who is willing to stand by me no matter what happens.

I don't need omnipotence.
I need closeness.
I don't need foreknowledge of what's going to happen.
I need... I need vision.

I need vision to look forward and say,
"Maybe this will happen and maybe it won't, but, no matter what happens, I'll be here."

And the God in Christianity doesn't give me that.
The God of Islam does not give me that.
Buddha doesn't give me that.
None of the Gods give me that.

None of the Gods are FLESH.

I need someone who can hold me when I'm crying.
I need someone who can wipe my tears away.
I need someone to be in love with;
Not just metaphorically speaking.

I don't need righteousness.
I don't need blessedness.

I need fallibility.

I don't want perfect.
I'm an imperfect being.
I want an imperfect God.

Its so much easier to love a God who has fallen short,
than it is to love one who has never fallen at all.

The Dragon King: Part Two

The dragon city was a breathtaking display of the ingenuity of its creators. A spiraled staircase, carved with runes in the wyvern tongue, seemed to be the only way down, as well as the only way to reach a network of tunnels which traversed more than two realms and went down just as many fathoms. The walls, along the stairs, were ingrained with shimmering crystals that eerily resembled eyes and the steps, themselves, were encrusted with gems as well as symbols.

Faolán, the queen’s champion, taking note of the sconces hanging from the walls, put his torch to the tinder and watched in amazement as the abyssal labyrinth came alive. Sconces, at least three levels below them, began to twinkle with star-like bursts of light. The company marveled at the beauty of the ancient city, breathless in their awe. It was unlike anything they had seen before and it was far less than what they had been told in the legends. The queen fluttered down to stand beside her favored knight, her small hand resting on his shoulder as they gazed out over the immensity of it.

Spanning the chasm were golden bridges connecting the myriad of landings. Each bridge opened the way to new tunnels, and with these channels, were alabaster cities trimmed with sapphires or rubies. Every passage seemed to hold a wholly separate kingdom, utterly abandoned and all more beauteous than the next. The darkness beneath them shone like the starlit heavens and every entrance held a beckoning new world.

At the forefront, prodded by blunted staves, stumbled a dryad witch, a captive of the faery court. She looked up with wondering eyes, wishing for even a glimpse of light from the outside world. Her henna coloured skin was smattered with bruises and tattoos. The bruises were, by far, the most noticeable, a result of the poking staves and the leather straps used to bind her at night. Her hair, chartreuse and wildly unkempt, was braided with feathers and wilting flowers. Her teal eyes darted nervously, searching for any chance of escape and her cracking lips mumbled prayers to unknown gods. Though it was unnaturally warm within the old city, she shivered, hugging herself as she walked, thirsty for just a flash of golden sunlight.

When they had traveled for a day and a half, the ocular stones judging their progress, they came to the first of many large landings. Consulting with her companions, the queen called for camp.

“Halt.” Cried the melodious voice. The company came to a full stop, a guard jerking the dryad to a standstill and turning her so that she faced the voice.

Aysel, the faery queen, slowly floated to the ground, the hem of her orchid petal gown brushing against the basanite floor. She waved away an attendant and stalked toward the witch, her plum coloured eyes blazing with fear and anger. Her wings, pale pink gossamer and as delicate as a butterfly’s, flowed behind her like water and a strand of her apricot hair slipped from its place in her intricate styling. She grasped the dryad’s chin in her hand, forcing her gaze upward.

“Where shall we find the dragon king, sorceress?” She asked, her grip tightening, slightly, on the dryad’s chin.

“If we find the underground ocean, milady, we will find the dragons.” Twisting, she tried to escape the fierce grip of the faery queen. Aysel tightened her hold, like a vice.

“If I find that ye have lied to me, Kiri,” she said, ominously. Within the caverns something seemed to echo the unspoken threat beneath her words, startling her into letting go of the witch’s face. Glancing into the sparkling void, she shivered and retreated to her stewards. As she went, a look passed betwixt her and Faolán, then quickly vanished. Yet, it did not go unnoticed by Kiri or the crystal eyes.

“We shall make our encampment here,” said the queen, holding herself very straight and aloof. “When the hourglass has emptied thrice we shall depart and continue along this path.”

Following his lady toward where the guards busily began to create a makeshift tent, Faolán glanced around. The landing provided a crossroad, of sorts, but it left the company open to an attack from all angles. He bit his tongue, reminding himself that they need only fear attack from above. It was clear that nothing kept residence in the caverns, not anymore. Bearing this in mind, Faolán approached his queen and gently pulled her aside.

“Your majesty, ‘tis not the wisest judgment to encamp here. ‘Tis nigh indefensible. T’would be better to take up residence in yon corridors.”

“And be trapped with no hope of escape? Nay, good Faolán, we shall camp here.”

“My lady, we are out in the open, entirely unprotected.”

“Aye, we be in the open, but we have room if we are to run.” The queen turned away, looking over her people and sighing. Taking her hand, the champion pulled her toward a dark corridor, out of sight.

“Aysel,” he began, but she waved her hand to silence him.

“Nay, I shall hear no more. We have been marching, nay, fleeing, for almost two days, Faolán. The men are exhausted. I am tired. We must rest. And I would have us rest where we have at least a chance of escaping if there be trouble.”

“Pray, Aysel, what wilt thou do if we find the fabled ‘prince of dreams?’” He looked down at her, his black curls serving to accentuate the dark look in his vibrantly blue eyes. He was troubled. The desire to serve, to protect his queen from any harm, was at war with his disbelief in tales of old.

“I know not.” She replied, the words leaving her lips in defeat and resignation.
Taking her in his arms, the faery knight held his queen, burying his face in her sweet smelling hair.

“Ah, my sweet, Aysel,” he sighed, breathing her in. “Ever shall I protect thee with my very life.”

They stood there for only a moment before he was forced to let her go. Distantly, he could hear a voice calling for her. As she walked away, he asked her,

“Wouldst thou have a small troupe of men, and myself, to scout our position?”

She did not look back at him, only nodded her acquiescence. Retreating to a small pavilion, hastily erected by her men, Aysel began laying out the maps of the Caverns of Omra. She studied the tracings, feverishly searching for any short-cut or secret passage that might lead her to the dragon king. All the while Faolán’s words, and the threats of Emyr, played war with the fear racing through her veins.

It had been a week’s time since Emyr had stalked into her court and commanded her to be his wife or suffer his wrath. It had been, at least, that long since she’d had the dryad witch kidnapped and brought to court as prisoner. She looked down at her locket, a gift from the goddess of the moon, and paused before opening it. Immediately the locket began to glow, showing only a sliver of silver. It had been three days since Emyr sent a missive demanding her surrender by the end of the lunar cycle. She had one more night, before her time was up, and she did not doubt that the goblin king was already on his way to retrieve her.

The Dragon King: Part One

The faery knight stood guard at the mouth of the cavern. The entrance of the abandoned dragon city glowed, eerily, in the moon’s pale light, causing the young chevalier to nervously flutter his iridescent wings. As a man-at-arms in the court of Lua, it was not the moon that unnerved him. Rather it was the things that could lurk in the shadows, and escape the moon’s wandering gaze, that caused him disquiet.

It was folly to be here, he thought. The whole quest was lunacy. He would never express such doubts to the Queen, but her obsession with awaking the dragon king was bordering on insanity. He was not the only courtier whispering behind their wings about the queen’s odd behavior, either. The court had been buzzing with rumours, for at least a season, and the capture of the dryad witch had only increased them. Sighing, he leaned against the polished jet archway, his wings rustling, in a slightly irritated way, in the cool breeze. Who was he, after all, to question the actions of his queen?

Out of the darkness came a low, menacing, growl, snapping him out of his thoughts and to attention. Dropping down, he edged against the wall, slowly drawing his weapon. His wickedly curved scimitar slid slowly from the sheath, the sharpened edge faintly glistening. The growls grew louder, followed by the sound of teeth gnashing and the war cries of goblins. From the silver-leafed trees strode Emyr, the Goblin King, his obsidian bow drawn and arrow nocked. He was followed, closely, by a horde of goblin warriors, many of them astride the hairless wolves of the Cristal Mountains, carrying the meticulously honed bones of fallen enemies.

The goblin king stopped, raising a long fingered hand to halt the army. The moon hid behind dark gray clouds, as if she were frightened, blotting out the stars and casting the earth into shadows. Emyr’s long, colourless, hair seemed to glimmer in the sudden, and complete, darkness and his eyes gleamed like icy gold. He raised his bow, aiming into the lightless void of the cavern’s mouth. His keen sight fell on the frantically beating heart of his prey and he smiled, wickedly.

“The queen expects to awaken the dead and defeat me?” he hissed, his nocked arrow glittering green with poison. The faery chevalier said nothing, believing himself hidden from view. He held his weapon in front of him, as if it would shield him further from the horde. His wings spread out, fully unfurling, their colour shifting to the black of the cave’s outer walls. Thinking himself still concealed, the knight crept toward the inner corridor of the dragon city.

Again Emyr smiled, his jagged teeth capped with sharpened gemstones, and let the arrow fly. Moving too late to escape, the dart embedded itself in a muscle, betwixt the heart and shoulder, of the target.

He looked surprised for only a moment before he began to convulse from poison. He clawed at the arrow, choking and spewing pink flecked foam. A small trickle of blood dripped from his eyes, as though he were crying, and he collapsed in a twitching heap. Nonplussed, the goblin king strode forward, stepping over the fallen carcass, and entered the Caverns of Omra.

The Boundaries (Trigger Warning)

I have no sexual boundaries. No idea what a healthy sexual relationship entails.
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?

My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.

I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.

The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.

You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."

But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.

And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.

I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."

Walking through Eden

I pick at everything. Every imperfection on my skin is made worse by the constant need to pick at it. I can't stop myself from doing it. Its a remnant from when I would slice my skin to let something inside me out. I pick, pry and pull until the imperfection has become a permanent fixture to my landscape. Then I look at myself and curse at the scars.

I used to be proud of my scars, because they were me. They were a permanent reminder of where I had come from, what I had survived.

Now, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed of my face, my skin, my body. I feel like Eve in Eden, suddenly naked and fully aware, exposed to the face of God and wondering how I ended up like this. It feels like I am doing the walk of shame to the gates of Eden, all the beautiful people pointing and laughing as I'm escorted out by the angel Michael. I look at my feet.

I've never stood as tall as I could, for fear I'd be beaten back down. I took those beatings, those scars and I made them my own. Some days, it feels like they own me.

I fall into the thinking pattern that no one could ever love me just as I am. Though I'm married and have been with the same man for five years. I fall into step with the thoughts from my childhood, the thoughts that led to making scars. The belief that who I am is nothing because I am not beautiful and I never will be.

I mourn the face in the mirror. The one that was beautiful once, when I couldn't recognize the beauty, and is now pock-marked with acne and scars.

I can find no worth within, because I'm so out of place in this "Eden." I used to refuse make-up because if someone couldn't accept me as I was they didn't deserve me with make-up. Now all I want to do is hide the scars with a pound of foundation, smooth all the ugliness from my inner turmoils.

Its different when its you. Its so easy to be a feminist, to fight against the myth of beauty, to tell someone they are beautiful. Its not easy when its you.

Kool-Aid

You tasted of kool-aid in the summer of my youth. A sparkling flower plucked in the prime of its bloom. You tasted so sweet in those days. Your words were even sweeter, dripping off your tongue like honey from the comb. You spoke like the angels sing. You kissed me like I was the only heart you had ever held.

And I fell for you. I fell in love with your kool-aid kisses and it would be forever summer.

You tasted like past lovers in the autumn of my youth. The leaves beginning to yellow and bloody in the waning light. You tasted of familiarity and old memories. Your tone had changed, no longer as sweet, but familiar to me. You spoke like fairy tales, comforting. You kissed me like I was someone you once knew.

And I loved you still. I fought for the peace we had held, like lightning bugs, at the end of summer.

You tasted like bitter fruit in the winter of our youth. Our hearts lay like roses beneath the snow. You no longer kissed me in the twilight of our relationship. Your words were few and the silences more telling than any word. You spoke like the shovelful of dirt on the casket of our love. The last kiss you gave me was like a needle through my heart.

And I loved you still. Though we fell apart, crumbling like the words we said when you tasted like kool-aid.