Right Around

It pulls tight. I cannot tell who has done this.

It feels scratchy and still. Strong in weight.

It is the option that no one wants to hear.

A feeling of death and vagrant justice.

When there are no more roads that can be traveled,

When there is no future to the present.

This moment that needs to happen.

Are you ready?

It will hurt. And you know it well.

This is not a trust exercise, but a mortality question.

Who are you to be alive and who are you to be dead?

Toes ache with pain, putting immense strain tiptoeing,

Who in my life- our life – that stands in the way?

From my happiness. My everything. That blockade.

Are you prepared?

I know that it is the right thing. The only thing.

Is this what should happen? No.

But my body craves silence. Craves an end to a whirlwind.

It doesn’t recognize the settled dust for what it is.

It creates new dust, new mess, new things to clean up.

I am tired, I guess.

Just let it come to an end.



In a Corner of a Closet (Death Part I)

Death is a funny concept. I have thought about it all my life. What is life anyway? I have thought about death for many years and its relation to the world we live in. I understood that death was something that happened to people and animals. I understood that by leaving this world, you leave behind many things. When I was little, I often wondered who would take my Barbie dolls or my money that I saved up in a plastic heart-shaped box with a flimsy plastic lock. I would tell my siblings but they would joke around with the idea telling me that they would take my things after I was gone. But I would feel strange. Like my thoughts weren’t normal. Like constantly wondering about your own death and the repercussions that it would have were something normal little girls would not think about. I didn’t like to joke around with death but I did like to think about the emotions associated with it. Was it strange? Freaky and unnatural?

I think about my mortality every day, regardless of mood. However, mood helps me realize what kind of death I think about. A relatively good or neutral mood might conjure up the death of others and how I would cope with the idea of a stranger, a friend, or a family member being deceased. But a bad mood is a different story. A bad mood spirals hate and self-loathing. In other words, my death.

When you think about suicide most people cringe and call you mentally ill. When you over-think a way or a time that you would not like to die, people say you have anxiety. But when you really truly believe that life is given to you when you think it should go to someone else more deserving… then that is a whole other subject. What does that even make you? A humble person? No… An altruistic person? (In some way) Probably not… A depressed person? Possibly… An undeserving person? Sounds right… An ungrateful person? Maybe… The list can drag on and on. No certain answer. I have felt this more recently: Why life chose me? And am I doing the best I can with it? I would also say no to the latter. I feel like giving someone my skin and flesh in exchange for their own. But the cycle would just continue for me. Until I am lower and lower on the ranks of humanity. Until I could possibly not take it anymore. (But I probably would stick it out because of my personality.) And perish out of my lack of satisfaction with life.

There are deep feelings and words that I cannot share with you today. I cannot see life as an option sometimes when I know that I cannot save a life of another. Maybe I just want them to replace me. What if I were able to make that happen? What if they turn out to be a bad person? What if they don’t? They walk around with my body and are free to do whatever they want to it. Unsettling thoughts. Relieving thoughts.

The only out-of-body experiences I’ve had were in a couple of dreams. They felt right somehow. I have watched many things in my life. I feel like the voyeur and not the main actor. I would screw up my lines and laugh too much. Not an accomplishment, but it sums up many of the accomplishments that I have made.

So live your life. Look at your face and body. Inspect your hands. This is real. And it is really happening.


The Swirling Deep

There are certain situations that need not be told. Certain feelings not uncovered without reason or need. Some things are kept in a bottle as a life line. Parchment paper with a note of a supplication in life-threatening proportions sealed in a dirty glass bottle. The waves ebb it out to sea. The flow gets it to an unsuspecting man or woman who may or may not care. Urgency is of the essence, but no one seems to care as much as the one who birthed the bottle from the beginning. People may come and help, but it will most likely be too late. The ocean will most likely have half-eaten the one who wrote the plea. The swish of the sea evidence on their body. Perhaps a creature, of water or land, already devouring the poor soul. But tides bring in new days. New jetsam. New storms. New bodies. And then the process of survival starts again. Only difference is that there is no telling those who will survive and those who will not be able to survive.

The wrath of his anger came towards her. Those menacing steps. Each with a certain weight, a distinct sound, a recognizable rhythm. She knew that her time of peace was over. She knew that things were going to be very different when the footsteps reached her door. She took a quick breath. She was doubtful that the door would be able to hold up against what’s to come, never mind the doorknob. She thought about what could happen. All the bad scenarios in her mind. He had broken down the door before. But this was a newer door. Hide. She could hide under the bed again. Too bad her hair has gotten longer since the last incident. The closet was too obvious and vulnerable. She could hear yelling now. Yelling about her. Defend. She looked around for any potential weapons. Why had she not thought of that before? Oh, right, the fear of overpowering her and using it against her. She did that around one of the first times and regretted it. Phone. She could call the police and threaten that they would come. But if he gets arrested, then his brothers might come after her. They have told her so and had almost raped her as a warning. Internet. She could record everything on her computer so the world would watch. Embarrass him and his family. She could give the footage to news stations that would take it. But what if she doesn’t live to be able to do so? What if she dies in the process and destroys the evidence? She could hear his anger clearly down the hall now. Her name being called for with cuss words following. She heard a big object clank against the walls. Fear now engulfed her. How can she think? She knows something bad will happen to her being. To her soft body. Another blow to her innocence and peace of mind. Suicide. Don’t give him the satisfaction of beating you. Let it all go now. The suffering to end before it starts. She only had a dull pocket knife and a sturdy leather belt in the room. The door starts banging. He is screaming for her to open the door. The object is deafening against the door protecting her from certain pain. Sound like a wooden block of some kind. The option of death seems to comfort her, but should she hang herself now? Moments from the door being taken down? Run. She could make a run for it. she could trick him and run away. She will have to bet that no one is in the house who could side with him. But can she get away? She has obviously tried in the past, with little luck. She can use the belt as a distraction. Or perhaps perfume? The doorknob is now broken. He has seen her.

What she does now will decide her fate. Will she survive?