I got bruises on my knees when I knelt to pray on the cold floor. The redundant shaking of hands leaves my arm sore.
My fingers got burnt lighting candles of contrition. My eyes are tired from looking up for permission.
My throat is raw from confession. I have headaches from the smell of insense burned for guilty depression.
I turn the pages of the hymnal and they leave my hands bleeding. My chapped lips tremble with my prayers of pleading.
In the safety of the white building I found nothing but another lie. It seems as if this is where truth comes to die.
The book that will save me is heavy in my lap. The red words on the thin pages are starting to feel like a trap.

(unfinished)

Distant.

It’s strange to me, to think that I existed in past years. Maybe this is odd, or an indication that I should be in a mental ward. But when I look at things and see the date, I have a surreal moment. I look at the numbers, so simple and plain.
But they were years ago. In a time that exists now only in memory. How can I know it was real?
And those pictures, how do I know the face is mine? I remember, but how can I be certain? The face looks so distant, separated from myself. The date in the corner is like a different dimension. The things of that date blur and run together like melting ice cream. I can’t remember where one starts and the other ends. It scares me a little.
These moments are times in the past. Times gone. Dead. Distant. Lost.
What do I do with them? How do I reconcile them with the present? I am not sure.
Ten years ago, twelve years ago, nineteen…I don’t remember that person. I don’t know her. I wonder if she knows me. The things we could talk about if I met myself.
I think about all the years before my years. The stars in the sky. They have endured. They were there before I was born, and when I die, they will still be there. I will become dust in a coffin and they will continue to shine. It makes me feel small.
And it makes me feel young.
Time is a strange thing. Can't hold or touch it. Can't measure it or record it. It just is. And will be. And I'll forget and I'll remember. And the colors and images and people will run together. And time will know what happened.
And I might not.

I gave you too much credit. I decieved myself again.

I thought you might permit me a goodbye. An end. I wanted the music to play and the credits to roll. But you just cut the scene. Black screen. No sound.

But you forgot something.

You forgot about all the little pieces of yourself that you left behind. Take them with you. You should have left nothing.
No memories.

No reminders.

It should have been as if you never existed.

But it's not. Is it?

Now it's just a story unfinished. Forever suspended.

You know so well how it will eat at me. Devour me. A constant.

But after all the beatings, it's still ticking for you.
Always for you.

You hear me?

Always.

Portrait of Possibility

She is supposed to be reading her novel intently for the next forty-five minutes, but finds herself instead reading something else entirely. His desk is placed diagonally from hers in the stuffy classroom, allowing her a perfect profile of the fallen angel seated in front of her. His tragically beautiful face is composed of the eyes of a poet, the mouth of a rebel, the hands of a warrior; green-blue eyes with a slight gray hue to them like a puddle on the street. In these eyes there is a constant bitterness and a loneliness that causes her heart to throb. His shaggy brown hair falls across his eyes, held in place by a black hat; always the same hat. In looking at him now she can see who he is underneath his tough exterior, beneath the layers of disregard.
It must be tiring to carry the weight of his feigned indifference day after day; she can imagine the calluses it must wear upon his shoulders. He is sitting back in his chair now, relaxed yet on edge, with his eyes glued to a well-worn book. Fitzgerald, she guesses silently, maybe Salinger. He is dressed in black and white chucks, jeans adorned with rips and holes of his own creation and a tee shirt with a political message slashed boldly across his chest in bright red, she can’t tell if he made it or not. He has his black studded belt on as well, slung low on his hips, rendering his belt loops useless. She wants to remember the way he looks now; she wants to preserve it in her mind like a black and white photograph.
Gazing at him she sees a boy who’s running scared, but she also sees a man lurking beneath, a man who’s tired of running and of hiding. She sees all these things, layered upon top of each other. And while she sees things in him that she detests, they do not overshadow the things in him that she loves, the things that draw her in like a moth to the flame. The other things can be overlooked, for it is not the boy that holds her captive, but the man. All her words don’t do him justice, this man beneath. He’s thoughtful, loving, fascinating, and wild. A hero dressed in holey jeans and scuffed shoes. A wanderer flung amidst a cruel ocean of normalcy. She is captivated by the possibility bursting forth from him. He brims with potential; it spills from his strong arms and radiates from his graceful shoulders.
But what a foolish thing to lose her heart to: possibility.
It is of little importance, however, that he might never set his man beneath free. To her the existence of him is enough. He has become some kind of warped crusade, her personal mission, where points are allotted for trying. No one else cares to make the effort; no one else bothers to see him. He is classically misunderstood, or perhaps simply underappreciated. It’s not easy, she will admit that much. He excels in pushing people away and in building walls that a trained army would struggle with. It has worked for him thus far, this forced distance. However, she knows he is waiting for someone to push back. He is waiting for someone who isn’t afraid to challenge him. He is waiting for someone who will not believe him when he says he’s fine. He is waiting for someone to see through his weak façade. And she does.
Even now as he sits scrunched in his desk she can see the signs of insecurity peeking through. His posture is relatively relaxed, but his foot taps self-consciously against the floor. An untrained eye might mistake his crossed arms, with one hand holding the book casually, as confidence, but she knows that his arms are crossed with uncertainty; a half-hearted attempt to hide. She notices the dark, purplish circles under his eyes from a late night, not of studying, but of frantic writing in an attempt to make sense of the thoughts pounding in his head.
His eyes flick up to meet hers, effectively shattering her flow of thoughts. He must have sensed her staring at him. He gives her a quick grin, with a playfully questioning look illuminating his eyes. She offers a knowing smile in return, enjoying their moment of camaraderie. It’s been too long since she last saw that grin and its appearance is more than welcome, even at the temporary death of her composure. His smiles always have that effect on her, a sudden stirring of her thoughts. It’s the kind of smile that inspires poets to write and artists to paint. His lips twisted in that way create a kind of enchantment to which she hopes never to become immune.
He turns his attention back to his book, leaving her to smile down into the pages of her own once more. It is these moments that make all the others worth it. The seconds where he drops his guard are worth the days that he refuses to do so. He is worth it, no matter the obstacles she is forced to endure endlessly. The sleepless nights fraught with worry over him are worth it. Any price he would require of her she would gladly pay, if only to have him smile once again. She would give up a mundane eternity to have only this moment, this one sliver of time, forever. But the lofty gods ignore her offer and the bell rings loudly in her ears, signaling the end of class, and of the moment. As she falls into stride with him she hopes silently that this time will not be the last.