Anodyne

If steel could shatter, she’d have splintered long ago.  Her pieces scattered across the bathroom floor and it’s gotten to a point where, even if she had known how to put herself back together, she wouldn’t have bothered.  Not because she hates herself, but because she honestly doesn’t care.  She can’t.  Machines don’t know how.

This is an Apology

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for so many things.

Somebody to Love

“The trouble is not that I am single and likely to stay single, but that I am lonely and likely to stay lonely.”
-Charlotte Brontë

This is Untitled Because I'm Tired and I Can't Think and Things Hurt Too Much Right Now

I want to write so desperately, but nothing comes out sounding good.  Not even remotely appealing.  I’ve never bothered with any literary devices.  Never given a thought to formal patterning, hyperbole, sensory detail.  I don’t make how I write a science, and I hardly ever edit, it’s just whatever sounds good.

Such is the Winter

I long for winter.  It exposes the stark reality of what hides behind and beneath layers of frivolous pretensions.  Naked and bare, there’s no point in even trying to evade the cold, the all-seeing eyes that thrive quietly in the wilderness.  Stripped, devoid of ornament and decoration, the superficial coverings have fallen away under the overwhelming pressure of frequent, icy embraces.  Skeletons, reaching towards the heavens and branching out into crooked, ugly shapes.  Withered fingers.  Without their billowy, flattering garments, the trees look emaciated and sickly, more fit for firewood than attractive landmarks.  The snow, if it can be called a comfort, is a suffocating presence despite the thinness of the air.  Breathing can be painful, like swallowing the sparks from a firecracker, or silver pins.  And don’t expose your skin, lest you desire the sensation of a tattoo needle embedding invisible ink into sick flesh long since pale.  The sun has gone into hiding, and when it does show, the light is bleak, frail, and might as well have stayed behind the grey slate of the hard clouds for all the heat it imparts to the chilled.  The stillness of the day is only rivaled by the catacomb silence of the night, where even the tiniest trill shatters the eardrum and cracks the tempered iron surface of the dead air, and is swallowed whole by the greedy hush, leaving one to wonder if there was ever a sound at all.  Such is the winter, such are the days where life stops living in order to hide itself from the horrors of existence in a final attempt to salvage itself, to repair itself quietly, hidden from the eyes of the world.

This is Fantasy Guy

I see Fantasy Guy one day each week for a minute, maybe two or three if I’m putsy and find excuses to be loitering around.  And sometimes it’s once every two weeks.  I know his name.  And that he has a girlfriend.  But that’s Real Guy.  Fantasy Guy is different.