We’re sitting there. 

Just my head on his shoulders, 

just my voice in his ears. 

Sharing everything. Absolutely everything,

as if for the first time my truths can breathe their own air. 

As if for once my shadows don’t seem so dark.

In that instant everything is right, 

and it’s just me and him and our truths

because when we’re this close there is no space for our usual lies,

 no room for doubt between our fingertips. 

Clasped tight; secure. 

No time for despair because all we have is now,

and now is perfect and now is fleeting. 

And now will never be again, so it can’t be wasted. 

And it’s just me and it’s just him and it’s just us. 

Happy. 

Stupidly happy as if we know no sadness 

Because in his arms he can’t hold both, 

and he chooses me over his daily demons and I choose him over giving up. 

I choose him to be happy. 

And so with just my voice in his ears, I tell him everything and smile.

Because now it doesn't seem so bad. The world doesn't seem so angry. 

And for once it’s just the way I want it. 

And he smiles, so I smile and we smile and just this once I know the joy of being heard, 

in this perfect and fleeting time I know what it’s like to be free.

And with time both perfect and fleeting I accept that it will end.

But for now I can smile, as he smiles, because for now it is mine. And I choose it. 

I choose this now.

If I could, I would choose this now forever.

By: WerepupJeremy

"Well you know what John? I really fucking hate you sometimes” she screams for the millionth time over the phone to ears that no longer care. In her small one bedroom apartment adorned only by a small circular mirror, a twin sized bed and a knee high wooden table with a bright blue plastic chair, all is still. Even as she paces angrily back and forth on her usually talkative floor boards there is not a single sound save for the quiet giggle on the other end of the phone, of a beast entertained; the frigid indifference of a man unphased. 

He knows she doesn't mean it. 

And she knows that she can’t. You see it’s only Tuesday but it’s their tenth fight this week and soon he’ll just suddenly hang up; like always, without saying a word, for the fourth time this week.  She knows he’ll find a way to blame her, he always does. He’ll tell her she did not deserve a goodbye or was worthy of the chance for resolution, entitled to the common courtesy of a warning that their conversation was about to end. But then again, she’s never deserving of a goodbye, never worthy of the chance to win or to explain or of any chance at all.  Why should today be any different?

As the call goes dead like her room for the fourth time this week, she feels a type of muffled anger, a mute frustration unable to be spoken. In the midst of her tiny apartment her thoughts begin to attack her body like an avalanche. She is suddenly surrounded by the decisions she needs to make to save herself but plagued by the inability to move forward. She finds herself looking at the phone, wanting to call him back. She wants to scream and yell then apologize. She always ends up apologizing. But she knows she must not call. She knows she must stay strong, if just for once. Suddenly In the silence of her mental torment she almost laughs, “Strong? What do I know about strong? “ she says aloud to an audience that can’t answer. She feels embarrassed. She knows she is weak. In her own tiny apartment, adorned only by a circular mirror, a twin sized bed and a wooden knee high table with a bright blue plastic chair, she knows she has lost. After all she isn’t ‘worthy’ of winning.

In the circular mirror, she does not recognise the stranger staring back. Her bright almost green, hazel eyes now appear gray and dull. Her once smooth skin now feels rough and haggard; tarnished by the elements she has let into her life. Her kinky brown curls that once sprung with life are now limp and defeated; sitting on top of her head like dirt clinging to a rock. She can’t see the girl she once was three years ago before John came and destroyed her very being. The girl she was before she let him ‘win’. She no longer feels real, as though she is a real person, worthy of respect or love but instead a woman made from stone. A statue no longer cared for, a model frozen in time until it’s time for her to break; every scar on her heart, a new crack on her surface. She feels trapped in a body he has created, a body that he has shaped then loved and now discards. She is not her own person. 

Then again she doesn’t deserve to be her own person.

The reality soon becomes too much for her. She can’t breathe. Her tiny apartment now feels even smaller, her twin sized bed now a reservoir of unwanted memories. She cannot stay in here, not now. She starts to gasp as she feels the air being raped from her lungs, the energy being strangled from her spirit. She runs out of her building, unsure of whether to scream or cry, her breaths are shallow and fast. Her heart beat is echoing throughout her stone body.

She soon stops running. She is now outside. She can now breathe. She hopes that now she can think. It’s dark, and she doesn’t know the exact time, probably around that time when it’s so late that it’s early. She notices now that she has left her phone, not that it matters, he won’t call anyway. She doesn’t know where she is, her college campus much like the world can seem so big when one is lost. She is disoriented and alone but still she feels an eerie sense of calm, a type of comradry with the night. In the darkness she feels cloaked; hidden from the cruelties that stain her life. She decides to walk straight. Any direction will do.

In the midst of the darkened campus she is unable to specify where she is. Every building seems foreign and every shadow unfamiliar. The quiet whispers of her bare feet on the pavement sound new and undiscovered. She likes this type of lost. The cold wind gently kisses her cheek, and playfully ruffles her hair. Her curls feel alive again, if only for a second. She begins to embrace the night as she steps forward, becoming bolder in her stride. It is too dark for her to see too far in front of her but the security of the night gives her the confidence to proceed. She feels safe. In the middle of the campus she now explores, she forgets the judgement of her knee high wooden table as she ignores her work to ‘save’ her relationship, she forgets the mocking of her floorboard as she paces back and forth begging John to forgive her. In the midst of darkness she can be free of her own regret; absolved of her petty sins.

She continues to walk straight with no destination in mind, when in a moment she feels pain spring throughout her body like a town under siege. She looks down and sees that her bare foot has collided with a rock; a stupid, normal, ordinary rock. She didn’t even see it coming. In an instant she is on the floor, succumbing to the pain of her throbbing foot. She has lost again. In a jolt she has returned to reality. She knows where she is. She remembers why she’s there, why she left her apartment. She sees his face in her mind. It is angular, beautiful but so far away. His small, brown eyes look cold and distant. She can feel the disdain of his tense brow, piercing through her stone chest; another scar, another crack. She hates him. She wants to hate him. Why can’t she allow herself to hate him? She feels angry, at herself, and at him. And at the stupid rock; that stupid, normal, ordinary rock that she didn’t see coming. That stupid, normal, ordinary rock that now has made her collapse on the floor.  That rock that made her lose again.

She can’t take it! 

She can feel the once foreign buildings start to laugh at her defeat. She can feel the heat from within her as her face begins to glow in a bright red, her gray eyes melted by the steam of her own frustration. She gets up, and grabs the rock. She feels the rough edges that feel akin to the harsh texture of her once smooth skin. She knows what she must do.

She starts to walk left. Though she is limping her steps have purpose as in her right hand she carries the rock made light by the dreams of her future revenge, the opponent that had defeated her now her weapon for victory.  In a few minutes she somehow manages to walk the entire width of the campus. Now nearing the halls of residence, the sun is beginning to rise. In front of her, there now stands a large green building stirring with noises. The demons within are now well rested, their troubles fed, ready to take on the day. On the ground floor just inches in front of her, is a window. 

Through the window she sees a shadow. She knows it. Though not brought to light, she can see his angular face; she can picture his small brown eyes, his tense brow, piercing through her stone chest. She is the portrait of a woman scorned, her eyes on fire. She wants him to pay. She looks at the stone, and then at the shadow and smiles. She knows what she must do. She takes it and throws it at window, her aim flawless. From her safe distance she hears the sounds of broken glass, the loud and melodic trickling of shards on the ground, the frightened scream of a man unprepared.

She did it but she is unsatisfied.  She wants to feel powerful, like she has won. But there is no relief in her revenge, no salvation in her victory. She knows her damage is only material. 

She can only shatter his window because she cannot shatter his heart.

By: Werepupjeremy

One day. One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover that you hate yourself. You just may discover that you hate more than just your job you don’t want or your clothes that don’t fit. More than just the courses you took in college or the people you dated; those faceless shadows who wasted your time one after the other because somehow they were just never ‘enough’. You may discover that in essence you hate who you are; the decisions you made in the spur of the moment that hurt the only person to ever truly love you, or the lies you told for no reason that left you stranded on some corner because you shunned the ones who cared.

You may find you hate your friends you can’t trust or that guy you just met. That random guy in that random club, who you just gave your number to, knowing that he’ll only call on some other random night at 3am just for that one thing. And you’ll invite him over and give it to him in an effort to not feel alone. But you’ll hate him when he’s done. You’ll even hate him during. You’ll hate him because his touch made you feel like trash. You’ll hate how the memory of his scent sets your skin on fire. You’ll hate his empty words (if he even bothers to say words at all) and you’ll hate his booze plagued breath. You’ll hate his stupid flannel shirt and his too tight navy pants.  

You’ll find you hate your exposed body and your filth-stained soul. You’ll hate that you never asked him to leave. You’ll hate that he did anyway. He left, and you were alone again. You’ll hate that for a second you’ll think you miss him. You’ll hate that even though you don’t, you still sent that text telling him it was ‘fun’ and to come again ‘anytime.’ It wasn’t fun. Forfeiting your pride and abusing your body is never fun; you never want to see him again. You’ll hate that he won’t respond, that He doesn’t want to see you again either. You’ll hate him and the scars he left. The scars you allowed his claws to make, as you guided his hand across the outline you drew yourself. From now on you’ll always hate stupid flannel shirts. And you’ll scoff at all too tight navy pants…. You’ll hate all navy pants so very much.

You’ll discover you hate your ‘shambly’ apartment because it is the metaphor for your life; dirty, defeated, but still holding on if only until it can’t. You’ll discover you hate the cars you don’t have, or that family you’re not a part of. Oh!  You’ll also discover you hate your own family as well, because they must have done something wrong, or not done enough or not done something at all to make you feel like this, to end up like this, living as if you’re half a person living half a life.

You just may discover you hate this sad half-life; you’ll hate its memories that make you cry and its promises that won’t come true. You’ll hate its sunsets and its goodbyes. Especially its goodbyes.  You’ll hate them because you weren’t ready, you weren’t ready at all to say goodbye.  You’ll hate your midnights and your Monday mornings.  You’ll hate them because they feel the same. You’ll hate them  because they never end.  Because they never get brighter, or at least they never feel brighter. Because they can’t.  You’ll hate that you cannot change; that you can’t change the hour, or your words or his mind; especially your words because they were the only thing that were ‘yours’ to begin with.

One day.  One random day in some random bar, or maybe in some random club on some random street you just may discover you hate yourself. And if that day comes I hope you’re not too numb to care.

By: WerepupJeremy