Mean music

I fell in love with a thin boy
Whose bones were like a xylophone.
I played loving notes on them until he asked,
"How's it back home?"
My heart raced,
Pounding in my head.

Back home, Dad "watched our weight."
So when the vultures come back, all they find is bones,
Claiming my beautiful fair skin could’ve gotten me first place
If it weren’t for my ridiculously large ass.

He says, "That is so mean."

Mean.

Mean, he says...

Mean is when your mere presence incites cruel laughter
That turns everyday citizens into monsters.

Mean is the never-ending list of names they gave me
So I could have something to carve into my grotesque stomach with a razor.

Mean is when you hold your breath
Because if they can’t hear me, maybe they can’t see me.

Mean.

Mean, he says...

Mean is when every day is a living hell,
And even though you have begged God to end your suffering,
He has granted you another day of breathing.

Mean is the cruel joke that I am only pretty if I am thin
But I am supposed to eat every day.

Mean is the endless exercising and dieting I do
In hopes of being seen as human in the eyes of the world I live in.

Mean is the tampons they tied in my hair
To warn me that staying fat was going to get me in trouble.

Mean is the popular boy asking you out as a joke
Because it is hilarious to see a heart swoon
At the thought of such an absurd impossibility.

Mean is the food that was dumped on my tray
As children finished eating, like a trough for a pig.

I'm crying
Because I know all too well what mean is.

"I think you are beautiful," he says.

The tears are flowing down my face;
I always loved music, but my body will never sound like yours.

He smiles, "But you, my dear, are so much more than an instrument."

Pain is personal.

She is full of sparks;
Everything she touches ignites.
These are not feelings—
All these beings.
Asked to see the best,
Yet criticized for lack of rest.
How could she sleep?
These beautiful stars,
Heartfelt songs,
Everything coloring her skin.
Drifting, saturated.
The blank canvases are overwhelmed by her color;
She drifts further.
Why can't you see the world like I do?
When did beige become so fulfilling?
I want to hold hands,
Let our colors collide;
I don't want to hide.
Those few thought-provoking seconds are never enough.
I have books on my brain.
My heart hurts;
She hurts often.
Such a wonderful world,
And she is wrong for loving it?
They want plastic flowers
Instead of these live roses.

Copyright 2018 THMelton

Anemone

The smell...
It pulled me in,
I fell.
Lika a fish,
Let me swim,
Be my anemone.
They will say,
"His love stung"
They didn't know,
I was made for you.
Just a little longer...
While I memorize,
The smell.
And the way,
Your brain works..
The pitch of your,
Voice...
I can see me,
Protected by you!
.
.
.
.
.
And that kills me
Because,
You will never want me.
I wasn't made beautifully.....

Acid Beach

    I can still remember the way the waves’ hushing soothed me to sleep. Never in a million years could you have come to me and said, “One day you will be on a beach tripping balls.” But what is life if not a long list of things you never believed you would do? I recall every detail: the soft, almost cloud-like feeling of the sand underneath my body holding me while the ocean’s song brought on slumber. Slowly, the wooden walk that stretched above our heads turned soft and plush, leaving me no choice but to hold onto it. My friends passed a joint around, but I was too consumed with the smell of oak, seawater, and burning wood. Filling my lungs, the aromas made refuge in my bones, calming even the deepest feelings of anxiety. Then she kissed me, her familiar scent snuggling up to my ribcage and reminding me why I ever agreed to this in the first place. I could have died on her lips, leaving this earth the only way God ever intended—so happy you could piss yourself, and it wouldn’t even matter. Her arms wrapped around me, and it was as if an angel was caressing me. We were two grown women sitting in a bear hug on the sand at two AM, but none of that mattered because, in addition to the ecstasy and acid in my system, I was full of love that reverberated between us.

Home

Over a hundred thousand miles away lies a large white home with boarded up windows and two broken front steps. Stuck in the middle of an almost desert-like wasteland it sits patiently. Hoping the next family to happen upon it will have the strength to fix its smashed windows, congested pipes, sieve-like ceilings, and spine-chilling garage. Believe it or not, a young spunky little eight-year-old called this monstrosity home for a long time. Making mud pies in its abandoned lot and playing on the dilapidated swing set that sat up against the whitish siding. Her parent's power washed the siding once thinking this dusty turd merely needed a new coat of paint or, in this case, to have its coat of paint cleaned and, it would transform into a gem. Unfortunate you can dip a piece of crap in chocolate but, that doesn’t make it a delicacy. Nightmares of horrifying branches grabbing at her in sleep made the years she stayed there restless. Moving away was an answered prayer but, to this day she thinks of its pastoral scene and wonders, what of its lonely heart?

5 Perspectives

Today, we are speaking to a few shaken pedestrians after what seems to be a drunk driving accident. At 4:29 a.m. this morning, we received news of strange driving on Route 3, and here to tell us more is Taylor County’s very own Sheriff Sparks. Sheriff?

Sheriff: We had received a few disturbing calls from residents at around 4 a.m., and we decided to send a dispatch unit out to investigate. Unfortunately, when we got there, several people were hurt in addition to a deceased driver in a white Ford Ultimo. After alerting the paramedics, we went ahead and got a few testimonies. Several people described hearing loud noises at about 3:45 a.m., and some even thought it was drag racing from the squealing sound of the tires. From the tread marks we saw upon arrival, we have reason to believe it may have been a drunk driving accident where the intoxicated driver swerved to avoid hitting something and crashed into the rail. While the seatbelt kept the driver in his vehicle, the force of the impact crushed his skull, killing him on impact. Luckily, he did not hurt anyone else; there was a young teen we sent to the hospital to be checked out—she was in the passenger seat and suffered minor injuries.

Thank you so much, Sheriff Sparks. After this break, Morning News at 9 will let you hear from first-hand testimonies. My name is Jerry Star, and this is Morning News at 9!

(Commercial break)

Welcome back, Taylor County, to Morning News at 9. After a fatal drunk driving accident that killed the driver and injured a young teen, we have news anchor Jerry Star at the scene to give us a first-hand testimony of the carnage. Jerry?

Jerry: Hello, Martha. Many locals I have interviewed this morning say they could tell something was amiss when their usually quiet morning commutes and preparations for school were interrupted by loud tire screeching, followed by a loud crash. Here to talk to us about what she heard is Mrs. Dianne Smith, who was getting ready to go to work when she heard the loud screeching and was the first to call the Taylor County dispatch.

Mrs. Smith: I was getting ready in my bathroom, which faces Route 3. While I was straightening my hair, I heard some loud screeching. I was already on my way to call the police when I heard screaming coming from the road. I told the police everything I saw while looking out my bathroom window. I saw the car swerve to miss something in the road, and it crashed into the railing. I heard the screaming when the car swerved, but after the car crashed, the screaming stopped. I expected the worst. I’m glad no one else was hurt, but it’s still very sad what happened to the driver.

Thank you for your testimony, Mrs. Smith. Up next to tell you the details of the crash is our Morning News at 9 accident expert. Back to you, Martha.

Martha: Well, here in the Morning News at 9 studio, we have local crash expert Tom Robbins here to tell us about the facts of the crash. Now, Tom, I think the first question on everyone’s mind is: What really happened?

Tom: Well, Martha, I wasn’t there, but from a close examination of the crime scene photos, it becomes clear there is no way this could have been a drunk driving accident. The tire marks in the road show a sudden stop, indicating a five-second reaction time, and there is no way someone who was inebriated could have stopped that quickly. In addition, we have a young teen's testimony that suggests foul play.

Martha: Well, that is certainly stressful news, Tom. But Morning News at 9 will be right back with the details right after these messages from our sponsors.

And we are back! Morning News at 9 has the latest on all local news. Before we left, Tom, our crash expert, said the tire marks indicated drunk driving is not a possibility, and that the teen found at the scene has given a testimony revealing foul play. Here to give you the details is our field reporter, Jerry Star, who is at Glory’s Pass Hospital to talk to this young teen. Jerry?

Jerry: Thank you, Martha. Here at Glory’s Pass Hospital is a young teen who suffered a major spine injury. Upon arrival at the scene of the crime, the teen appeared to be fine—merely scraped up and scared—but after being admitted to the emergency room, the head surgeon says she is lucky to be alive. Unfortunately, we have just received word that the family does not wish for their daughter’s testimony to be aired, so this is where the story ends. Until next time, Taylor County, this is Jerry Star, your eyes and ears for all local news!

(A young woman who looks to be about twenty-five enters the young teen’s room. The teen’s condition is critical; while she is still conscious and able to communicate, her body remains immobile from the neck down.)

Detective Banks: Hello, my name is Detective Banks. We were sent from the Taylor County deputies' office to get your testimony, and we have your parents’ consent. Whenever you are ready, I would like to hear your statement.

(The young teen lets tears roll down her face.)

Debra Cohen: (through tears) I need to speak to my lawyer, please.

(The detective looks back at the teen, who has yet to make eye contact, with a worried expression.)

Detective Banks: Of course. I will have the nurse bring you a phone.

(After the detective leaves, a few minutes pass. A plump, usually cheerful nurse, now wearing a look of sadness, places a phone on the tray table next to the teen.)

Nurse Donald: I need to dial the number for you, and I will put it on speaker and leave so you can use the phone in private, darling.

Debra Cohen: 980-0577.

(The nurse quickly punches the numbers into the phone, hits the speaker button, and leaves the room. Nurse Donald then shoos away some lingering orderlies from the hallway. The phone rings twice before the other end picks up.)

Luke Cohen: Hey, are you okay? I heard on the news that you are paralyzed. Is that true? What happened, Debra?

DC: Do you have Uncle John’s number?

LC: Of course.

DC: After I explain everything, I need you to call him and tell him to come down to the hospital to help me talk to the detective. I don’t want you to call anyone else—not even Mom and Dad. They’re in Copenhagen, so they’re probably not watching the news. Call Aunt Jena and tell her to keep her mouth shut.

LC: I can do that. Please tell me what happened.

DC: I was at the train station this morning, ready to leave to go back to UFCU, and there was a man watching me. I didn’t think much of it because, ever since I got my boob job, guys stare, so I just ignored him. He followed me into the ticket booth, and I was about to turn around to ask him what his problem was when he grabbed me. He put a rag over my mouth, and everything went dark. When I came to, I was in a car going way too fast down Route 3. He kept saying something repeatedly, but I don’t know what it was; it was like a different language. I couldn’t really hear anything clearly, but I saw something in the road ahead, and I screamed. He looked back at the road, swerved, and hit the railing. His airbag didn’t open, and his head smashed into the steering wheel. There was blood all over me, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel anything. I still don’t feel anything.

LC: I’m going to call John. Just hold tight, okay?

DC: The nurses said there was a lot of blood in my pants. I think he may have—

LC: Let’s just call John and go from there, okay? I’ll make sure he is quick. I love you, sis. I will call you when I know he is on his way.

(Debra looks up, expecting the nurse to return at any moment. Instead, an orderly enters, and she expects him to hang up the phone.)

Orderly: Are you Debra Cohen?

DC: Yes.

(The orderly pulls out a pistol with a silencer on it and quickly shoots her in the head. The orderly then pulls out a cell phone and hits speed dial.)

Orderly: She’s dead.

Phone Voice: No loose ends, Hank.

(With that, the orderly hangs up the phone and, quickly but without raising suspicion, goes out to his car parked in the east wing parking lot. He grabs a syringe out of his glove compartment and injects himself with a lethal dose of heroin.)

Orderly: You’re going to be okay, Rebecca. You’re safe now.

(About thirty minutes pass, and the orderly is dead. The entire hospital is on lockdown while police scan the perimeter, looking for whoever shot Debra Cohen. No one is allowed to leave the hospital grounds until the perpetrator has been found.)

Suicide

    I laid face up, vomit blocking my airway, and my thoughts were consumed by the persistent rejection that wounded me. The doctor asked me, “Why did you try to kill yourself?” I was tired of answering this question. To be honest, there were lots of reasons, but none of them were the right ones. “Have you ever wondered why you want to be alive?” She looked back at me, halfway smirking, as if to say checkmate. “Of course, I remember all the people who love me and all the people who need me.” I smiled. “Consider yourself lucky; some of us will never know how that feels.” She never came back to talk with me.

    I was left with the stench of stale regrets and the bitter aftertaste of my own insides. My body, a vessel of sorrow, lay helplessly on that unforgiving bed, limbs heavy as lead. I thought of the suffocating silence that filled the room, punctuated only by the distant beeping of machines that monitored the remnants of my life. They were like mocking reminders of my heartbeat, each pulse a testament to my struggle against the void that clawed at me from the inside.

    The walls were painted a sterile white, but I imagined them draped in shadows, cloaked in memories of despair that echoed like whispers in a haunted house. I pictured myself trapped within that facade, a ghost wandering the halls of my own mind, forever searching for a door that would lead me out. I could almost hear their laughter—familiar faces drifting in and out of focus like specters. They existed in my periphery, bright and alive, while I remained ensnared in a chasm of isolation.

    “Why did you try to kill yourself?” echoed in my mind, a refrain that twisted like a knife. I had answered it countless times, each explanation peeling back a layer of my psyche, exposing the raw flesh beneath. But every time I spoke, I felt more hollow, more disconnected from the reality they lived in. “Why do you want to be alive?” The irony twisted like barbed wire in my gut; it seemed so simple, yet so impossibly complex. There were days when I wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the ether, to vanish and be free of the burden of being seen.

    I thought about the doctor’s smirk, that cruel twist of lips that seemed to mock my existence. In that moment, I despised her for thinking she could corner me with her questions. “Lucky” felt like a cruel joke, an illusion spun by the delusion of normalcy. Love felt distant and abstract, a concept I could barely grasp through the fog of my despair. I’d watched others bask in it, radiant and unafraid, while I languished in shadows, terrified to reach out for fear of burning.

    The absence of the doctor hung heavy in the air, thickening the silence around me. I craved connection, yet every time I sought it, the threads unraveled, leaving me more frayed than before. I wanted to scream, to rip apart the very fabric of this sterile prison and show them the chaotic storm that raged within. But instead, I lay still, a mute witness to my own decay, as the world outside continued to spin, oblivious to my struggles.

    In that oppressive quiet, I began to reflect on the things that tethered me to life—those fleeting moments of clarity and joy. Memories flickered in my mind like dying embers, warm and ephemeral. The sound of laughter—genuine and bright—danced through my thoughts, along with the feeling of a soft breeze on my skin, a reminder of the sun that still rose each day. Perhaps, in the depths of my anguish, I could find a way to harness those fleeting glimpses, to forge a new reason to stay.

    But as the walls closed in, reality whispered its cruel truths: love was a precarious thing, and hope often felt like a distant star, just out of reach. With each breath, I fought against the weight of my thoughts, yearning for a sign that I was not alone. I wanted someone to see me, really see me, beneath the layers of pain and shame. And yet, as the clock ticked away the seconds, I remained a silent ghost, wondering if anyone would ever truly understand.