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.

Death isn't painless

                 “Death isn’t painless”. Even as a ninety-one-year-old woman sits gently tapping on death’s gate no, there is surely an aching that slowly grows in intensity with every rapping. As her knuckles tenderly meet an ancient oak door grime darkens her hands. They said her sickness was childhood news sneering while they explained “Predispositions” to her family. As if an explanation was going to catch her daughter’s tears or read her great grandchildren to slumber. Her passing brought on a hopelessness that seemed to encompass all God's creatures. The birds sat in silence while the Texas sky scorched in defiance, refusing to cry the sun set them on fire. As the earth slowed her up the sun went down as if to admit defeat likewise, despondent footsteps slowly made their way to shelter. Hiding behind closed door they wept for her while in vain their tears persisted. The years showed no remorse mocking our fond recollections with untimely endings of others. It has been five years and the house she called a home is unrecognizable now her glass menagerie long since sold and packed away along with countless innocent memories. In its place stood granite countertops, a mounted flat screen, and the wall that once separated the entertaining room from the sitting room had vanished. Even though her mark was taken out of the house her essence remained resonating within us at night and reminding us that our happiness was only temporary and death would be for us soon.

Dear Mother

She just sat there while I slowly died inside. Her fingers feverishly typed away while I counted out all my white pills. Occasionally, a laugh escaped her lips in response to whatever stimulus was always more important than me. Quickly writing down all the pain I was feeling while she yelled from downstairs,
“Haley, did you finish cleaning that fucking room yet? I am really getting tired of your lazy ass. Nine fucking years old, Haley, pull your head out of your ass.”

Tears beaded up and slowly made their way down my face, making small pools on my first suicide note. Little did I know this would be the beginning of a decade’s worth of failed suicide attempts. If there is a God, I fucking hate him. I don’t think “My God and me” ever had a good relationship; I was much too “fucking annoying” and “a god damn slob” to be a good follower.

It’s my own fault. With such high expectations, I was bound to be disappointed. I heard stories from my cousin about mothers who read to them at night, hugged them when they were sick, told them how beautiful they were, and how they would always love them. Ironically, my mother made it clear, “You don’t need to be telling the family our god damn business, you little fucking shit starter!” I would not be exchanging our mothers’ different parenting methods.

I asked for too much. She was sure to show up to every school event and blow so much money on ME it would cripple us financially for a while. Buying me all the candy and special treats I ever asked for, in addition to letting me do whatever I wished while daddy was away. I learned how to change diapers at seven, so I was given the gift of overseeing my siblings’ changes. How many children can say they were entrusted with their siblings’ well-being at seven? Not many; I guess I was just lucky.

Mother didn’t just have a wonderfully colorful nickname for me whenever she saw me, but she even taught me how to fight. “You think you’re old enough, bitch? Well, come on, where did that smart-ass attitude go?” Yeah, ironically, if I brought friends home, she acted weird. “Hey, honey, do you guys want to go get pizza?” She would take my friends everywhere and buy us anything we asked for. You can see how this would cause some confusing conversations later: “You think money just grows on fucking trees? What, I am so sorry I can’t spoil your ass as much as gran.”

She would hurt me daily as a child, and the first time I tried to end my life, this is what I wrote to her.

          Dear Mother, 

    I am sorry for asking for one of your drinks when just last week you had given my friends everything we wanted. I try not to be spoiled rotten, but it is very hard. Every time I try, I fail. I am happy you always try to correct me and remind me what I have done wrong. I guess I just was born bad, and that’s why I can’t be a good girl. I have decided to kill myself. You tell me all the time how it would be so much easier if you didn’t have to deal with my bullshit, so I realize what you want from me now. I am sorry I don’t keep my room clean enough, clean the dishes well enough, watch my brother and sister well enough, I used up all our rent money at my birthday, embarrass you every time we are out in public, and make you cry every day. I guess some kids are just born ugly and bad. I wish I had died when I was born, like I was supposed to. I guess I figured you wanted to see me since you had me, but I was wrong.

My mandala

A burgundy Louis V with long straps and gold accents. The contents ranged from tissues to contacts. Her keys, one for her car, one for her house, but the rest were all charms and a big black pom-pom. A bottle of perfume by Lady Gaga and black nail polish with a bottle of clear coat. Her Michael Kors wallet and ten dollars in cash, but about five hundred in credit. A picture of us tucked where her ID should be and a squished coin from the time we went to Jersey together. A pack of mint bubblegum with only two pieces left. A package of unopened tissues and some dirty ones floating amongst the sea of girly things and loving memories.

I held the bag in my lap in the waiting room, softly praying to whatever higher power to make sure she is okay. I could feel tears coming down my face, but I couldn't care less; I just let them fall and keep coming. I remember when we first met; she was wearing a little black dress and studded black heels. I thought to myself, what a diva dressing up for orientation. She came up to me, and I could see her eyes—a beautiful blue-green galaxy where the stars were only the beginning of their beauty.

“Hi, my name is Chloe, what's yours?”

I could barely breathe, the smell of sandalwood and lilac intoxicating me.

“Eva.”

She smiled at me and put her arm around me, pulling me in close for a picture. I was startled; being so antisocial, this was a very odd situation I was in. It turned out she was going to be my new roommate, and I didn't even know it until the RA gave us two of the same keys.

“Eva?” I looked up from her bag and at the doctor; he looked concerned, and I mentally prepared for the worst.

“She is very lucky you found her. She is awake and asked to see you.”

I followed him down a long, sickly clean hallway and around a corner to room 216. The curtains were pulled closed so you couldn't see into the room, and the lights were dimmed.

“You have thirty minutes; then the psychiatric nurse on duty has to talk with her.”

I opened the door and looked at her lying there; she had dozed off waiting for me to come back. I was so happy to see her breathing, but I could feel the tears coming down with a new urgency. The machine monitoring her heart kept a beat, and I tried to memorize it, so if she ever tried to kill herself again, I could restart her heart.

She opened her eyes and looked up at me; she didn't speak, she just silently stared at me. I ran up to her and placed a kiss on her forehead. She started to cry, shaking and inhaling so fast it seemed as though she was choking. I kissed her, a deep kiss that we held for a long time. I hugged her and whispered in her ear, “Don't ever leave me.” She hugged me back, continuing to cry and shake while she held me.

“I love you so much; I am so sorry.”

I climbed into the bed with her and softly played with her hair. The doctor came in, but he never asked me to leave; he just checked her vitals and left. I fell asleep with my nose in her hair; I could smell her even while I was dreaming.

Chloe wasn't like other girls—like a mirror image, the same but opposite. She looked like your typical mean girl with a bad attitude and too much money; against all odds, she had a heart of gold and a loving soul.

My sight was hazy, and there was a distant sound of singing; entranced, I followed the sound through a sweet blue-hued fog resting around my feet. It was her singing in the shower. Her voice was soft and angelic while water cascaded down her body, the steam enveloping her essence and softly rolling toward me until the fog and steam came together and became inseparable. I felt warm and safe, trusting the warm blue hues to shield me from any harshness and lull me to sleep—

“Haley, please help me! I don't know what I did; I can't stop throwing up; my chest hurts so much!” The shower that once looked so peaceful suddenly grew saucer-sized crimson orbs and white, razor-sharp teeth. The fog around me smelled foul, and I started to choke all the while; she flailed and screamed, thrashing about inside the monster's mouth, begging me to help her. I left all my common sense behind and jumped inside the monster's mouth, and all I could do when I got there was lovingly hold her head and softly stroke her hair. I rubbed her small, soft hands, talking sweetly to her like this was just another lunch date, reassuring her how much I loved her and how silly people who wear sunglasses all the time look. I let out a spine-tingling moan, trying to will this reality to not be real. She just lay there in my arms, barely breathing and unresponsive, while I begged the world to save her.

My whole world was upheaved; figuratively, my body was ripped by the base from the earth like a weed, leaving me in unbearable pain and confusion. Surreal. As if this was merely a fire drill and there was no way this really happened.

I could hear it again, the harsh, terrifying sound of the ambulance and the sudden bullet of silence that pierced my skull. Why was it so quiet? What is happening? Help her, oh God, please help her!

I shot up out of the hospital bed, pouring sweat and surrounded by the defining sound of silence and the soft pitter-patter of goal-oriented shoes. I used to remember what that felt like; fuck, I would kill for any sense of orientation right now—goals or otherwise. I looked over to see her still sleeping soundly, no doubt medicated; she looked peaceful, with her porcelain skin making small, soft heaves as she breathed. I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and climbed out of the gurney, debating whether or not I would call anyone to let them know I was in the seventh circle of hell or just accept the fact and watch my queen and me be swallowed up by the flames.

             

Andy's Snow shovel

Harsh quick needles pricking your toes,
stamina in one arm, shovel in the other.
Invisible knives stabbing your nose,
"Come on munchkin, we can't leave this to mother."
Silent resilience resonating with me,
soft
sweet
soothing
'SCRAPE'
Looking up from under the heavy air,
dad hunched over moving the ground with care.
strong
sincere
solid
'SCRAPE'
He falters not trusting his legs to hold him,
underneath his feet the ground is thin.
stable
steadfast
sorry
'SCRAPE'
Persistent in his efforts to conquer the land,
while trusting hate will always loose to a loving hand.
spinning
suicidal
so sorry
'SCRAPE'
Blaming himself for the weather and it's chaos,
tunnel vision blinding, it will consume us.
screaming
staring
stuttering
-
-
-
-
The silence cut through the air suddenly aware I go to his aid,
falling down is hard but, dad taught me all scars heal and soon, even this will fade.