Breaking Down

Edgar's perfect face glistened in the afternoon sun, his full lips curling into a smirk as he saw me waiting by his car. "Get in, darling," he said, voice as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. I loved him. I had always loved him. 


"Wait," I said, nearly tripping over my own boots as I tried to block the door. "We need to talk." 


He smiled, sunlight sparkling on his skin and glinting off his sharp, even teeth. "What is it NOW, Barbara?"


"That girl." I frowned. "That girl I saw you walking with. Who was she?"


"Baby, she's nothing," he said as he leaned in to kiss me. I tried to push him away, my fingers brushing against his cold marble skin. 


"I don't believe you."


"You know I'd never do that."


"I've seen the way you look at her. I've heard the rumors." I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and the tears well up in my eyes. I was sure I looked hideous to him now. But I didn't care. 


"They're not true, whatever they are." He drew closer to me, and I felt his iron grip tighten on my shoulder. "And besides. We aren't exactly in a position to say anything to anyone, are we?" 


I was crying for real now. "I'll tell them. I'll tell them all your secret. I'll tell EVERYONE in the SCHOOL! I'll do it!"


He wrapped me in his cold, perfect arms. "My dearest, I don't believe you will," he whispered, as he gently drew his fangs and plunged them into my neck. 

Fact or Crap

"Fact or Crap: The button was invented 200 years before the buttonhole."


I don't remember the answer to that card. I don't really remember any answers since you left before you told me so let's start with a list.


Fact: The button would be stupid without the buttonhole. It just doesn't make sense.
(fact: i'm stupid without you.)


Fact: Buttons are pretty, though. I guess people could have used them as decoration or something.
(fact: is she pretty? that other woman? i bet she's pretty.)


Fact: Decorations usually stay decorative, though. I mean, nobody looks at a sequin and goes "Hey, I could fasten something with this!"
(fact: i bet you never think of me anymore, either. i wonder how long it took you to forget.)


Fact: The button was probably a Victorian invention or something though, right? And people thought of strange things back then.
(fact: i never saw it coming back then. i thought you were just tired. not tired of me.)


Fact: People still use buttons just for decoration. Like those buttons on the sleeves of dress shirts that you can never quite button by yourself.
(fact: you're still gone. i keep thinking you'll come back, like it was all just a joke, but this one's fact. you're still gone.)


Fact: So, I guess that could be true. Yeah, the button was probably invented first. That's a fact.
(fact: it doesn't matter. you're not around to hear the answer. it's just me playing now. that's a fact too.)


"Fact or Crap: I love you."
"...Fact."
"No. Crap."

Why The World Is Wrong

why would anyone choose to be different.

it's all nice and fine to say 'oh well I love being different'.
but no one really does.

those bug eyed stares.
the snickers behind your back.
the amazement of seeing something so strange.

I hate being different.
everyday I look at what I see in the mirror and spew hate at it.
I hate everything that I am.
being different isn't good.
it's just another vice that someone can twist to warp you.

so yes.
I am different.

but I wish everyday that I wasn't.
but who would choose to be so different in a world that is so reactionary.
a world that refuses to move into the future.
I know I wouldn't.

this is the world I am forced to know.
we are all forced to know.
this xenophobic homophobic cainotophobic existance.
it isn't pretty.

is it wrong for me to want to be normal?
to be average?
maybe.
maybe not.

perhaps difference is synonymous with bravery.
that being different, or allowing ones self to be, is progressive.
beneficial for the future.

then again,
maybe being different is a curse.
and we're all designated for a fiery existance in the pits of hell.
or new york city.

is it worth it?
this constant ridicule, pain, hatred?

I don't think so.

but then again,
I have no choice in the matter.

Depth

you say you know me.

but all you see is a facade.

you say you know me.

but i've not told you anything.

you say you know me.

but you haven't been inside my head.

you say you know me.

all you know is a mask.

-----

you don't know me.

don't even pretend you do.

you know nothing.

nothing important, anyway.

nothing significant.

obviously you would know major things.

like my nationality.

age.

orientation.

appearance.

but what would you know about me?actually me.

not the actor that I play on school days.

or while i'm texting.

or having any form of social interaction.

the real deal.

-----

you would be uninterested.

ignorant.

stupid.

and unaware.

and you have no reason to act otherwise.

I'm just a kid like you but who writes a lot.

-----

but i'm so much more than that.

and I don't mean that in a positive way.

-----

you say you know me?

like hell you do.

--mark

Consequence

5:50pm.

10 minutes till pickup.

-----

she took a deep breath.

and smiled.

her reflection was immaculate.

a vision in red flowers.

face perfectly toned with the right make-up.

legs showing but not to the point of vulgarity.

long jeweled earings droop from her head.

cascading brunette hair waved in ripples past her shoulders.

the emaralds in her eye sockets gleaming.she was ready.

picking up her crocodile skin purse, she walked outside.

and she waited.

she sat on her porch.

and waited.

and waited.

and waited.

for him to come along. to take her away.

6:20pm.

20 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she didn't text.

she didn't call.

she didn't communicate.

she simply waited.

she wouldn't be creepy, like those needy attention seeking gushers she went to school with.

she would be classy.

and wait.

for the boy she loved.

the sky began to turn a orange with burning streaks of red.

she looked at her watch.

-----

6:25pm.

25 minutes after pickup time.

-----

surely she hadn't been stood up.

of course not.

proposterous.

he was just as serious as she was.

right?

right?

her hands were clammy, and she was twiddling her thumbs.

now that she thought about it,

it was all rather out of the blue.

hadn't he one day just started talking to her?

was it just because nobody else would say yes?

paranoia.

had he changed his mind?

or was it all a joke from the beginning.

-----

6:45pm.

45 minutes after pickup time.

-----

she clutched her purse,

and stormed inside.

stood up.

for homecoming.

what person could do that? be so cold hearted?

obviously she had made a msitake.

she locked herself in her room.

put her headphones in her ears.

and listened to the angsty songs that had first contributed to her self-consciousness.

-----

she didn't see the bashes in his car.

how only one of the headlights was working.

how one of the windows was broken and there were cuts all over his face.

all because she couldn't hear the doorbell ring at 7:00.

--mark

Toil

he sat on the ground.

his back against the tiled wall.

staring.

staring transfixed at the bottle.

the transparent orange tube of pills.

the snails track of former tears covered his face.

his hands were shaking.

his eyes were bloodshot.

he wrapped his arms around his legs and tried,

tried, to calm himself.

he tried to turn away.

but he couldn't.

he knew he would eventually cave in.

so what better time than now.

his breathing rate was increasing at an inhuman pace.

he raised his hands and grabbed at his hair.

he pulled his head into his knees and let out a fresh waterfall of tears.

it was so hard.

to resist the temptation.

to give up.

he screamed. and screamed.

and screamed.

he banged his head against the wall.

perhaps the pain could distract him.

but the thought was still there. the lust was still there.

-----

the longing was still there.

and he couldn't take it.

one pill.

could end his suffering.

his pain.

his heartbreak.

one dramatic twist.

to end it all.

and begin it all again.

the painful paradox.

he couldn't give it up.

but he couldn't keep it forever.

it would have to end.

but for now,

let the addiction rule.

--mark

Breathe

and there you are.

on my doorstep.

I can see your face peek through the window.

look around in confusion, as if expecting me.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

you see me now. 

you smile warmly.

my hand almost touches the handle.

but I pull back in fright, as if the handle were conducting electricity.

you're confused. so am I.

you raise your eyebrows.

you mouth the same words over and over.

let me in.

and each time my hand goes near,

I remember.

I remember why I can't turn the handle.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you just look at me in confusion.

in sympathy.

I turn around.

I walk away.

I look at the kitchen utensils.

at the knives.

then I look at you,

and remember why.

why I can't pull a knife down.

why I can't put an end to this torture.

I sit and sob.

I can't look you in the eye anymore.

I can't breathe anymore.

--mark