Deer
Dear Strawberry Girl, if your skin is peeling, I won't be there to catch the flakes.
Dear Strawberry Girl, if you're at your end, know that I won't follow suit.
Dear Strawberry Girl, if you dream of a kiss in the rain, I'd sooner face my own despair.
Dear Strawberry Girl, I can't promise to gift you a sword from GameStop.
Dear Strawberry Girl, please, don't worry about me.
blood
I asked my mother why Dad had blood on his face.
"Why is there blood on your shoes?" my mother countered.
I noticed the blood on her bra. "Why is there blood there?" I asked.
She inquired further, "Why is there blood in your hair?"
I pointed out the blood on her hands. "And why is there blood there?"
There we stood, mother and I, silently staring into each other's eyes, our faces smeared with blood.
Yesterday
Yesterday, I fell into a hole in my room.
I imagined myself as a cow donning a cowboy hat.
My dog snacked on a snail.
My neighbor, Rick, shockingly ate my dog.
I stumbled into another hole in my backyard.
I believed I was a snail for a moment.
I envisioned myself as Joe Biden sporting a MAGA hat.
Trump devoured my enchiladas.
Yesterday, and the day before,
I felt as though I had died.
Fragments of Solitude
one ordinary night, Sofia world unraveled in a way she could never have anticipated. What began as a peculiar sensation on her face quickly descended into horror as her skin seemed to betray her, detaching itself in a nightmarish display of disbelief and fear. Panic surged through her veins as she clutched desperately at her face, trying to hold the pieces of herself together, while her room became a macabre scene highlighted by the stark contrast of crimson against the mundane.
"Mother..." Her voice was a whisper against the storm of her terror, a plea for help in a moment that seemed to defy reality. Minutes stretched into eternity as she awaited salvation, her distress amplifying with each passing second.
Then, the sound of salvation—or so she hoped. Her mother's voice, laced with concern, filtered through the door, a beacon of hope in the darkness. Yet, Sofia's condition was a secret too gruesome to share, even with her. She requested electric tape, of all things, hidden in a place as unconventional as her request—inside her grandmother's urn.
Her mother complied, the urgency palpable. But Sofia, in her desperation, demanded blindness from her mother upon entry, a precaution to shield her from the horror that had become of her daughter. The door opened, a sliver of normalcy in a night gone mad, but it was too late. Her mother, confronted with the unimaginable, succumbed to shock, collapsing in a tragic tableau that transformed their home into a scene from a gothic nightmare, complete with a downpour of blood that defied explanation.
Alone once more, Sofia's focus narrowed to a singular goal: preservation. The tape, her bizarre salvation, offered a momentary solution, a brief respite from the chaos. But it was fleeting. The disintegration continued, a physical manifestation of an internal unravelling, leaving her desperate and cornered by her own failing form.
In a final act of desperation, Sofia sought escape through the window, a bid for release from a nightmare that clung too closely to reality. Yet, in this too, she found no solace, only the finality of a broken body and unanswered questions.
Was this a punishment, a cosmic error, or simply a cruel twist of fate? In the end, the answer eluded her as she slipped into the darkness, leaving behind a tale of terror, confusion, and the profound isolation of suffering unseen and misunderstood.
My hand is gone.
It started on a typical Tuesday. I woke up to the sound of my alarm, stretched, and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when I realized something was terribly wrong. My left hand was gone. Not injured, not hidden, just absent, as if it had never been there at all.
At first, I couldn't believe it. I searched everywhere, thinking it must be some trick of the mind, a dream perhaps. But no, the reality was inescapable. My left hand had vanished without a trace, leaving me confused and scared.
I tried to go about my day, attempting to ignore the gaping void on my left side. But everything reminded me of my loss. Simple tasks became monumental challenges. Making breakfast, tying shoelaces, or just getting dressed brought the reality crashing back. I was incomplete, unbalanced, and utterly alone in my experience.
Seeking answers, I went to the hospital, hoping for some explanation, any explanation. The doctors were as baffled as I was. They ran tests, but found nothing. My hand had simply ceased to be, with no medical, physical, or logical reason. They offered sympathy, but no solutions.
In the weeks that followed, the initial shock faded, replaced by a deep, unending sorrow. I had to relearn how to live, how to be myself with this part of me just gone. Friends and family offered support, but I could see the confusion and pity in their eyes. They wanted to help, but what could they do? My loss was beyond understanding, beyond repair.
I became a curiosity, a story told in hushed tones. People speculated wildly about what had happened, but no one knew the truth. How could they? I didn't even know myself.
As time passed, I adapted out of necessity, but the sadness never left me. It was a constant companion, a reminder of what I had lost for no reason at all. I missed my hand, not just for its function, but for its part in me, in who I was. My identity had been altered in an instant, and I felt a profound grief for my former self.
In the end, there were no miraculous discoveries, no return to normalcy. My hand was gone, and with it, a part of my soul. I had to continue, to move forward as best I could, but the world seemed duller, less vibrant. I was left out, not just from the simplicity of having two hands, but from a sense of completeness that I feared I would never find again.
THE GIRL FROM MY DREAM.
A figure, head fashioned from stone, legs of delicate glass, a body sculpted from ice, hands crafted of wood, fingers resembling strands of hair, lips slowly melting against a rocky surface. Within, a heart as furry as a cat's tail, a brain hewn from stone, eyes formed from earth.