if only you hadn't left your drink

sitting there on the balcony

in hot, carolina heat

sweating, swirling with the pulp,

beads of perspiration

counting the seconds

like a clock -

then maybe

when you lost it

and your temper finally snapped

and your hand slipped and

the knife thudded to the deck,

the drops of blood

wouldn't have dripped

dripped

dripped

right into the glass

with the striped paper straw

and the long-melted ice

and I would not have looked down

and seen my own life

blossom and bloom in the glass

and I would not have

any reason to hate

pink lemonade

or any lemonade,

the way that I do now.

I am not a lesbian, she thought.

She knew she wasn't. She insisted to herself she wasn't. It was an honest denial, even though she worshipped and admired women--as a species unto themselves. She was proud to be one. Exalted. Enraptured by estrogenic brilliance.

She thought about women--what they do for the world. Women conceive and make new human beings! They are feminine, from their lactation and nurturing of our babies to their very anatomy--receptive. Held fast within the mothering of the bosom, one is safe. Welcomed by the exclusivity of the vagina, one is the chosen one.

Women give of themselves without hesitation. Put themselves second... then third, fourth...last... They offer what's left--of food, attention, and love--even when wanting, themselves. If God is love, it is woman who was made in His image.

Yes, she loved women. Yes, she loved being one.

She recognized what a woman brings to a relationship. She knew how a relationship is defined by a woman's contribution, input, and even insistence. She knew that should the biochemistry between men and women be deconstructed, hers stands alone as unique, counteracting all of the harm brought into the world by the wizardry--the necromantic alchemy--of men.

She knew women to be magical creatures, so there was never any need to search for unicorns.

She knew how women love. She knew women who love men. She knew women who love women. She knew women who love both. She knew women who love themselves. Thus, she knew what love is. And she knew who God is.

If God is love, there is no God without women, she thought.

When a woman dies, she surmised, there is a moth-eaten hole that remains, ruining the entire wardrobe shared with men.

She thought about her body. Her body as a woman. How a thigh brushing the other is not a mating call but a celebration of her temple. Her holy temple, she thought, and then she would laugh. She felt alive. She felt important--even crucial. She felt real. She felt the Earth rotate around her, even as the men fall off.

She had a clear vision of the world's men and women, perched on her pedestal, placed there by Divine Authority. She watches with women's eyes. She weeps with women's tears. She shouts with women's cries.

No, she thought, I am not a lesbian. But I sure do think about them a lot.

When you read your diary and realize what a crazy human you used to be.

One day I woke up on a very cold night, the cool winds caressing my skin. Thank Goodness I had my blanket around me, it was indeed colder than usual. It was indeed colder than usual. A sure sign that winter was coming. Finally, after the days that were so warm, too warm. Warmer than it needed to be.

I was awakened by a dream. I woke up in a sort of “hazy” state. At least that was my version of reality, I could not see beyond what seemed to be at that moment. I had this terrible dream. It wasn’t a nightmare, but still, it was terribly intense, and I saw flashbacks from my past.

It was like I wanted to win. I didn’t know or understand what this dream was about, but it was one of those dreams that made you feel like you were falling off the bed and it perfectly ruined a goodnight’s sleep. I mean not that you didn’t enjoy the sleep, you just felt the urge to get off the bed and go get something to eat. All while your parents were still asleep.

But I want to stop talking about these larger-than-life feelings. Those feelings that you have, that you seem to think are larger than life for whatever reason. This happened last night, but the way I recollect it makes it sound like something from a glorious ballad called “Desdemona” that I recently came across.

I miss her, I miss the young girl that I was, that was adventurous. She was in a word ‘Different’. She wasn’t that way because other people said she was. She was like that because it humored her and because she had been conditioned to make an entertaining story of anything. She had always been larger than life, and everyone said so, too which is why it seemed even sweeter.

Is it okay to recollect and mention the numerous times she put her pen to paper and stories that everyone simply loved came out? The poetry she wrote was indeed very intense. It was the kind of poetry people just loved to hear. The time she opened her mouth to sing was indeed ever so inviting! Add to that the fact that she was good-looking, and everywhere she went people had nice things to say about who she was and how she was!

And coming back to the night on which I was awake at 2 a.m., and as a young thing whose legs were growing a little too long, I had already mastered the art of tip-toeing down the stairs in an effort to grab a midnight snack, which of course was “off limits “ at my place, because my folks had a problem with me eating in my bed!

It was indeed cold that night, and it did not help that the refrigerator was even colder when I opened it. There seemed to be something that I knew I would be very guilty of stealing if I took even one bite of it. My brother’s pizza that he had ordered the day before but hadn’t touched. He didn’t like sharing his food!

I took a wanton bag of nuts that seemed abandoned in some corner of the huge refrigerator for whatever reason and tiptoed back up the stairs. I decided I would turn on my night light, and read a rather forbidden book that I had gotten off the shelf of the nearby library, which accidentally happened to be in the kid’s section.

I picked up the book and started to read. Before you know it I was asleep. It is indeed a fact that reading before bed does, in fact, help you fall asleep, and I’m sure I read this somewhere! Not that the explicit literature in the book didn’t help keep me awake, but I seemed to be prone to falling asleep when I slept in that position.

I dreamed a similar dream again, but this time it was rather lucid, about a young maiden in distress. She seemed to be imprisoned in a huge castle, but she was only living by the hope of what could be. In this dream, the maiden was waiting to be awakened by someone who would kiss her on the cheek, and carry her away on a white horse.

Again I awakened from my dream and went to the window. I wondered what it all meant. My life in general. The dreams I had been having of late. The fact that I was changing. I am now 13 and even though my grades aren’t as good as they used to be when mum used to help me with school work, I still miss receiving the compliments and the validation from everyone that life was and probably is still perfect.

I took my diary and decided to write. This was an entry that fate, destiny, or possibly God wanted me to write just so I remembered it forever. And so I started to jot down my thoughts and feelings. It went something like this:

“Hi, Diary,

It seems as though just yesterday I was a little girl. But I’m like all of 13. I feel like in a short while I will be 20, and I’ll be old enough to drive my own car and get my own job. Please never forget who you used to be.

Please never ever, because that little kid knows how the universe was put together. That kid knows what Einstein was thinking while eating his alphabet soup.

I know that your grades aren’t wonderful because mommy says as of now you should study on your own. Please never forget that winning first prize at poetry recitation that mum helped you with, is as good as managing to pass a tough class test just coz you put in the effort all by yourself.

And remember you are that girl who deep down there will never change. No matter how much I change. This diary entry is a prayer that she never forgets who she used to be.

Maybe I do things a little differently now, but I will always be that same person.

Love

Me”

So upon writing the rather precious diary entry, I folded the scented pink paper and put a glittery sticker on it, and sealed it like an envelope. In tiny block letters, I wrote: “Dated: when I find this again.”

I don’t know when I will find this diary entry, but for all I know, I’m getting back to my book. The salted nuts are untouched, and the book is meant for older kids, but I was lucky enough to get my hands on it. I’m not sleeping early, my door is locked, and I can do whatever, it is I want. I’m going to read until it’s the morning I really do think, because tomorrow is a Sunday, and I don’t have much else to do.

I do still think of you

Even though it's been so long

I think of all the pain I caused

And how I did you wrong

I wish so much to do it over

Take back your hurt inside

But it's too late for that

I shine now in another's night sky

But I do still think of you

During rain from skies of gray

I’ll forever be your falling star

Who somehow lost her way

Inspired by:

https://www.theprose.com/post/821797/do-you-ever-think-of-me

it's been such a long long time

scars are faded tears have dried

i guess pain and you must flow away

but i still see you standing there

in the doorway smiling sweet

hurts me till my knees go weak

you and i were meant to be

thought my feelings set me free

i learned love could make or break my heart

stumbled through the darkest night

day you left the stars took flight

years and years to find my way

hey how bout you

do you ever think of me

when rain falls down

when skies are gray

He was no longer seeing his face.

His arms and hands flew up involuntarily to his damp brow, then graying temples. He wasn't gazing passed himself, into the half manifestation in the darkness of the glass. He was peering behind, an invert, and it was nauseatingly painful, looking back like that. It felt like the stab of a migraine, inside.

He hesitated a moment at the sink as if about to vomit, then turned abruptly like an automaton donning shoes and overcoat. He walked out without shutting, never mind locking, the door. He'd be back no doubt.

He'd made this loop before, and there was something about it he couldn't remember. Like a moment of blackout. Grey space. No, a moment red. Red, and it washed over him. He was back, scrubbing his hands raw at the sink, shifting in his quilted housecoat and terry slippers.

The dry towel was gentle to his hands, and he pressed his bifocals back on.

06.30.2024

Nostalgia v Anger... which is more Dangerous? challenge by @dctezcan

"All rise," the bailiff shouts to the courtroom.

Judge Worth Knowing takes the bench.

"Be seated, everyone," the bailiff says. "Our next case is Nostalgia v Anger. Parties are sworn in."

The judge looks up from his papers and studies the litigants.

"I see, Miss Nostalgia," Judge Knowing begins, "that you are seeking a restraining order to prevent Mister Anger from intruding upon your everyday thoughts, dreams, and activities. You say that he is a clear and present danger to your placid dwelling in the past. Am I reading this correctly?"

Before the plaintiff can respond, the judge turns to the defendant.

"And Mister Anger, I see that... Lawyers, please restrain your client! Thank you. Now, where was I? Mister Anger, your defense is that Miss Nostalgia only sees what she wants to see. And that you are countersuing for harassment, claiming that Miss Nostalgia is intruding upon your everyday thoughts, grudges, and nightmares. And you also want a restraining order?"

The judge tells the parties to rise.

"I will not have you two taking up the court's valuable time," Judge Knowing says. "Cases dismissed. Work it out."

The bailiff tells the courtroom, "Next case, Solitude v Rambunctious."

Why do I feel most alone

In the company of other people?

In a crowded room

Or bustling hall

Or on the couch with my lover

Now that no-one is around

It's different, it is merely the absence of people

Their noise and their smells

Their clothes and words

Their warmth and their coldness

But with them I feel

the void yawn before me

Inky, cold darkness

Filled with spiky things

And jagged feelings

I feel how I am different

Like my brain is strangely wired

Like all the words are beating at the door

Growling to be set forth

To do their wicked work

People make me unquiet

And yet I crave them

The mess, the warmth

The conversation, the drama

The many different smells

I crave them and yet

The sweetest moment is when

I leave, or they do

And serenity returns

To my private garden

Then I am alone

With the tangle of my thoughts

Which are sometimes wild

And violent

Maybe they kick and bite

But they are mine

No someone else's

My pain, my doubt

My own loathing

All my own

To be alone can be torture

Or it can be blissful peace

The absence of ripples

On the pond of my psyche

Perhaps, some days - even solitude

Now I may be done poor, but I ain't stupid.

Maybe it is I don't know how to read and write, all proper, but I can make the sign of cross and my signature on paper's same as anybody else. The important part, see, is that I understand—and that, more than I let on.

When they tapped me on the street, the Mi'lady and Lord, wanted only that I's should be capable to adequately sign, with scratch marks like so, X.

In the anonymous old traditional way that signifies a living soul was present: Here.

Mi'Lord, he says emphatically, that t'aint necessary I know my spelling, I need only make that universal slash slash on that line right there. See?

Well, I says shrewdly, I don't have my specs, and this to buy me some time to look over the contractual of it, short and to the point as it is, while I sees Mi'Lord give a loving turn of the mouth to the Mi'Lady, as he pats my shoulder and says warmly the "document" signifies that I am entitled to some quick income and free meal, for a short stint, I need only X on the line below, to show that I agree to attend the funeral banquet of the honorable VIP from nth O'clock for no more than one hour or so...

so long as I partake fully in the offertory meal.

I maybe street urchin, but I weren't born yesterday.

I says, affably, where do I sign? squinting at Mi'Lady as she points with plump gilded nail. Bumbling, I make my chicken scratch, signifying anonymous witness, nameless, faceless— all ready, willing and able—to be plucked off.

The dearly departed is to be buried in a fine plot on Ackers Point, they cheers in chorus, the service painstakingly called a Plein-Air. And they lift a noble finger, over the hill just yonder, can't miss it and don't be late, as it starts in a few minutes. Ta tah!

The offertory meal I know is the supposed rightin' of wrongs indulged in by the deceased, dame or bloke. And I as human supplicant am to eat this anti-waffer so that excess Sin may be forgiven.

Twasn't enough Jesus died and rose again.

Twasn't enough the sinner went to church, for show, and tell, at Confession.

This here contract, that I can read well enough, mumbo jumbo, says I will take upon myself, this hungry body, the food and loathing that would otherwise weigh down the soul and keep it from eternal rest. The Sins worth measured in flour. I wonder something about the yeast of evil, and the unleavened, and turn to the hill.

You'll note, I signed.

My tethers, reassuring Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady that I am well qualified, needy and charitable. What they don't knows is that I have even in these rags, pockets and folds sheltering vermin, and they have overlooked, as snobbery does, the feathered cohort that perches on my shoulder.

Dismissed as dumb blackbird of a batty old lady, soon to die as well.

We arrives timely. My feathered companion's well organized socially and signals his compatriots with a few good kracks and kows.  We go to our work. I breaking bits quickly and scattering them, among bird, rat and mice. It takes a good while for anyone to catch on. Minutes, but tis enough. For us it's short work, the birds are flying in steady, five, seven, in patches, hoards altogether... Peppering the ceremony.

There is fear and a consternation.

The same Mi'Lord and Mi'Lady are rushing aghast to my seated person and shooing at the flock that's gathered.

"What the Devil are you doing?! a person must eat this food, not crows!!!"

I know, and I spread my open hands broad and empty...

Like I've no idea what's going on here...

Then I make a show of picking my yellow jagged teeth with a sharp black quill.

I says: "Maybe somebody with better tooth or bigger stomach could take over... " ?

The flock, heavy with feed, rises, menacing beaks and blimp bellies. And Mi'Lady shrieks, Mi'Lord grabs his gun to stop the offertory from getting away...

She is sobbing: "But... We don't eat crow, we don't eat crow...!"

I know.