I am not a monster!

I only mean well. Yet, I keep thinking of ways to kill children. How sick is that? My mind is always on the search for some new way to do such a horrible thing. It's funny because I never thought such dark, evil thoughts before I had my own children. Now they arise and seek me out. I can't help it. What's wrong with me?

Children are fragile. They're actually quite easy to kill. It doesn't take much. And everyone will know it as just a tragic accident.

They can choke. They can fall from great distances. They can be allowed to do the thousand things that have killed children before, and the whole thing can just happen. Fast. And such things are accepted as the goings-on of the world.

Without intervention.

Look at that Bic pen top lying on the floor. A choking hazard just waiting its turn. Look at that pot of boiling oil with its handle sticking out from the stove, just waiting to be grabbed. Look at that bleach under the sink. Seatbelts don't matter if the trip is short.

I'm not a monster. I only mean well. But I can't help but keep devising ways to kill children. And not just mine, but everybody's.

I pick up that Bic pen top off of the floor. I check and recheck the slat distances on the railing to make sure they're too narrow to allow my child to fall through. I swing that pot handle out of grasp, put the bleach up high, and insist on seatbelts no matter how short the ride.

Because when you have your own, you will think of ways to kill them and begin your lifelong vigilance to prevent that from happening. In the famous ways. In the unpredictable ways. In the unimaginable ways. You keep your eyes open and stay en garde. You're preemptively paranoid.

Because you love them.

Because you're a parent, not a monster.

I must be crazy to take you back, but this’ll be the last time. The absolute last time. Not like the other times. It’ll be different this time. I mean it. You say you’ve changed and can’t live without me. Ok, I’ll let you back in my life. But from now on, I don’t want any more of your hollow apologies. I’m serious when I say I’m done being trivialized and made to feel stupid.

Although your unfulfilled promises are stockpiled in my mind, I will give you one, and only one, more chance to not break my heart again.

I'm all about me. It doesn't matter if I'm right or wrong, I come first. I don't take no for an answer, and I pressure other people to bend to my will. It makes me feel strong and powerful. I don't like to be challenged or rejected. It reminds me of any human weakness I may have, for I am perfect, you see. In my glass mirror, I see no flaws of my own, only others, for in my mind, I am untouchable. I have no compassion when it comes to things I want. Everyone does wrong, except me. I do no wrong and will never admit to any wrong. If I get caught in a lie or an uncomfortable situation, I just play the victim and say I don't remember and project it back on the other person. I know that they're stupid enough to take the bait. I am not satisfied with anything. I have to, no, I need to break people down to make myself feel in charge, for it's the control I crave. Damn the misery I bring on other people, for that's not really my concern, now is it? I am smarter and better at this game I play. They need to recognize that, and we won't have any problems. See, I have this incessant need to be praised, looked at, needed. I need someone to worship me, especially in a relationship. If they don't, I just pretend to want them and let them believe that they are all I need, and then I start to try and break them down by looking at everything that passes, like the person I'm with isn't good enough. That should show them that I am the ONE. I need to show them and tell them on a regular basis that I don't need them, that I can get anyone I want. They don't matter. They are just a means to an end. Then I met her. The one I had. The one that would give her last, and her heart just to keep me happy. For years, she latched on to my every word, my every whim, my every mood. When we fought, she was physically sick. I didn't care. I stayed away as long as I liked. I didn't care how she felt. I neglected her, I belittled her. I went home and laid in my bed and sighed, because I knew that no matter how I treated her, she would stay. And she did. No matter how mad I got, no matter what name I called her or how mean or low-key nasty I was to her, she stayed. She was afraid of losing me, I could taste it. I could taste her desperation to keep the relationship together. And it gave me goosebumps to know that I had that kind of power, that kind of control. I played this cat-and-mouse game for years, until one day.....she'd had enough. She no longer hung on to my every word. She stopped believing everything I said. She no longer hugged me when I walked in the door. She no longer smiled when she saw me. I saw a lion in her eyes where a cub had been. The one thing I never expected was...realization. She realized everything. She realized that I didn't care, that this was a thrilling, exciting game I was a master at playing. And then she stopped doing the one thing I depended on. She stopped caring. She stopped caring about the relationship. She started focusing on her. The pain, the game, the lies, the dismissal, they all took a toll on her, very, very slowly. Her sweet, soft heart hardened. I watched her turn to stone. I watched the one person who truly loved and cared for me turn into someone I didn't even know. I watched her roll her eyes upon sight of me. I watched as she slowly started hating my arrival and the sound of my voice. She saw me as a parasite, and I was the cause. It killed me inside. I would never admit it, but I cared. I realized that I cared about what she thought of me. I didn't want to let her go, but she was rapidly retreating. I started complementing her, playing that game to see how well it worked. It didn't. She told me she felt smothered, unloved, unworthy, and worthless. She told me that she was done, because she was worth more than that. I watched as men looked at her incessantly. She never looked back. She didn't need that attention. She walked away mentally and emotionally. Only a hollow physical shell of her remained. How I wish that the girl I met all those years ago would come back, but she never will. Now I am the one afraid of losing her, but she no longer cares. She's cordial, but cold. Affection, touching, kissing, rubbing have all left the building. Her heart is in pieces, and she's trying to heal. My suffering is in watching her pull away from my station and take a slow ride back to who she was...without me.

This is a hard thing for me to write about.

All my friends are perfect.

Or so they think!

What is perfection?

The perfectchin!

No i don't judge on the external.

If the skin was peeled off would there be a dimple.

Dimples are cool.

Hey man you got a crater in your face!

Doesn't sound so good!

Anyway this friend of mine,when you're talking to him in deep thoughts,he presses his thumb into his chin.

Is he self conscious,or is he enhancing his epidermic abyss?

Maybe he's pushing some kind of tendril that stretches through his stimuli activating his brain.

But what I find the most annoying about him,is that he t h i n k s he's a know it all.

I'm stressing thinks!

I didn't say that he is a know it all.

Cause if you know it all how do you learn from future mishaps.

You can't learn from your mistakes if your perfection is having a perfect chin.

Unless you don't like your chin and you're thumb is going numb from all the pushing which spreads numbing your brains activity.

And if he decides to get a nip and a tuck.Fast forward to future mishaps.

Then he will probably be using two fingers to help him think.

I see her sitting at a pit stop in Kentucky. Her boots up, her wild whiskey grin. Laughing at the lot of us still trapped in this melancholy hell.

“I reckon you all have chills when I step up on you.”

Let me sink here in your tatted skin. “I’m not earthbound, anymore.”

Laughing at our bloodshot lives and wasted plans.

“I’m still here, somehow.”

Let my heart bleed out onto the kitchen floor

remembering her will

the pain of it.

”can you hear me?”

Her hopeless light of marigold

Her stubborn fight against the dying of the light.

”I’m with you, can you see me?”

Her death blowing a hole

straight through the universe

and shattering the moon.

”I love you all, I’m still here.”

We are stolen by her

memory

Our beloved

Shells

Her ghost forever

lives within those

of us who felt the

certain and sudden

drop

from

heaven

as her spirit

hit the sky

Rest now.

Shelley “Shells” Gilreath

May 18th 1981 - April 18th 2025

suicide is bodily autonomy. im all dressed up with nowhere to go

sometimes i can’t tell what’s real because all i have are five million ways of looking at it. subjectivity is hard man. my mind’s all tied up with dead leaves dead ends and no place to go

suicide is bodily autonomy but i would never let anyone else win that argument. i would die for them to not believe that. but i’m out of steam with nowhere to go

thoughts for an endpoint (not a dead end):

i would live for someone to believe they should too.

and now, where to go?

love from bluesy

I am the same but also so different. What has changed? It's not what's inside but my actions. I stare at my other self through a haze as I do the things I spent my lifetime being taught to hold back. My words are what they would consider mean but I feel are honest. I've always felt I should voice them but was restrained, not by conscience but by training. "Don't say those sort of things they hurt people" I don't understand why they would but obey my mothers orders. "Hold back, repress it, if you can't change what's inside at least don't show it. You can't wince when people hug you, it's mean. You can't be disgusted when someone gives a simple kiss on the cheek. You can't tell people the truth so matter of factly, it needs to be softened. You can't live your life in silence in a corner watching but not engaging. Even if you hate it power through and live normally as you can."

I watch the person who didn't learn these lessons they are not loved like I am. I am unsure how I feel about that. Am I that unlikable beneath my facade, in my natural state? Do I even care? Deep down I'm not sure if I should thank or hate Mom for my lessons. The other me is alone but deep down I honestly believe they are happier.

God doesn’t save like a fireman.

He doesn’t crash through the door, lift you from the smoke, and lay you on the grass while you cough up what almost killed you.

He saves like a whisper—

Like the last thread you follow when everything else has unraveled.

Like the voice you want to hate because it tells you the hard thing:

“Get up.”

“Try again.”

“Forgive them.”

“Forgive yourself.”

So yes, you do the work.

You bleed, ache, stretch, claw your way forward.

But maybe god’s not the muscle.

Maybe he’s the map.

Or the compass.

Or even just the unbearable silence that makes you listen for your truest voice.

He gets credit for the path and the pull.

Not for doing it for you, but for planting the seed of belief that you could.

And if you did it all without him?

Then maybe you are the god you’ve been waiting on.

And maybe that’s not blasphemy—

maybe that’s divinity finally recognizing itself.

Last Man?

March 22, 2025

I don’t remember yesterday

Perhaps there is a reason

I don’t see another

Maybe I am the first

If I am the first of my species

Will there be another?

How will I locate them?

Should I even make the attempt?

Under the same bright stars

Another may have the very same thoughts as I

Serendipity might permit an intersection

Only after years of loneliness

Until then, I have only myself to live for

And I intend to live for it all

To find me, look for adventure

Then just follow the laughter

However, should I prove to be the last

May this be my last will and testament

The world belongs to

Whoever can hold it

Learn from our mistakes

Learn from our successes

Be a better steward than we were

You have no other duty

I'm in a fucking rut and I hate it. I have so much that I feel like I could be doing. I could be finding a job or writing my screenplay or something but instead I just take depression naps. Even my dreams are starting to get stressful. Every other dream is about a test that I have to take that is daunting. I hate taking them. The latest was on King Kong Island and my friend, Fae, and I had to take on caring for children after taking Ernest and Son's Green Busses out into the ocean to try to get them to the next island before King Kong Island burned down. It was an amusement park island and the kids were all children of the staff. Before that, my partner had bestowed upon me a shadow necklace so I could have him there whenever I missed him. It was a really nice gift.

Let's see what other dreams did I have? I had the one with my cousin coming into a job agency I worked at. She's my older cousin and I haven't seen her since I was sixteen. She called me high once and I prefer to not remember it. I know she needed me but I was so upset she had th audacity to call me when high. I mean, I'm sure she wouldn;t have done so if she didn't need help. She didn't even ask me for money. I think she was just in a bad ordeal and needed help. I haven't talked to her since but she comes in my dreams every once in awhile.

What else happens up there? There's a school that's like a huge mall. I don't think I can keep going for another nine minutes honestly. I am getting tired as we speak. O did an interview today and except for having no idea what software they use, I think it went pretty well. I didn't do much dazzling though. You always know when someone is intrigued by you when you talk to them and they never shut up. At least that's what happens to me. People pick a few little things I say then I can pick up on what htey say and then we've got a conversation going. But, this time it was awkward. There were paises. I don't know what to make of it honestly. I;m about to go to the grocery store so I guess I'll fill out one of their applications. Kroger is always hiring.

I used to dream about getting a big break when this whole joblessness thing started. I would work from home. I would make more than I've ever seen before. A salary. Benefits. Pet insurance. I would get a pet turtle named Biff to celebrate. He would fart and shit out of his tail and stink up my room. It was the dream. I still have eggs in baskets. There's a speechwriting job that I had my hopes up for. I don't know why I don't tether those little bastards. Hopes and dreams are for losers, I'm starting to think. It makes me feel bad to be such a cynic but honestly, I really do feel that way. So long as I don't forget my pen, I'll make sure I sign up to work at Kroger. I could work in the deli. I could be the guy who keeps Rob from losing his finger when he slices it off after we're talking about my dreams and he gets so enamored with my brain that he loses his head... well, pinky, to the meat cutter.

What is that thing called. Will I be like the black lady in that meme where the woman hops over the counter and she's like unless your name is Salami, you shouldn't be back here and the woman's like I'm hiding from my ex, and the Black lady decides the woman can stay? I like that gif but I never was destined to be that woman. I mean, if people want to sit up straight and look both ways and cross their T's and dot their I's, that's fine by me but I'm a slouching writer who sleeps too much and dreams even more. I like to have my head in the clouds which is probably why I'm feeling the brunt of this hiring freeze. I think I'm doing okay but honestly I couldn't be sure either way. I have money, just a bit. Enough to enjoy the casino tomorrow with my mom and my grandmother and anyone else that comes. I just wish I was in a better position in life, you know?