Everyone knows that when someone is hurting, they are heavier.

The light in their eyes turns to sludge, and it sinks down into the soles of their feet, swamping the skipping joy in the tips of their toes.

Their lips are bowed, gently tugged downwards by the weight of their pain, and betraying everything and nothing all at once.

Their back is arched, burdened by the world, hauled down by it. The body curves and stays that way, more like stone every day.

But hardest to see and even harder to bear is in the heart. Every hurt is a pebble, threaded onto heartstrings, sinking below the tip of the breastbone like a necklace.

This heaviness is within, invisible, and its weight is the fiercest, drawing shutters over the eyes, and catching you in time like molasses, creeping and consuming and forever-seeming.

Sometimes the heartstrings snap, and with a gasp, the pebbles clatter down into the soul, the soles of the feet, and then you cannot move, only weep as your broken heartstrings hang limp behind your ribs. The pebbles turn your feet, your legs to stone, and however much you may wish to run, you cannot.

Sometimes people endure so many small heavy hurts that the pebble necklace grows too long. Long enough that it wraps around their neck and their wrists and covers their eyes and gags them, and they are changed, chained.

Sometimes the pebble necklace in someone's heart drags them straight to their grave.

Sometimes the pebbles are so heavy that life and light and laughter are hopeless.

Sometimes the necklace chokes you.

Sometimes it breaks.

But sometimes you can slide you fingers between your ribs, draw those heartstrings out from their cage, and however painful it may be, you can slip the pebbles from the necklace.

one

by

one.

Count them.

Polish them.

Kiss them.

And eventually, cast them away.

Steady and deep-growl like gravel, the washing machine runs, spinning and spinning through the night.

A wash of pattering mist as sprinklers spring to life outside the window.

Crickets creaking, thrumming their own song, spotlighted by a half-moon.

Spinning and pattering and creaking.

Over and over again.

Eyes falling heavy and heavier.

Breath coming slowly and deeper.

The soft signs of life all throughout the house, in and out and in again.

A lone cry from a lone cat, left wide awake in the dark.

The slow whirr of an engine, headlights flashing through blinds, casting second-long shadows, bright contrast.

Nighttime rhythm, moonlight rhythm, whisper-soft sleeping-breath rhythm.

Spinning and pattering and creaking.

Over and over again.

When your soul

d

r

o

p

s

and your sighs no longer capture

the entirety of the

chaos

of

inside

and the fear that catches

your heart

in an iron net

slices deep and

deeper

and the paranoia that is

ice

eyes wide

lips dry

smile cracking across

a face that is all porcelain

and when your soul

d

r

o

p

s

because your thoughts no longer make

sense

and you are both

prisoner

and

cage

and

nobody

listens

for you are all alone

a statue without

a hurricane within

and nobody knows it

for you are silent

without

but you are SCREAMING

within

There is that place in your mind

That memory

or future

regret

or choice

That door you may open

The door you won't open

The door you can't open

Don't ever

ever

open the door.

Behind the door is anxiety and pressure and sadness and angerandterrorandshame

The door is locked with fear

of what you will face

of what you must do

if you open that door

So don't ever

ever

open the door.

See? This is what your mind says. A little bit broken, your mind says.

Don't open the door.

Don't go into that place of memory or future or regret or choice.

Hide from the door. Pretend it's not there.

The place of anxiety and pressure and sadness.

Anger and terror and shame.

See? This is what you must overcome.

These are words in a bottle, sent spiraling into the void. A call into a snowstorm.

Who will hear them? Maybe nobody.

Who needs them? Maybe nobody.

But for the nobodies out there, a reminder to you. Open that door. Shatter the shackle of fear.

The door may lead to darkness shame terror anger sadness pressure anxiety

It might be the valley of the shadow of death.

But you don't walk alone.

Be still.

Open

that

door.

Raindrops are dance steps

trip-skipping on rooftops

run-weaving down windows

to an incessant beat

Sky sobs more to join them

as thunder rolls rhythm

and lightning claps in time

to that imperfect beat

World sighs as rain drowns it

flood falls to the music

wind partners with storm

to this indelible beat

Rain drops down in dance steps

rap-tapping the rooftops

slip-sliding on windows

an incredible beat

Even in the blackest night, I have my colors. As long as I have words, I have my colors.

A is of a deepest red, bordering on maroon.

B plays hurricane, storm grey slate, and murky blue.

C is citrus, think of an unripened orange.

D captures ocean dark, navy with silver and shifting grey.

E is grass green bright, with sunlight shining through.

F is olive, plain and pure, with glints of morning dew.

G is grey-blue, like a just-after-sunset sky.

H is wet pavement, somehow the brightest of them all.

I is pale, streaking yellow and lime, opalescent.

J comes with memories, tawny and spices and caramel, recalling a theater stage.

K is fir green, mountain forest, bright and lively.

L is butter, smooth and cream, sleep-soft, quiet dream.

M is magenta, always will be, with red blue and green mixing to a sheen.

N is firetruck, clear and sharp, and firework bold.

O is almost colorless, with the palest of yellows and the palest of greens.

P is the color of freshly baked bread, rich and honey and wood.

Q is snow and orchids and a dusting of green and gold.

R belongs to royalty, vivid purple, deepest violet.

S is mint and cilantro, light and brass and kind.

T declares deserts, and Jupiter's bands.

U is tender, all flour and orange zest.

V is lavender sprigs, gentle galaxy.

W is strict indigo, washing soft like rainclouds.

X is seaweed, murky green brushed with pitch.

Y cries sunset, melting down into deep orange.

Z is dripping red, deepest secret scarlet.

I have my colors always, even in the blackest night.

As long as I have words

I have my colors.

I tilt my head, nausea slipping into my stomach. "People are starting to think like you again."

His eyes are inhuman. "I don't think they ever stopped."

I can't look at those eyes. My blanket is strangled between my fingers, twist and twist and twist. "Did you really believe? In all that you did?"

He is not natural. Even in death, he is a demon. "I believed I was God."

Breath escapes my lips in a tiny sigh. "They're starting to do that again, too. Believe that they're God."

Dark eyes. Ghost eyes. Dead eyes, empty even in life. "And again, they never stopped."

A flame of loathing, pinpricks on eyes. "Why? Why would you--" I can't reason with this creature. I don't want to hear its answers.

"Why was I who I was? We all make choices. Sacrifices."

A quote whispers in my mind. Chills skitter down my spine. "One death is a tragedy."

"One million is a statistic." His words continue, as low and cordial as before.

Twist and twist. This isn't real. Sweat coats my palms. "I hate you."

"Many do. Many have. It still does not matter."

"You never cared for anyone."

His eyes, I can't stand his eyes. "Perhaps not. But what use is caring? Death overwhelms love. There is nothing more prevalent than death."

Another whisper, another quote. "Death is the solution to all problems. No man..."

"No problems." He doesn't stop staring at me. "Was I remembered?"

I flinch. "So you care about that?"

"No." He doesn't stop staring.

Breath comes short. "Yes. Yes you were."

And there is fury again, a candle flame, burning bright and hot. And there is terror, for people remember, but never learn. And sorrow, for the sin of man, even for the sin of those who are not men at all. "People never learn."

"No, they do not. They are shallow creatures. They desire order, always order. Freedom is forever unnatural to the human state. Give them perfect order, and they will follow, sheep to slaughter."

Fury and terror and sorrow. "You took away God. You took away family. You took away love. You took away individuality." My voice rises with every charge. "You removed what it means to be human, and they're trying to do it again." The words drop away into a sob. "They say that socialism is a good thing, and that family is a bad thing, and that God is meaningless and silly. They say you can't speak, and you must agree, and you can't say no. Wear this mask, take this vaccine, believe what we tell you, and it will be okay."

He listens, silence floods the room.

The blanket is soaked with sweat, twisted, twisting. "It's not going to be okay."

"You will not think so."

I finally look up, stare straight into those eyes. "You're dead. Do you now believe in God?"

He doesn't answer.

Fury terror sorrow. "Do you?"

A beat. "I have been judged. But God remains a lie."

furyterrorsorrow

"Go away."

FuryTerrorSorrow.

He smiles, small, and horrible in its normality. "They are thinking again. Or rather, not thinking. My ideas never died, child. I was not the first, and I was not the last."

Again and again and again and again

FURYTERRORSORROW

"Go away!"

He was not the first, and he is not the last.

The phantom dissolves. The presence lingers.

Tears slip across my cheeks, dripping down my nose as I slump into my pillows.

Again.

What does the future hold?

Again.

And again.

And again.

I have my beliefs.

And you have yours.

But why is one voice lifted

while the other is censored?

I respect you. I still am kind.

So why is it that

when I speak out

it’s labeled as a crime?

I’ve done nothing to hurt you.

It’s the ideas alone

that cause you to shame me,

but I won’t back down.

I have my beliefs.

I won’t silence myself.

I don’t fit your agenda,

But I wouldn’t want

to be

anyone

else

Sculptor people, in a circle

Standing still, as still can be.

Soft hands outstretched, concentrating

These people do not move, you see.

’Tis the clay before them, shudder-shifting

That tells the story locked within.

The sculptor people are only waiting

For the clay dance to begin.

It is a vibrant, dynamic motion

Earth falls away, features revealed

And still the sculptors, in their circle

Are still as silence, all guise concealed

The sculpture captures life in truth

While sculptor is stone, but for beat and breath.

Clay takes on a soul, and possibility

While sculptor freezes, a sculpture death.

Forgive me, Lord.

Somehow, I miscalculated.

The numbers

I had aligned

so

very

neatly

did not add up.

I'm sorry, Lord.

I put You in a box.

Every good act

was never further from Belief.

Is it too late, Lord?

I did it all in Your name.

They told me I was good.

I thought I was good.

Yet here I am,

the one place

I thought

I would

never

see

You're a Merciful God.

That's what they told me on Sunday.

Do I get a last chance?

Or is this it?

I think-

You gave me so many chances, didn't You. Didn't You?

I just didn't see it-

until

now.

Forgive me, Lord.

Your name will fall from my lips, even here. Even now.

Even now.

Now

and-

forever

more