falling out

i do not conjecture two partners
can simply "fall out" of love,
but rather they lose the will,
to put in the required elbow grease.

for falling into love - true love,
is an uncommon happening,
and while far from being affliction,
it can be just as hard to shed.

vehement feelings linger like ember,
waiting for a spark to ignite them,
rebooting the oft majestic process
of falling in love - again.

indeed, it is not a falling out of love,
but a coming to terms with it,
realization that, like all of nature,
it is cyclical, recurrent, fluctuating.

day by day

apprehension swelled within me
until i contemplated running,
far away from this opportunity,
from the chance to fall in love - again.

the sting from past relationships
was all too raw on my heart,
which yearned to heal with time,
but also give love another chance.

i regret the impending trepidations
i will subject my lover to,
knowing full well it is not their fault,
their only crime being falling for me.

deep down i pray they stay,
are patient enough to wait for me,
to one day unfasten the latch on my heart,
heretofore impeding unconditional love.

they call it the honeymoon phase,
and it goes on for months or weeks.
a spike of pure exhilaration,
when new love hits its peak.

our very physiology morphs,
chemicals release in our brains.
yet this ever-quickening pace,
is one no one can maintain.

indeed, there comes a time,
when a decision must be made.
else routine becomes the norm,
and the love slowly fades.

when you come to know a person,
truly, inside and out...
and you accept what you find there,
then it's love -- have no doubt.

because if they are to be yours,
even their habits and their quirks,
then you must realize, my friend,
that sometimes it takes work.

(you can't) be mine

i lie face down on the couch
as the clock ticks to midnight
marking the beginning
of another valentine's day.

my fingertips brush the carpet
as my eyes blankly stare
catching the lamp's light
refracted by an empty wine bottle.

abandoned headphones emit music
faint, far-off, distant
much like this surreal feeling
of being alone, without you.

while i hate you for what you did,
all i can remember right now
are the chocolates and the roses
you bought for me last year.

spinning

this is not something i planned,
to have my world flipped upside down,
experiencing otherwordly sensations
that i never even knew existed.

i cannot confess honestly enough,
how long i've waited - and waited -
for not only someone to hold,
but also a genuine, happy, relationship.

the kind where i can be myself,
without fear of any reprisal,
because the one i care about,
accepts me in my entirety.

so, while it was impromptu,
i would not trade it for anything,
except perhaps for the chance,
to fall in love with you again.

perilous life

i knew she was a risk,
or, at least, did risky things,
involving risky situations,
in which only the young partake.

yet still i built something with her,
thus painting a target on my heart,
even though my hope was tenuous,
like a trembling house of cards.

sometimes late at night, silent night,
i imagine the worst occurring,
stay up thinking about how i'd react,
scare myself with what i find.

my blank stares while i think mirror
the emptiness i conjure would exist,
and when asked if everything's alright,
i tell my most common lie: "i'm fine."

Chimera

Chimera

“Where had they put her again?” thought the short, elderly woman. It had to be somewhere back here… sheesh, all these changing rooms and you can never find the one yo—ah!

“Oh, Rory, they’re almost ready for you dear,” she said as she approached the door. “Rory? Did you hear-”

“…ever again. We can finally be happy. Just think of the peace and quiet in a new home, where I can do all my research! We’ll be so happ-” Rory quieted abruptly as she heard the door creak open behind her.

“Oh, I’m sorry dear, were you on the phone? Well, they’re ready for you! This way, this way!”

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Prominent DNA sequence from head hair. Some variations.

Quiet chatter permeated the lecture hall as eager attendees indulged themselves in the buzz surrounding the event. Normally only a handful of graduate students and prominent alumni would attend a biology lecture at the local university, even when it was given by one of the most eminent scholars the school had ever seen graduate. But when something big catches wind in the small town of Prairie View, even the peaceful, quiet types can't help but stick their noses in it. So construction workers still in their work boots, waiters still in their aprons, and, yes, even some undergrad students, packed the auditorium as if it were a Christmas play.

"I can't believe what she's been through, I mean with the cancer diagnosis a few months ago and this whole thing with Skylar."

"...really think he killed himself?"

"Personally, I don't know how she even focuses on work. After something like that happens, and then to have the cops..."

"...know what she's even talking about tonight? Shit, ain't no bunch of idiots in this town gonna understand any of it."

"Dumbass. If there's one thing this town'll eat up more'n Dean's fried steak, it's a good old fashion gossip about a murd--"

"Shhh! She's walking on stage!"

While the lights above the gossiping crowd dimmed along with their hushed voices, the spotlight redirected to land squarely on Rory as she crossed the stage with her high heels clacking on the floor, her suit matching her businesslike demeanor. She reached the podium and stood on the top step so her short frame could see the crowd. And what a crowd it was. She smiled, drawing everyone's attention, if it wasn't already, directly to her face -- her head -- entirely devoid of hair.

"Is it frigid in here or is it just me?" Rory asked the crowd, rubbing her head. A few chuckles echoed back. It wasn't uncommon for Rory to use her ongoing bout with breast cancer, and resulting baldness, as an icebreaker.

"No, it must be absolutely -freezing- outside if those are, what, undergraduate students I see attending a lecture?"

Some more laughs this time, as shoulders slowly slacked and people exhaled. She'd managed to put most of them at ease, which was good. No doubt they wouldn't care to listen to any of her actual lecture. No, they weren't here for that. They were hear to see how a woman born and raised in Prairie View was holding up, only weeks after being accused of killing her husband.

"Now then," Rory continued, "Let's discuss the effects of genetically distinct cells within multi-celled organisms that originate from different zygotes involved in sexual reproduction."

---

ATGCTATAGCTC – Most of hair on forearms and legs. Difficult to discern from where a sample could be taken. Determination: Risky.

"Yep, reckon they're all down at the theater house, huh, Lynn?" Jessie, a young, simple-minded rookie, asked his superior. "Shame we can't go, you know, as part of the investigation.”

Jessie picked at his fingernails.

“We can't, can we? You know, go?” he asked, looking up.

"Already got some men down there, Jess, you know that," Lynn said, poring over his notes. “And they’re more protection detail than anything.” The 27-year veteran had been driving the same police cruiser around Prairie View's streets since before Jess was born. But he'd never had a case involving murder between two of the town's own. Lifting his cup to take a sip of coffee, he left a dark ring around a mugshot of Rory's face that was used in a story in the local paper. He continued to look for the one detail he missed.

"Doesn't make much sense, does it?" Jessie asked, walking up beside Lynn and looking at the case notes.

"What doesn't, that a husband would beat his wife who had breast cancer or she might actually be capable of killing him for it?"

"Well. Neither, I s'pose," Jessie said. "And wait, how d'you know she done it?"

Lynn pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"God dammit, Jess, you've studied the same case I have for the past few weeks. What do you think?"

And so Jessie looked over Lynn's notes for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to refresh himself on the details and find the missing link.

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Saliva, no variation. Safer bet, but act of application is not viable. Still, could be useful. Determination: TBD

"These are especially intriguing in that they are formed from four parent cells, or two fertilized eggs or fused embryos," Rory explained, illustrating the fertilization process on her presentation slides.

The research she was presenting tonight was the culmination of months and months worth of effort. Losing herself in her work was the only way she was able to cope with the troubles at home.

"In plants, for example, each cell population keeps its own characteristics, and the resulting plant organism is a mixture of various tissues."

Months spent in the lab doing countless experiments finally lead to tonight’s seminar. With any luck some top universities in the region would recognize her. However, the gossip and drama surrounding the recent death of her husband wasn’t exactly how she’d have liked to draw a crowd.

"By isolating various cell characteristics, leading embryologists have managed to create plants of a specific species but with different physical traits."

But one thing was for damn sure. She wasn't going to let his death ruin weeks of hard work. She would have given this lecture tonight even if she had to be escorted out in handcuffs.

---

ACGTGCTGACTG – Initial blood tests. More samples needed.

Jessie was looking over the case notes.

Just two Sundays ago, dispatch had gotten a call about yelling and fighting at Rory and Skylar’s place. Nothing new there. Even Jess, who's as green as they come, had been out there several times already. It wasn't a secret Skylar was a slave to the booze and Rory paid for it. Folks in small towns keep to their own, though, and there's a Prairie View saying: "Your problems are your problems".

Jordan, the neighbor, told officers he'd heard Rory pull in late like she always did after doctor's appointments or teaching a night class. Prairie View didn't have the medical facilities for chemo treatments, so Rory had to drive an hour or so into the city. Jordan mentioned that Skylar, of course, had never offered to take her. He said it was about 8:30 p.m. when he heard her kill the engine. After a few minutes came the yelling, which normally is not enough for him to call the cops. He said he heard Skylar yell, "You bitch!" Again, not a rare occurrence. It was the sound of shattering glass and frenzied screaming that alarmed him. That’s when Jordan called the cops.

Lynn arrived at the scene first, and it wasn't what he expected. The blood, sure. A crying Rory was likewise somewhat typical. Skylar on the ground, face-up, with a steak knife through his chest, was anything but. Seeing him on the ground would've been normal after a heavy night of drinking. This was different. An air lingered that seemed to weigh everything down with the scent of death. Before Lynn talked to Rory, he decided to examine the crime scene.

Skylar's cause of death was easy enough to discern. A seven-inch knife rammed down to the handle just beneath his sternum. In small-town fashion, Lynn decided he didn't need to call the coroner this time of night; he could do his work in the morning. Anyhow, it was clear the puncture of some vital organ or blood loss was the culprit. Other signs of some type of struggle littered the kitchen and den. Broken bottles and half-empty beer cans lined the counters and dirty clothes hung askew on upended furniture. But of course signs of struggle existed. The couple had fights every week.

"Now -that- is fucked up.”

Lynn jumped, his reverie interrupted.

"God dammit, Jess. Make a little more noise when you're behind people would you?" Lynn said.

"Sorry, boss," Jess said. "Bet Skylar wishes whoever did this to him had let him seen it coming, too, huh? You don't think, you know, Rory…?"

"What did you find upstairs?" Lynn asked, ignoring the question. "Anything in the bedroom? Unusual blood stains? Anything out of place?"

"Aw, not much," Jessie said. "Bedroom was a sty. Dunno how anyone could sleep on them sheets. Lots of winter clothes laid out, for Rory I’d guess. Y'know Skylar wears them same damn jeans and's got three shirts to his name he wears. Got some right fine framed photos in the master, though, one of that lighthouse you pass by going out toward the city, you know over on Crabapp-"

Lynn put his hand up to silence Jessie. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Rory in a t-shirt or shorts. She'd recently taken to wearing long sleeves and pants, even on warmer days, to hide the bruises.

"Ok, so nothing in the bedroom. The bathroom? Guest room?"

"Bathroom had all kinds of feminine stuff I ain't be caught dead buying from a store," Jessie said. "All kinds of feminine pads, makeup. Rory always wears lots of makeup, now that I think on it. Tons of creams too, I couldn't believe it. Stuff for your face, your hands, even got lots of that stuff to keep your legs silky smooth."

Jessie grinned. "Hey Lynn," he said, pulling up his uniform pants as high as they would go, "who wears short shorts?"

"Oh, shut it, Jess," Lynn said. "Try to act professional, you’re at a goddamned murder scene. What else did you find?"

"Just some meds, part of her treatment I'd reckon. She just got a refill from the looks of it. Guest room had lots of papers and books," Jess said. "Go take a look at 'em for yourself, I sure's shit couldn't understand any of it."

Rory's research, Lynn thought. She always was a bright kid, and he still remembered the graduation speech she gave on behalf of her high school class -- all 23 of Prairie View's seniors that year. She was into science, if he recalled correctly. Lynn walked over and sat down next to Rory, whom he noted was holding a hot cup of tea, but not drinking a drop. She held it close to her face, as if gazing at her own reflection in the liquid’s surface.

"I'll take it from here, Jordan, thanks," Lynn said. Jordan patted Rory on the knee and headed home.

Rory fixated her eyes, red and tired from sobbing, directly into her mug.

"Rory?" Lynn prodded. "Do you think you've calmed down enough to tell me what happened here tonight?"

---

ATGCTATAGCTCG – Also blood. Results apparently random in nature, best option for placement. Determination: Optimal solution.

Halfway through her presentation, it was apparent that not a tenth of the audience was interested in Rory’s research. But she was more concerned with the visiting professors, who had arrived in town only hours ago to hear her present. She'd only hoped they hadn't bought a newspaper or overheard anything from one of Prairie View's gregarious citizens. A good showing here, and she was sure to be offered tenure at a large university, possibly even one in the city.

"Indeed, chimeras are not limited solely to plants. Much research has been conducted on early mouse development. Between the stages of fertilization of the egg and the implantation of a blastocyst into the uterus, different parts of the mouse embryo retain the ability to give rise to a variety of cell lineages."

She'd spent so many nights artificially inseminating mice and studying the various effects of her fertilizations. She took to creatures, so meek and fragile, suspect to the whims of much stronger, larger animals. Much like herself.

"Each of these parts of the blastocyst gives rise to different parts of the embryo; the inner cell mass gives rise to the embryo proper, while the trophectoderm and primitive endoderm give rise to extra embryonic structures that support growth of the embryo. Two- to eight-cell-stage embryos are competent for making chimeras, since at these stages of development, the cells in the embryos are not yet committed to give rise to any particular cell lineage, and could give rise to the inner cell mass or the trophectoderm."

She located the visiting professors in the crowd. Their eyebrows were raised, their interest piqued. She had them hooked. Now she only had to go in for the kill.

---

Conclusion: Blood is optimal agent. Its application should achieve desired results.

Jessie, growing bored of reading the same case notes over and over, threw them on the table.

"I mean, she said she came home and he was already dead, right?" Jessie asked.

"That's right," Lynn said.

"But that don't make much sense," Jessie said. "Jordan said he'd heard screaming. Yelling. Shit breaking."

"Still can't believe Skylar'd kill himself," Lynn said. "Just doesn't make sense."

"Maybe he felt guilty," Jessie offered. "Or just finally drank too much and did something too stupid, even for him."

"I just wish we had some damn -facts- we could use in this case," Lynn said.

"Truth, there, friend," Jessie said. "No fingerprints on the knife. Though she was wearing gloves, as usual. And no way to tell which bloodstains are from that night or one of the hundreds of nights before. Just the blood under his fingernails, which..."

"Is perhaps the damndest part of it all," Lynn finished for him.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. A right asshole like Skylar, he'd use his fists, or the back of his hand. Hell, I've seen him do it out in the yard a few times. But scratching? It all points to self defense, which..."

"Don't add up! I know!" Jessie said. "If Rory done stabbed him with that knife during a scuffle, it'd be her blood under his fingernails. But it ain't hers -- or his! You don't think..." Jessie stood and held up his hands, as if suddenly shocked by the revelation. "A secret lover. Probably one of them posh city boys who likes the smell of his own farts and has a fetish for chicks with no hair down there. A steamy, sexy..."

"God dammit, Jess," Lynn said, rolling his eyes. But he couldn't blame the kid. They'd scoured the house for clues. For evidence of an affair, of another involved party. The motive, the crime scene, the witness testimony, all of it pointed to Rory, and often Lynn found himself wondering if he could even blame her if she did do it.

"I dunno, and I'm starting not to care much," Jessie said. "I'll study tonight's game on TV instead. Let me know if you need any help deciphering that crap, chief."

Lynn looked down at the reams and reams of binders and research material. None of which he thought he'd ever understand. "There's gotta be an answer somewhere, kid," he said. And the question he'd start with was just who the hell else was in the house with Skylar that night?

---

The samples are prepared and ready at a moment’s notice.

Betraying the faintest of smiles, Rory glanced down at the professors, who were busily scratching notes, and clicked to the next slide.

"Tetragametic chimerism is one type of congenital chimerism," Rory explained while gesturing toward a slide of egg fertilization illustrations. "When two separate ova are fertilized by two sperm, the fusion of the two during the blastocyst or zygote stages can result in the development of an organism with intermingled cell lines."

She took a quick look over the crowd. Many of the townsfolk had left by now, but those remaining seemed just as dumbfounded as when she started. For a brief moment, their furrowed brows and perplexed looks gave her pleasure. The educated faculty, however, had stopped writing completely in light of being completely and utterly transfixed.

"In essence, what we end up with is a merging of two nonidentical organisms, not unlike that of identical twins, but with the distinction of having their own disparate DNA. Through my research, I have found that, while rare, human chimerism can occur in such a fashion, most commonly when associated with in-vitro fertilization. The resulting individual could live their entire life never knowing that a sibling exists inside of them as an inherent part of their genetic makeup.”

The lights came on abruptly. A mixture of fervent applause from a very small group of professors and graduate students juxtaposed the yawns and stretches from what remained of the normal crowd, many of who were looking around as if asking the question, "Is it over?" Rory quickly thanked the crowd and walked off, her heels clacking on the stage floor.

---

Once this is over, everything will change. We can finally live in peace.

Lynn wasn't getting anywhere. He'd tried reading Rory's research, looking for any clues at all, but the entire ordeal seemed beyond futile. All of the biology talk about embryos and blasto-whatever. He dropped the paper he was reading in despair and rubbed his eyes. Staring blankly at the stack of papers, his vision out of focus, he contemplated just dropping the case.

What harm could really come of it, he thought to himself. The world is rid of one less abuser and a sick woman is finally free to pursue some measure of happiness in her life. He was set to retire anyhow in a few years, and one murder case in Prairie View wouldn't draw national attention. Best if everyone just got back to a peaceful way of life.

"Boss!" Jessie yelled from the break room. "Home fucking run in the bottom of the ninth! Whooooooo!"

“God dammit, Jess!” Lynn snapped back to reality, eyes focusing right back where he'd let them drift, when something caught his eye on the page. Hand-scribbled notes in the margin of a textbook on genetics. Something about DNA.

---

It’s foolproof.

Rory sat in a waiting room backstage, nerves causing her to slightly shake as she waited to meet the visiting professors. She'd always dreamed of teaching at a major university, somewhere in a big city, with a huge library and coworkers who matched her intellectually. This could be her big break. Finally, now that Skylar wasn't holding her here, she would be able to pack up and simply leave, with none of the gossip or drama that comes with a divorce. He was dead. So people would –have- to understand.

Alone with her thoughts, she reflected on the last several months. Remembered when she'd cut herself during a class lab and, not wanting to miss a teaching opportunity, had the students analyze the makeup of some droplets of her blood. She recalled how the students then turned in their findings, which showed something most peculiar – she was, undoubtedly, a human chimera. Simply put, the DNA in the blood – her blood that she’d given to each group of students – didn’t always match.

Rory ruminated on how that was the night she hatched the plan that would lead her to this very point in time. For weeks she spent her nights in the local university's lab, testing different hair follicles, blood, saliva. The hair on her head? That was hers. Most of the hair on her left arm and some patches on her legs came up completely different. Hair as evidence at a crime scene was too hard to manage, and there’s no telling from where they’d take a sample. She'd decided it would have to go. Breast cancer seemed as good an excuse as any other. It was definitely something she could use to her advantage, at any rate. Her saliva always contained only her DNA. She wasn’t about to kiss or apply her mouth to any part of Skylar for that, though. Still, its consistency offered the least risk. Her blood was random, as evidenced by the class experiment. No telling if it would turn up as hers or not in a test. But if she could only get some beforehand…

She relived her drives to the city every other day for her fake chemo treatments. What a joke. More often than not she'd stop at some restaurant just far enough out of town or some nearby landmark to clear her head and think. She'd spent many nights watching the waves come in, the light spinning in a circle, wondering what it would be like, wondering if she'd be caught.

She thought about her hair. Her beautiful auburn curls she was forced to sacrifice using bottle upon bottle of Nair and Veet every other day, else the stubble would start to show and betray her charade. Her mind wandered until it, finally, rested on Skylar. The bastard. She'd been a fool to marry him so young, knowing how flawed and volatile a person he was. It wasn't so bad at first. He might've gripped her wrist too hard or been a bit too rough during sex. However, the first time he slapped her, she was too stunned to cry or yell at him. The next thousand or so times turned out not to be any different.

So when, several months ago, her students uncovered a genetic rarity that was in every way a miracle, she went with it. It was odd at first, acknowledging the fact that she had a sibling inside of her, somewhere, intertwining its genetic code with her own to form -- what exactly? A freak? A genetic aberration? No, she was a new person completely. And she wasn't alone anymore. She'd show her husband she wouldn't take it, and then she'd move on with her life.

Not everything had gone according to plan. For one, she actually hadn't planned on killing Skylar that night. Something inside her, though, incensed at seeing his useless, drunk, worthless self come at her with that certain look in his eye, triggered a response. She grabbed the nearest object, a steak knife belonging to a set given to her at her wedding shower, and rammed it square in his chest, knocking him back into the counter and shattering empty beer bottles. Her long sleeves ensured he couldn’t dig into her skin as he fought back, just before he convulsed and lay still. At last.

That night she was glad she always carried around a vial of her sibling’s blood. In this way and others she was always ready for this moment. It was as easy as carefully applying the blood under his fingers. Her only real concern was that someone would link her research to the murder. And of course that her case was not airtight; she'd said she'd come home and Skylar was already dead. Yet Jordan told the cops he'd heard yelling. Discrepancies aside, she knew the DNA would be enough. When questioned, she found the lying part simple enough. Simply deny, deny, deny. Just like she’d been denying that her life was going to ruin for so many years. Forcing herself to cry was the hard part; though leaning in close and letting the steam off her tea cause her eyes to water did the trick.

She recalled how she endured countless interrogations, but always stuck to her story. Skylar was dead when she got home. After all, DNA can’t lie, and the fresh blood under his fingernails was certainly from defending himself that night. When they got the results back and said the DNA didn’t match her own, it took all the restraint she could muster not to jump up, dance, or even crack the tiniest smile right on the spot. She instead took a deep breath and merely said, “Am I free to go?”

---

It was almost too easy. A poor, beaten woman with breast cancer, complaining about having to take too many shots at the hospital. Couldn’t I have a cheek swab instead, please? Then open wide and say ahhh.

After a few hours of poring over Rory's notes, Lynn thought he finally understood. Somehow. He didn't really understand the specifics, save for that a person's DNA could vary in special circumstances. According to her notes, even in humans the hair could be different from the blood or saliva. They'd only ever taken Rory's saliva, mainly for the fact that the breast cancer claimed her hair and the poor thing had already endured hundreds of shots. They never did take a blood sample, because, well, what’s the difference between that and saliva when it comes to the DNA of a single person? A large one in some people, apparently. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

It was the missing piece. If Lynn could get Rory to take a blood sample and, eventually, possibly a few hair samples, he just might link her to the blood found on Skylar. Lynn was about to yell for Jessie, to have him go pick up Rory and call the papers and let the entire town know. He imagined the headlines: Professor Subject of Own Research, Rare Disease Nearly Saves Murderer.

That’s when he thought about what Jessie had said. Something about the asshole deserving it, about Rory being free. He stopped his mind from racing for just a minute or so. He was so close to retirement; did he really want to have his career highlight be locking away some poor woman who was only defending herself? It wasn’t like she planned on killing him, and better Skylar than her. She probably would’ve been hit too hard in the head one day down the road and that would’ve be that.

Then the implications of Lynn’s discovery hit him. Is that what Rory was? A “her”? Was there really another presence inside of her? A sibling, as she says?

“I guess they’ll have to figure that one out together,” Lynn said out loud to himself, closing the large binder of research notes with a satisfying thump.

“Who’s they?” Jessie asked, startling Lynn once again with his presence.

“God dammit, Jess,” Lynn said. “Don’t worry about it. Y’know, I think you were right. This case is deader than my daughter’s last eight goldfish. Let’s go to the bar; the lecture should be over by now, and people are probably yappin’ their heads off about what happened.”

“Right on, boss!” Jessie exclaimed. “Yea, you’re totally right. Little thing like that, there’s no way she had it in her.”

Lynn smiled.

But of course she did.

how to cope

to call it a bombshell,
would be a misnomer.
for it causes prolonged anguish,
and not merciful obliteration.

indeed, i would much rather,
be blown to tiny bits
than suffer from within,
slow, and agonizing.

my head keeps spinning
as an imaginary vise
presses on my heart,
getting tighter with no reprieve.

it plays over and over in my head
like a song you can't stop singing,
a habit you can't seem to break,
a past you are helpless to change.

while i am a thinking man,
there is no logic here,
no hope of understanding,
just simple, real, hurt.

curse

forgiveness can be so hard
with such a heavy price,
so i turn the other way
and bid another future adieu.

i've lost count how many times
this sinking feeling has emerged,
slowly unraveling the threads
holding my patchwork heart together.

i wonder if i'm the cause
since after all this time,
the common denominators
are my bad decisions - repeated.

to refuse what is good for me
time and time again,
in favor of something familiar
like pain and sorrow and despair.

to catch a butterfly

to catch a butterfly,
can be a challenging task.
for, oh, how they flutter,
swiftly, to and fro.

chasing one is futile,
always out of reach.
wild, desperate grabs
yield nothing but air.

yet one can extend a hand,
motionless, like stone,
and, through patience,
attract the creature.

for that which is sought,
does not wish to be captured,
but to choose of its own accord,
the heart on which to alight.

you've been fluttering like a fairy,
around and around my heart.
wondering if it might be worth it,
to have yet another fresh start.

to try again once more,
and play this dangerous game.
which has the power to heal,
and also the power to maim.

sensing this i proceeded,
in a slow, methodical advance.
for i was also a bit unsure,
if i should take the chance.

yet i am so very glad i did,
for it's been entirely worthwhile,
every time i hear your laugh,
and every time i see you smile.

the future can be a scary beast,
full of unknowns, it's true...
which is why i am so grateful,
i'll be taking it on with you.

i'd like to file a complaint

by toy factory standards,
humans simply wouldn't do.
much too many imperfections,
with a large percentage of defects.

entire lines of humans
are oblivious to worldly issues,
stuck in their individually
wrapped, plastic boxes.

they turn a blind eye to
the baby doll models
that come into the world
skinny and malnourished.

meanwhile, others are created
with a sense of entitlement,
and will whine -- and whine --
long after their string has been pulled.

sparkling wine chilled in the fridge
next to three filet mignons that
i bought earlier that morning
in anticipation of a celebration.

two new thermoses were for
the morning after, washed,
rinsed, and set to dry, for the
coffee for our early morning trip.

an hour or so spent cleaning my place,
placing candles in the bedroom,
setting two plates, two wine glasses,
and preparing the food we'd cook.

my unbridled eagerness,
a harbinger of disappointment,
when my perfect world,
finally met reality.

whisperings

as she lay asleep in my lap
i whispered secrets in her ear,
things i'd dare not utter
if she were fully awake.

perhaps her subconscious mind
was able to record all i said,
and will reveal to her the truth
through intuition and dreams.

until that time comes,
i remain ever hopeful,
that she'll reciprocate my feelings,
and say them back some day.

h(u)ma(nity)

a young man sits in his city loft,
worrying about a girl he likes.
a hardworking immigrant says goodnight,
kissing her four already sleeping children.

a rich businessman dines at a fancy restaurant,
complaining to the waiter about his meal.
a foster child cowers under his sheets,
hoping his new mom isn't angry tonight.

a pregnant teen worries about her baby,
questioning if he'll have a father.
a middle eastern housewife receives beatings,
for looking at a man in the market.

a troubled poet tries to find the words,
pondering whether to tell her how he feels.
a small boy clutches his stomach,
wondering if he'll make it through the night.

a very ordinary person looks for answers,
trying to make sense of their life.
a separate person lives miles away,
asking the same exact questions.

the fog rolled in
like an obtrusive guest,
blanketing the harbor
in its thick presence.

lamps flickered
like summer fireflies
as their ship arrived,
just barely late.

its horn bellowed,
drowning out the
rhythmic sound
of water slapping the dock.

where this ship was going,
was not as big a mystery
as what they would do,
once they got there.

prompt: igloo bright

Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, Mitch would head into the attic, grab a huge trash bag labeled "Christmas" and march into the backyard. His wife, Sandy, would hear him first, banging his way down the stairs, and see him next, the huge bag slung over his shoulder like Santa with a bag of toys. Rolling her eyes, she'd say "Oh for pete's sake, babe. Again? This year?" To which he'd reply "Of course! This year, next year, every year!"

Dumping his cargo on the lawn, which with any luck was lightly dusted with snow by now, he'd carefully unpack a giant, inflatable igloo. Patches of masking tape covered puncture holes -- accidents from when the kids were little. Now they were grown up. No longer asking for power wheels. No longer excited about an old, beat up igloo.

Shaking those thoughts, he proceeded to blow up -- all by himself -- the large igloo, which, despite his family's reluctance, he'd wager would still comfortably fit all of them. When he'd given all his lungs could muster and the sky began to spin due to his lightheadedness, Mitch sat back and admired his work. His wife decorated indoors, baked cookies, did most of the Christmas shopping. This, though, this was his.

He continued to reminisce as he adorned the fluffy abode with bright, fat, colorful Christmas lights. His wife, of course, liked white lights. Mitch preferred blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Even purple, orange, magenta. A shining beacon he bought after their second child was born. Each year they used to get a small tree, pack all their wrapped gifts beneath it, and spend the night inside in sleeping bags. When their oldest reached double digits and heard in school Santa wasn't real, he wanted to stay in his bedroom Christmas Eve. Not wanting him to be in the house alone, Sandy slept indoors, too. The next year their youngest followed suit.

Still, Mitch set it up, every year. Lights intertwined, flowed, and danced, their bright hues bouncing off the white snow and creating a smorgasbord of color. His work almost done, all that was left was to affix the family's guardian angel Christmas tree topper at its summit. While normally it would be meant for a tree, it had looked over his family since the days they'd slept inside the igloo.

Mere days from Christmas, tragedy struck in Mitch's neighborhood.

A family down the street, the Donahues, had lost their home when a faulty space heater started a fire in the middle of the night, which burned their house to the ground. Members of the community pitched in to help them in any way they could -- new clothing, food, gift cards to replace all their damaged housewares and furnishings. Mitch knew Daryl was a contractor and work was slow. The family couldn't afford to stay in a hotel for weeks, and the closest family was more than ten states away. Daryl couldn't do that to the kids mere days from Christmas. Mitch also knew he was too proud to stay for free at a hotel or accept patronage. Even at a time like this. There'd even been rumors they were sleeping in Daryl's work van.

Mitch hatched a plan. He invited the Donahues over for dinner on Christmas Eve, under the pretense that they'd host next year to appease Daryl. During dinner, Mitch jokingly mentioned the fun the kids used to have when they were little, sleeping out in the igloo on Christmas Eve night. Daryl's kids, while only a few years younger than Mitch's, still very much believed in Santa, and thus squealed, begged, and pleaded with their dad. "Please, dad! Please! Can we?" they asked him, their eyes full of excitement. "How 'bout it, Daryl? For the kids?" Mitch asked.

And so it was with a huge grin and a skip in his step that Mitch led the children, bundled in some old winter coats and sweaters Sandy had found that their own children had stopped wearing long ago, out to the fluorescent, shimmering igloo. The kids' mouths made perfect "o" shapes and their eyes widened, their pupils reflecting the light of the vibrant, colored bulbs. Scampering inside, they huddled into their sleeping bags, and, after being assured Santa could get into the igloo, they fell asleep.

Mitch awoke the next morning to the sounds of excited laughter. Donned in his pajamas and armed with only a cup of coffee and a quizzical look, he made his way to the backyard. The door to the igloo was open, but he could see inside. There, underneath the tree inside the igloo, were piles of presents. And from the look of his barren fireplace hearth, they were his own children's presents. That's when he heard: "Here, Santa left this one for you, too!" as he saw his oldest son hand over his own Christmas gift. A few tears began to freeze on his cheeks as Mitch stood back and admired his magical, brightly lit, inflatable igloo. His gaze lead him upward, to the solitary guardian angel, sitting atop the makeshift dwelling, as if to bless all of those within.

evidence surely exists
of the love i felt for you,
though it is not the angry texts
or torn bedroom curtains.

it is likewise not my car,
with "whore" scratched in the paint,
or the hole still in my wall,
that at the time was inches from my head.

nor is it the scars on my arms,
the tattoo on my shoulder,
or what you temporarily put in my belly
late one saturday night.

the real evidence is on my cheeks,
and countless used tissues,
an unwanted physical reaction,
just when I thought the pain had stopped.

when we were together,
i was always chasing her,
struggling to keep up,
and not be left behind.

so vivacious, and alive,
she did not slow at all,
forging onward like a hurricane,
while i was the rain in her wake.

after running for so long,
i worried she'd never stop,
to let me catch back up,
panting, out of breath.

and so, while risky,
i continued after her,
praying her outline on the horizon,
would get just a little bigger.

solitude by the window

i stare out onto the street
as cars drive by, their lights
ever so briefly illuminating me,
solitary, like a ghost.

i lean my forehead on the glass,
feel the night air invading
through a tiny crack,
and close my eyes.

i pull my feet up
and hug my knees,
wrapping a blanket around me
like armor, for security.

i refrain from inner thought,
of the pain residing there,
and instead gaze out the window,
easy to see through, unlike my heart.