The Forest

Scared and helpless she hit the ground, dirt cascading towards her mouth. Filling her taste buds, sealing her glands, the dirt thickened and grew slimy as she spat it in her hand. Body throbbing from force of impact, stomach hurling with each breath, nothing matters more than escaping in this time of blood and wrath. Her eyes search around, frantic from terror. They lock on the woods, a maze controlled by nature, sure to cover her tracks. Pushing from the earth with her battered hands, her toes crunch dirt rocketing to a run. Each step sent pain igniting through her veins, promising each step’s earned attrition. The trees grew closer, running towards her as she stumbled and staggered towards them as in some “Baywatch” shark scene. Blood steadily pumping through her veins, leaking from her pores. But nature always protects its own and leaves and dirt blew across.

Shouts fill the atmosphere. Shouts originating somewhere south, somewhere from her haunting past. Anger, anger seeps through the atmosphere spreading through each cell and pushing fear deep down her throat. What punishment could be next? More of the same or something far worse? Gripping the bark on each tree she sprints by, using their steady limbs as her virtuous guide. Pushing off from each hardened friend, her skin feels them begin to push her towards the end. Canopies grow darker and darker, the forest collapsing atop its newest addition.

“Just a nighttime blanket, m’dear,” the forest whispers. “Just something to keep you warm and safe, m’dear, that’s why you’re here.”

Her feet quickly stop, nose pressed against something hard. Hands grasping aimlessly around its bulk, she’s soon climbed atop a massive live oak. resting beneath its canopy of gold, her eyes slide shut and the forest she holds. Safe in its grasp her blood drips down, the wind slowly blowing to hide its origin. If the forest could, it would have kept her that day. Held her to its bosom for all eternity. Such a pretty child with such innocence lost, something destroyed at an awful cost.

The anger found her too soon. Just a day passed and before high noon, she was wrapped in arms too burly for man, being dragged back away from her only friend. Bruised and bloodied they questioned her life, never knowing the cause of her unending strife. Burly arms handed her back to affliction, never once questioning her potential integrity. Bruised and bloodied the forest wept, torn from its chest the one it kept. Blood seeped out of tree and flesh, creating one entity after its mesh. An escape and a victim, a survivor at best, united that day despite social detest.


“She started ru…

“She started running through the field, as fast as her legs could move. Short, but quick. Nothing was chasing her, but she felt as if it was. Like any second something would grab her. Take away her life. In the worst of ways. She often felt this way and after she often felt tired. More tired than she could ever express. It had been days since she had eaten. Her parents were looking for her. She could hear them call her name from the porch, but there’s no way she could go back now. It had been days that she’s been missing. It would make for a mean punishment and starving just seemed easier than living that life. She had a dog. He followed her around everywhere and slept next to her shivering body. Hay as a bed. He would go home to eat. He would always come back. Her only friend.

When life gangs up on you, do you roll with the punches? Accept what you’ve been given? Live and love and fucking prosper?

They found her that day. Sick and dirty. Shivering. Her heart pulsing fast. Mud caked up to her knees and knots in her hair.
The wilderness loved her more than her parents ever could. Killing her slowly instead of torturing her eternally.” –

The Whistle

What cost must love cast upon us? What changes must love force upon us? So sweet and timid at first, gently wrapping shoulders in the warmest blanket on the coldest night. One day, one singular moment, it changes and the blanket ignites filling intestines with an unquenchable flame thirsty for the one they love. The mind barred and suffocated under this blanket of love, its words of wisdom muted beneath feelings of compassion. Never once does the heart stop and ask what consequences there might be. Never once does the heart stop and ask, “how much for this one?”. And certainly, the heart never says “Oh no, that’s just too much” because the heart has unending funds, eternal pockets as Mary Poppins’ purse. The cycle of love works in one large circle and it all comes back around before we ever hear the sound of that damned train barreling down the tracks towards us until it’s too late and we’re back on our ass, breathless, and sore wondering what happened this time. And never once did our heart shout out, “Watch out for that train”. No, never once did our heart rip off that blanket of attraction to let our mind scream its worries and fears so we could be wary. Standing up, dusting off the blood and dirt, wiping the sweat from your brow, you gather your few belongings left intact and carry on down that track of life deaf to the sound of a train whistle in the distance. Never knowing what direction it will come from next. Never knowing what new pair of gem-like eyes will disguise it next. Constantly walking down that track of life and on real cold nights, sleeping with a blanket draped over sore and tired shoulders, a welcome relief for the weary traveler. Such a deception for the weak. Such a comfort for all.

Until the whistle blows.

Healing Slowly

I’ve been asked how I love you by many people in many ways. Each time it reminds me of being asked how I breathe. I take the air into my lungs, hold it there, savor it, then I release it hoping it will come back and not leave me breathless. This is much like how I love you. I take you all inside, I hold the knowledge of you there, I savor you, then I release you praying you come back to me and not leave me empty. 

I’ve been asked how I can still love you after you broke my heart so badly. A question asked mostly by those around me who witnessed the catastrophe. The question continues to remind me of breathing and I wonder why people are so curious about what comes so naturally. Do they not do it as well? 

I digress. 

After pneumonia do the lungs cease breathing? After one long is punctured or both are bleeding and they begin their healing, do they stop breathing? The answers to these questions are the same as to my love for you. Even after a broken heart the heart does not stop beating, nor love stop loving.  

Favorite Blanket

You are in every fiber of my being, stitched through me as the fibers in my favorite blanket. A cross stitch there, a little patch work here, your strands crossing mine, looping between them to pull them tighter together. With each breath I draw in I feel you draw one too. Our strands rub causing friction and fire, the very fire warming my heart and igniting my soul for you. Just one look from your eyes and another strand pulls tighter and another fire is lit.

Just like that favorite blanket with stitches worn and tender, your strands wrap around me to keep me warm even inside. You are the only thought on my mind. Your warmth spreading throughout.

I wish I had the courage to tell you all I think about..

Your Scar

Composed of scars and ragged lines, my heart still beats true. Not long ago a new gash was dealt. My heart now owns one long gash piercing through it’s core. The perfect place for your salt to be poured. Open it wider, dig it deeper, make it hurt so badly until I regret knowing you. Until I hate how much I love you. All this baggage weighing down my heart pressing its wounds wider until blood flows down. Destroy this heart just a little more, if it is really what you wish. I will always love you with all I have, but if you continue down this path, do not be surprised when someone else saves me the time. The day my heart heals again and its scar sealed with a lover’s kiss. The day our love is past. The day I tell you what I think at last.

Do Not Judge.

You will never know the pain I feel everyday. You will never know how much effort it takes just to fall off the bed, or the insurmountable mountain I climb just to get on my knees and crawl to a shower as cold as my soul. You will never know the tears I shed late at night in the darkest depths of despair where not even God can see them. You will never know the agony my heart carries. With each step the agony bounces from wall to wall inside my heart cutting the insides of my heart leaving long ragged gashes that allow pain to gush in as rampant rapids of destruction. You will never know this pain I bear each moment of each day. The strength required to smile rivals ten elephants alone. Do not judge. You will never know. 

Equality for Clothes

Why must clothes be categorized based on gender? Does a skirt really have to be strictly for women? There are societies out there who find that idea completely ridiculous. Must pants, a shirt, and shoes really be considered “guy’s clothes” and when a woman wears them be told she’s dressed like a man? These are ludicrous ideals our societal structure conjured up in the dead of night. If a man identifies himself as someone who is more comfortable in a nice blouse and skirt or short shorts or even a wig and high heels, then so be it. If he is happy, who are we to judge and alter his happiness? If a woman wants to wear tennis shoes or “male” shoes and a loose fitting shirt even a tie, who are we to judge? Their clothes do not change the fact they are male or female. Their clothes do not change who they are on any level. Their clothes are merely an expression of those facts. People should be able to freely express who they are without the societal labels and judgments. These are not pants for men, these are pants for people. These shoes are not strictly for women, these shoes are for feet and self confidence. Why must we care so much about what someone is wearing? They are not us. Their life is not our life. Therefore, their clothes and choices are not our concern. Let them be happy and focus on being happy yourself. If anything, envy their happiness and work harder to be as happy and confident as they are. Clothes are just clothes. That is all. They hold no power, no weight, in life at all. Do not judge someone for the clothes they wear, actually, do not judge someone at all. You do not know their life, their hardships, or their story at all. A person’s actions depicts who they are, that is it. Their clothes mean nothing but warmth from a winter breeze and shelter from the summer heat.