sadness isn’t peace
sadness 
is raging cold war. 

all is fair. 

Sadness
   in our steps, but we’re still walking, I’m still walking and it  
is
   like not having this over my head, but I’m not as happy as
a
   clam, and I can’t remember the last
knife
   I took out of me, but it must have been recent because I’m 
left
   bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. Maybe if I say it thrice It’ll have
to
   stop and I’ll scab over, I’ll jump right to the soles of my feet and ignore all the
rust
   on me. I’ve had too much water  
and
   oxygen, so why can’t I breathe, there is flame in my lungs,
yet
   I can’t stop trying to douse it with oil and alcohol, but fire 
is
   a hell that likes to keep growing hotter, and I’m inside it, and it’ll 
always
   be inside me, flickering away,  but my screams, oh, my screams are still so
sharp.

On a cloudy day in a bubbly city, there is an abandoned theater dressing room.

There is a small antique table with a vanity mirror surrounded by lights. A stick of lip coloring lies on its side, its lid slowly rolling across the table. It is a rich hue, well suited to its owner, who was almost as vivacious and passionate as she was as a teenager.

Life has embittered her some, though.

She moved to this bubbly, intimidating city after dropping out of community college. She thought she had talent as an actress, and hated living with her overbearing father and condescending mother. After her fiancé broke her heart on a sun-drenched summer morning, she made the fateful decision in a fit of tearful rage. The next day, without telling anyone where’d she’d be or why she left, the vibrant girl boarded a bus and vowed to make her way without aid.

A bulb on her mirror flickers wearily before shutting down completely. The secluded room is noticeably darker.

She lived off money from old jobs long enough to find work as a waitress. It was a little stressful, but she was happy to be living on her own and answering to no one.

She went to some auditions, at first. But rejection after rejection was hurled at her by unfeeling men and women with buckets of money who didn’t need her. She became disheartened after a while.

Filled with shame and pride, she could not bring herself to crawl back to her parents, so she stayed in that bubbly, standoffish city. She made some friends at work and in the many bars she frequented. She met a good many men too, but she didn’t keep in touch with them.

A few dollars and cents rest on the old, weakened table. It is her fare for the cab home. The rates are quite steep, but she does not think the price is too high.

One slow Saturday night, a workmate invited her to a party. Her friend was the daughter of a notable society woman, and was getting engaged. Shoving the thought of her own ex-fiancé out of her mind, she managed to put aside her vicious jealousy in order to be there for her friend.

At the party, an unmarried politician seemed taken with her. He was a couple of years older than her, but his family was very wealthy. She agreed to go to dinner with him.

In the theater in that bubbly, unsympathetic city, a jacket lies listlessly over the back of a wooden chair. The wife of a senator has persuaded him to pull some strings, and she is acting at last.

She dolls out her social smiles and gracious laughter with the grace and aplomb of a professional.

The audience is appreciating a fine performance.

The lonely man streaking across a crowded street on a rainy day sees her.

He holds her with his mind for a few brief seconds.

But when he tosses a few cents in her cup and tumbles away,

He won’t care about her anymore.

But she should be grateful to this man.

She produces nothing, and so nothing is her worth.

And yet,

He deigned to think of her.

He deigned to be generous to a

Nonentity. A nonperson. A woman of nothing.

And though he will never think about

Her frozen nights and lightning, shallow days,

Her absent smiles or her forgotten laugh,

Her misery or her denial.

He thought about her once.

And he was generous.

And it is her honest duty

As a Nothing Woman

To give him love enough,

To bless his heart and lungs enough,

To grace him with her thanks enough

To repay

Her only debts.

He looks up sometimes, and thinks about how much he wants a girl with razor wit and expressive eyes.

And then, he’ll go home and mope because he’s so alone.

One day he’ll realize that

There is no manic pixie dream girl to make his life magic.

It’s his job to make himself happy.

Until then, pity me.

He sits down sometimes to think about society. It’ll never let him have his girl.

And then, he’ll go home and talk to himself because he’s so misunderstood.

One day he’ll realize that

There are so many exact copies of him in the world.

He’s not a tortured genius, at all.

Until then, pity me.

He goes out sometimes to drone to the people he calls friends about his imagined girl.

And then, he’ll go home and feel better because they’re so stupid.

One day he’ll realize that

They’re real people.

 He can’t treat people like that.

Until then, pity us.

But most especially, pity me.

I am a girl.

I have wit.

I have eyes.

I qualify.

But I’m not perfect.

Until I am, pity me.

Water. Music. Pain. Water. Music. Pain.

….

Keep me floating, you essentials. Sometimes coming home isn’t enough.

I need my shining laurels to live.

But don’t need a glowing headstone to die.

Greed for blood, needing to bleed.

Everything ends when we succeed.

.

Gore gore gore down to my core which is howling.

And Scowling and sore.

.

There’s such stillness in isolation. No reason to move without faces rewarding you with smiles.

There’s more motion in death. Everything can’t help but dance around what used to be you.

.

Horror. Lightness. Will. Horror. Lightness. Will.

….

Kiss me softly, you expendables. Coming home will be the death of me.

Gloss is so immaturely overrated.

Doesn’t mean I don’t have a bone-cutting need for it.

Love for earth, earthy cares.

Sometimes love means slitting hairs.

.

More more more open the store which is empty.

And Saintly and poor.

.

There’s such sadness in isolation. The reasons to move were real enough.

There’s less sadness in death, but I wouldn’t call it happiness quite yet.

.

Diamonds. Creases. Seas. Diamonds. Creases. Seas.

…

Cast me down, you detestables. Can’t you see I never wanted to go home?

If those authorized people understood me,

 I’d be well and grateful by now.

Knowing health, never self

Ignorance would bring me wealth.

.

Roar roar roar listen to lore which is growling

And Screaming and tore.

.

The stillness is as false as the silence: I am screaming and running alone in my mind.

There’s the opposite of what I’m feeling in death, maybe.