Changling

You left as a man,
and returned as a beast.
Sometimes your fur's soft;
sometimes your claws come out.
I don't recognize your pupils,
as they've transformed from orbs
to slits.


You left your soul in the desert,
and brought back a dead man.
He does not see,
but he consumes.
He does not hear,
but he spits out acid.
He does not feel,
except for a bloody, explosive rage.

I can't rely on my mine-detector,
and I fear losing limbs.
So save me the trouble of asking,
and tell me:
Are you back?

Preservation

Oh to be a myriad of brush strokes,
A spectrum of color!
Oh to be the sparkle in her eye,
the blush upon her lips,
the corner of her smile.
I would be forever in love,
never hurt, always hugged by a golden frame,
surrounded by a cloudless sky,
with fresh grass blades tickling my feet.

But ah, never to be painted,
trapped with only a sight of my lover,
never any closer to him than the day he painted me,
never hugged by his arms,
never spoken to by his lips,
never kissed.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene IV

The door closed with a bang behind him, but he walked forward without jumping. His eyes narrowed as he turned down a hallway, unfazed by the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Brown bulletin boards slipped behind him along with the brick walls they hung on. Even his feet barely touched the brown carpet. He passed doors with windows, already knowing what he would see through them. Finally, he reached the end of the hall. Both of his eyes scanned the papers hanging on the bulletin board, darting each way like a hoard of bees. Then they stopped, focusing on a prize sweeter than honey.

A grin swept his face as he ripped a small stub off the flyer and stuffed it in his pocket. He marched back down the hall, only to jump when someone tapped his shoulder.

"You looking for something, son?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, you're looking at the community board. Do you need some community service hours?"

The stub in his pocket chaffed against his fingers. "Not really."

"Well, in case you change your mind." The man opened the young man's hand, and closed it over a business card.

"Thanks." The young man muttered, as he opened his hand to look at the card. Save for a hand-written phone number, the card was blank on both sides.  He glanced up to ask the man about his card, but the hallway behind him lay empty.

Gifts

Why do we give flowers to those we love?

When those flowers were once
lovers scorned, or lovers killed.

What are flowers but lives cut off,
dead things we call beautiful.

They have but one purpose:
to distract the eyes and the nose,
from a less beautiful, a less innocent
purpose.

Why say "I'm covering you in pollen"
When you can say "I love you"

The Time is Now

Today I'm fashioning you a straight jacket

and tossing you in a padded room.

I'm locking ten padlocks,

and melting down the keys.

I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,

I won't wear them to remember you by,

I'll make them into coins,

and spend them,

and spend them fast.

The Cat in the Hospital Room

The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.

That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.

More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.

No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself.  He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.

The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will.  While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.

Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.

"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"

The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.

"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.

Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end.  With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.

Inspiration vs. Inception

You know why I'm sad?

I'm sad because I haven't forgotten

how to take the elevator down to level 18,

to  face my fear every chance I get,

to talk to her while she sharpens knives.

Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,

to help my shoot

my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before

she stabs me in the heart.

My friend, before she leaves,

is there to tell me to go back,

to wake up,

to move on.