Who do you think you are? Don’t try to drop hints toward me, drop a line here, or whisper in my ear. I know what you’re up to and it has nothing to do with me. Is it my fault? Is it me that writes prose that of which is sometimes hurtful, but the truth to what I feel? What am I to do? Who am I to question? I know and I do not know; these things that make this world run. You were one once but I’ve moved away and I can’t take thinking of it for another day. If I could change this world I would. If I could say “if” so many times, that I would die from the lack of oxygen being supplied to my pathetic brain, I would. But, only if I could. I can only say what I would do “if” it were the word that described “it” of which would be done— oh so many times. Yet, you do not understand how I feel. It is only anger you hold. It is only how you are mad because I cannot just be glad. I am not glad and I will not be glad for long. You think “sad” complements me? Perhaps it does. Perhaps I’ll wear dark clothes to go with my gloomy personality that grows. Perhaps I’ll distrust until I have nothing but myself. But even then that wouldn’t be much then what is here now. Alone is what you would like of me yes? To hurt so much because you are not with me, but tell me, oh lover afar, what is it you feel? No answer to my question, 'nothing' being the noun the doctor prescribed. And I, I can ask many. Now tell me, think hard this time. Who do you think you are? How are you able to tell me such things? I am pathetic I know. I am a hurtful, unthoughtful, foul beast. But this is what I am. What you are I do not know. Love is so hard to define yet hate is so easy. You hate me? I anger you? Surly it’s logical that maybe by chance, you anger me and I hate you. But then again, who knows for there are no clues. Let’s go you and me. Let’s duke it out through words and thoughts unsaid. We’ll hear this and that through the grapevine and our blood will boil. You are happy afar and I am happy here, or perhaps we are neither and we still cry for no damn reason. What is it you want? What is it you crave? I’d give in if only you’d tell me quickly. But all this I doubt. Because by the time you figure out, what you want to say, I will be buried six feet under earth. Let’s just get it over with now. Bury me with your unsaid words. Dig and dig with your feelings kept in. Relinquish my love with your unloving sword. Cut deep into me and let me bleed upon this earth. When I am dead, kick my body into that foul trench where beasts desire their sleep. Softly say, “I love you” and watch me turn over in my grave. Oh who am I to question such things? Who am I to say what is and what isn’t? I have no energy left and these pills I pop only keep me going for so long. I crash into dreams where there are views of you and me. I crash into subconscious thinking when I deliberately try to go on living unthinking. Who am I to question you? How strange it is that I start out questioning you, but now all I have is questions for myself. But I can’t help but question myself because its all there is in this world right now. These words and feelings will seem like yesterday’s news when I am long gone. But they seem so important now. Perhaps others may feel them and through some way you and I are connected. But I don’t know what to write, what to say, or what to feel. I’m as numb as ice as cold as steel. I’m like so many things that don’t seem real. I drift away in a current of thought—I drift away into far out space where suffocation by the sea or lack of oxygen await me. I am too young to die some would say, but this creature I’ve become is not me. It lingers at night, searching for the origin of a far off sound. It’s like the sobbing of five thousand desperate people reaching out to their God. And when this beast wakes in the morning, it feels the tears on its pillowcase. It remembers the sounds of those far off cries, and this vile beast of a man realizes it was he being nothing more than salt & water. Bring me to the sea! I want to be apart of what is naturally my place of origin. I want the salty air with it’s cold-darkness on a winter coastal day. Bring it to my porch steps and allow me to wade in. Bring me a wave of no remorse and drag me out to where tears of pain are made. Numb me and drag me under as the sand fills my nostrils and mouth. Oh foul beast I have become. Who am I to question anything? Drag me out to the sea where tears of pain are made: Let me free!

-A