Like being dumped, except you left the knife in my back.

What do you want me to do?

Stand there and be like you?

How can I justify to you what I do,

When you’ll just toss me aside, like the rest, too.

This game of tug and war

Is making me go insane.

The times we spend together,

Weren’t the memories supposed to last forever?

You were never a lover,

But a friend that was supposed

To be here when I needed cover.

I know you’ll never stop to read this,

You’ll just pass on through.

I suppose that’s why I write for me,

And not you.

I am a social outcast,

And you’re with the in crowd,

But I thought being an individual

Meant staying unique,

And true.

You’re bipolar, insane.

I can’t grasp the concept of your mood swings.

What did I ever do?

What didn’t I do?

Please tell me

So, that I may forgive you.

You’ll be my best friend again.

Things can’t just go back to the way things were,

But I know that if you just help me mend it,

Maybe I won’t have to cry anymore.

Those endless nights I stay awake,

I could never burden a line with them on your face.

The dreams I had of you telling me you hated me,

Will never pass my lips, you see.

For you don’t understand what I went through,

And I’m not asking you to.

Just stop with this incessant confusion,

And let us be friends again.

The Smells in Our Lives

Friends left and smells gone,
I cringe at the bittersweet scents of the past.

Downy as down in chemicals is sickening
As stomach flips from previous kisses

Cat and spice, like a bad foreign romance, fills me with ache and pain, and an urge to spit upon the pages and scream out in anger, “I have ascended!”

Sweat and perfume, like the two brewed on a dusty old shelf, brought back feelings of freedom, carefree-ness and an urge to give all away,

Now, sink me low, like swallowed rocks, dragging my feet as the tears fall.

Will the pain never end? Is our only solution to fill these voids with “replacements”, never truly respecting those who step into the gap.

Smelling is as heartwretching as puking, vomiting, expelling all the bad and the good, never able to choose between.

Oh, what I would give for a smell eraser machine.

Thoughts for Food

When did crude become eloquent,
Crass become unique
And vulgarity become beauty?
What is a name?
When borders blur like smudges on chalk boards,
He is her,
She is him,
We are you,
And you are not blameless,
When judged by more than that which we define ourselves as.

But,
Whats in a name?
When defined, we defy
What lies next to our thesauruses?
It’s changed so frequently,
Typos in societies context,
Sue becomes Mary,
Mary becomes Glenda,
And Glenda becomes famous.

When the name has been used up
And tossed away,
Does it remain true to oneself.
If you are your own definition
No matter what they say you are,
Are you still defined?
Or merely rolling down the pages
Until Glenda arrives?

Then, who are you to define yourself?
Others are greater than the mere you.
When does majority not rule?

A food’s thought ends at a luncheon ajourned.
Am I still me?
And will your proclamations ever prove otherwise?

Vampire’s Assistant

There was blood on the walls in the bathroom. There was always blood on the walls in the bathroom. I should have known he would be here, feeding again. It was one of those days. I had felt it this morning, leaving the house without a grunt of protest from him.

The blood was smeared across the tiles in a raged mess.

The smeared mess glistened from the dim, florescent light.

I walked over to the sink to wash my hands, feeling the sick nausea sweeping over my body once again. Scrubbing them clean from the grime that was about to dirty them, I listened and waited as the last stall door creaked.

Drenched shoes stepped along the pale floor.

I could see him in the mirror as his body came into view. The grin in his eyes was red.

“Sophia.” Chilling, icy, he pressed his black soul to my back each and every moment he locked eyes with me.

“You made it just in time.”

I spoke no words in response. I just washed my hands, scrubbing them.

I knew what he was going to say. I always knew exactly what he was going to say. And he always spoke the exact same frosted rhythm when he did so.

In his reflection, dark, soaked clothing sloshed silently from his slight movements.

“Get me my clothes,” he demanded, softly, but his eyes looked down and the tall man pulled slightly at his cuff-links.

The duffel bag slid from my shoulders and fell to the floor when I dried my hands. Kneeling, I unzipped the sports bag that held items belonging to no sport in particular, and pulled from the large case, a set of neatly folded, top of the line name brand threads.

Ripping the clothes from my palms, he changed. The dirty ones dropped to the water tracks on the tiled floor.

Picking them up, they were folded neatly and placed back into the open duffel, non-sports bag.

He stepped closer, looking down upon my form. “Sophia.” I knew what came next.

At least, I thought I did. This time, this one time, he paused. Placing a hand to my cheek, he tilted my chin up. “You don’t look good,” Gabe almost sounded concerned.

On command, I stood. He pressed his mouth against mine so I could taste the blood of his victims. I did not like the blood. I did not want the blood.

He had saved it just for me. I swallowed the blood and turned my head away, to wipe was left from my lips with the sleep of my coat.

When he pulled away, he ordered me once more, “Clean this mess up.”

There was no nod, nor verbal acknowledgement that I understood him, as I knelt back down in front of the duffel and removed rolls of towels, disinfectant and trash bags to do as he had asked.

When I rose to my feet again, he was gone. Either back to the manor, or to continue his pursuit of the older female students, I never knew which.

I made my way to the back of the stalls, eventually, counting the seconds I was in the bathroom while I scrubbed the blood away. More than fifteen minutes, and the teacher would send another student in to make sure I was not skipping. That I had learned from experience.

The was no body at the end of the blood trail. There never was. Gabe never uttered a word of his victims, and I never asked.

I would see one or two roaming the hall a few days later, dazed and oblivious to where they received the bite marks that hid under the small bandages they wore. I never knew them before the feeding and I would never forget them after the mess. I was sure Gabe planned his attacks around strangers in the school, so as to not distract me from my studies.

It was not like I really had any friends for him to target to begin with.

The soaked towels went into the trash bag, the trash bag into my duffel, and my duffel over my shoulders as I went back to the sink to scrub my hands again. I had to be careful, blood had a tendency to stain.

Then, I left the bathroom to head back to class, before my fifteen minutes were up.

​Seattle, Seattle. Seattle. … Seattle.

Seattle is weird.

Seattle is loud.

Seattle is peaceful.

Windy and wavy

Seattle is tiny. Cramped and crowded. Tight, narrow and enormous.

Its many colors and single season.

Seattle is vastly indifferent,

Strangly tolerant,

And abudantly judgemental.

Its vast seas and lack of sand.

Layers upon layers upon layers.

As hypnotic as a serpent, it sheds its skin each year.

Does it know of the forest beyond?

The great east?

The vast evergreen that surrounds it?

Nay, I do not think it knows of the world outside its world.

Perhaps those that come and go.

Or those who choose to stay forever.

But, no. Not Seattle.

Never Seattle.

Seattle is Seattle, and it is what makes Seattle Seattle.

Why do I write about Seattle, you ask?

I do not live here, you see.
And it is weird to me.