December | 2014 | Isaiah Lawrence

The characters portrayed in this story are based off the mixture of realism and dreamlike poetry:

Sometimes, I see a time-consuming threat in society. The debilitating problem of honor is when I see rock bands with their glorified appearances. Since many well-known rock band members are rich and attractive, the expectations of attractiveness is a disappointment. They are so famous that they could sell their used condoms online and make a fortune. Not just rock bands, but other famous people piss me off. How they flash their money, and pretend that they care about others is an itch in my vision.

Famous people do not make me jealous, but I have the slightest concern without others belief. If famous people read off of teleprompters, may I not see the world changing with freethinking? To a degree, I torture myself with the metal music just to be similar to the woman I dream about. Some of the songs from the rock bands that she may love, I accept. I would literally kill everyone famous just to live forever with my soul mate.

Fuck every celebrity breathing, for they make me appear like a hapless, soul-dead moron. I do not care about anyone anymore. If the woman of my dreams is discreetly fucking other people, she shall die. If she breaks my heart, I shall break her life, permanently. I make no assumption that I can date her, so I feel like I already lost the battle of love. If she comprehends my life, only then does she have a chance at loving me. As I think, she makes me hyperventilate. Like the famous constellations higher than celebrities, she must be mine, and only mine.

Because my biological parents are dead from the military, I am taking care of my sister, Amorita. It was after my father died that my mother wanted to ridiculously fight his battle. Although Amorita is an adopted child, I pretend like she is my real sister. Of a soul-crushing spirit, she is an annoying brat. I struggle to pay the bills every month by robbing people for money. If I am to get caught by the authorities, I may never see her again. Only time will tell if I am a capable of receiving a good paying job. The least I can do is cook for her, and take her to school. As I remember, I hijacked the white convertible two days ago in order for a more convenient life.

At age twelve, my sister would try following me nearly everywhere. No, my sister is not the woman of my dreams. While I would be in the bathroom, she would playfully attempt to twist the door open. No luck would occur, for it would be locked. After so many attempts, eventually, the lock on the door broke. Thus, on one unforgettable, Monday morning, she accidentally saw me urinating. I screamed, but could not risk closing the door, fearing that my urine would squirt across the bathroom. Her disgusted face was traumatized.

When I was Amorita’s age, I was guilty of auto theft, and sentenced to six weeks of community service. Then, I got caught for the same activity and was sentence to three months in jail. She spent no time in jail for attempting to stab my high school guidance counselor. It was five weeks ago, Friday, 10:14 A.M, and Amorita had no school on that day. I took her with me, but I must remind myself for future occasions, never let her get bored. To reduce the stress of boredom, she would whisper in my ear about possible devastating events in the world. Like firing bullets at airplanes, placing explosives underneath rock climbers, and to put holes in parachutes.
When I was twelve-years-old, my biological parents took turns telling me about a life-altering story. Yelena, a female was yelled at by her quarrelsome, foster parents for not dating the same sex. She was punished for her heterosexuality by being physically beaten. Additional information was added to the story. She attempted to rebel against her parents at the age of fifteen-years-old by getting pregnant with a male.

To avoid death by her parents, she received an abortion. She could never have duplicitous actions by everyone else, for she was an honest, beloved person. Strangely, a week later, she gave birth to (Delilah) another baby. Rumors said that it was the same baby by an act of God. Because Yelena was not bisexual and considered discriminating, the baby was said to be “Satan’s son.” One Sunday afternoon, coming home from church, the mother of Yelena placed the baby in the toilet. Mrs. Verussa poured alcohol on Delilah, then ignited a lighter to throw it in the toilet. Delilah cried, and died almost instantly from the relentless heat. The rumors are that Yelena is the mother of the woman I fantasize about.
The woman I constantly think about cures me while giving me exhilaration. Drastic changes in our possible relationship cannot cease the love we may share. My whole is guaranteed to remarkably pleasure her, but only if she accepts me. Needless to say, she soothes my ideal purpose to live in nirvana. Just from her seemingly divine beauty, she is definitely my Gothic therapy. The more I know about her, the more my unexpressed feelings magnify. A spontaneous act to frown comes without her physical presence.With the urge to hide, I am not flattering her, but am discreetly sincere.
Even if it means doing anything, I want her for eternity. May she give me flirtatious smiles? Shall there be every day when she gussies up just to see me? Regardless if she gussies up or not, her beauty glows. May she truly love me if we are married for decades, for love is a rare accomplishment. Love is her if she sins not, but I know that she can love me. … At least I think that I know.

Being the miracle that love is, will bullies cease my future relationship? Racist relatives, sanctimonious relatives, drug addicts, prostitutes, and many more subjects can prevent my success from even reaching the element of love. What if a serial killer murdered her, and I never received the opportunity to marry her? Because she leaves me in gusto, I am her secret protector. I am the one to be her impromptu, noticeable protector, but that is if she accepts me.

Being my Gothic therapy, she has an irresistible, exotic face, which cracks a perfectly unforgettable smile, every time she is elated. At some point in life, people have a smile they cannot fake, and hers was definitely not fake. I have seen her incredible smile over a million times, and finally, I know of her irrefutable smile. Her real smile of utter admiration is what I once saw in the same room with her.

In her home, while her friends were being party-animals downstairs, I was like a nervously creepy statue that moved, slightly. Amazing to me, she did not exit the room or insult me.
Everything she does is perfect, including what others may seeas her imperfections. To this day, she remotely caresses my skin, making me feel like a significant individual. Obviously, I am dissimilar to her when involving leadership motives, and it reminds me of how much I need to be confident.

We conveyed about music bands for five minutes, giving me a deeper courage to speak. For two minutes, we conveyed about our family, and three minutes, we conveyed about our hobbies. When I had questions, she had gracefully replied, with tempting lips. I will never forget her guidance, but she is literally all I am terrified of. It is as if though out everyone living, she made an unprecedented attempt to show me kindness. I pondered about receiving confidence to express anything to her one day, but what if I said the wrong words she abhorred?

From memory, her dainty, black pendant of a widow spider is connected to a silver, stainless chain. Whenever she moved, the spider would hypnotize me, but I still know not why. I doubt her magic comes from the pendant, for I saw her with other pendants before. The authentic silver pendants that she wears on different days: an owl, rose, or a royal key. The authentic gold pendants that she wears on different days: a heart, chalice, and honeybee. I am always seemingly obsessed with her, and I want not to make an assumption that I am obsessed. From the pendants alone, they areabsolutely amazing.

The day my gorgeous, high-school sweetheart lightheartedly spoke to me is the same day she almost kissed me with her smooth, heart-shaped lips. Her natural, light, brown, wet, frizzy hair approached my skin as her lips puckered up. My heart skipped many beats when she actually gently wrapped her warm arms around my awaiting neck. Oh, her hair caressed my skin. Then, her smile tickled my heart while her trustful, majestic eyes were in a sensational trance. In return, I smiled, but from the reflection of her eyes, it was a heinous one. I am just thinking too much, for she appears unoffended.

Everything about her is outstanding, thus, I remember her as much as I want her to remember me. It was the perfect time, and being the greatest moment of my life, until her purple cell phone had rung. Blimey, I can vividly remember her escape from the trance, and her loyal replies to her best friend, which clarified that she had errands to run. The awful distraction upsets me to this day, for I remained hesitating to kiss her. My heartbeat raced the speed of thoughts as she gazed at me with her hypnotic, lovable, ocean blue eyes.
Unlike anyone else, the sight of her showcases the poetic niceties of love and hate. Her epic extraordinary choice of words are like riddles kissing the anonymous face of poetry.

Only if I said enough to emotionally fulfill her using an opportunity. I am living a vulnerable death without her eternity that I can devote myself to. I saw her in my freshmen year of high school, for she was an outgoing female in my English class. I was the loner people ignored while others would flirt with her. I would be lying if I said I was not jealous, and I never would risk her laughing at my personal feelings, if I expressed myself.

What is her meaningful name? I would rather not say her lovely name I am obsessed with. I can certainly say that her first name has two syllables that makes me smile. It is incredible, for without her, my last time smiling is unknown to me. Her middle name, I am desperate to know, even if it means stalking her, more. And her last name comforts me as much as her first, for I want to have her last name, after marriage. From the slightest thought of her name, I can easily say, she is beyond my secret obsession.

I even savvy her exact height and weight. Of a perfect, curvaceous, corporeal body, she is “5′ 5” in height, and one-hundred and twenty-eight pounds. Being the dreamlike woman that she is, she is energetic. I savvy it because I watched her play volleyball in “Physical Education.” I watched her as an enthusiastic cheerleader and soccer player in after school activities. She surpassed her naysayers’ limitations of her by being the most popular female in school. It was me watching her preplanned steps before she stepped on the black weight scale, then being measured accurately by her height.
Her angelic voice is the voice beyond my every voluptuous dreams’ possible imagination.

I cannot fathom what ubiquitous bliss is without her presence. Away from her, I shut my eyes to keep our endless romance seeming real. In my celestial dreams, I am her protector as well as her loyal soul mate. I know everything about her, and she does me. We are supportive listening to everything we want to share. Also, we show affection with endless hugs and kisses. Only when I awake, I groan or sigh in despair.

Is odd if I savvy the exact date she was born? This worthy female was born on Thursday, November 7, 1996, and the time, I would rather not say. Because she was not born the same time as me, it aggravates me. Her natural, light brown hair, she wears, but often changes the colors. She needs no makeup to improve herself. Every time she inhales and exhales, it reminds me of my flaws. How I could attempt to approach her, and like the humorously cruel daemon, Kobal, I could be humiliated. So, I remain a stalker, wishing for confidence, and her acceptance.

I am not infatuated with her, for I know it is a higher feeling. What I feel for her simply cannot fade if she accepts me, for my feeling solidifies. Perspiration literally appears on my forehead by the thought of her. With the utmost respect for her, I long the way she breathes. Lovelier, I feel a passionate felicity whenever I see her. How she is real leaves me flabbergasted, for she has skin cells like me. Whenever I wake up from sleep, she is my first instinctive thought.

From sight, I encountered her greatness, and it helped me comprehend myself more than I used to. Oh, how I more than just fancy her to the point where I imagine the taste of her tongue. The taste of her saliva has the natural flavor of plum and could have benefits of leftover multivitamins. Every iota of her existence brings me to tears I refrain from shredding publicly. I intend to usher her to my heart, but first, I must be her best friend. If directed at me, her glare could bombard my necessity to live. Strangely, I dismiss myself from death, for her majestic personality is undeniably uplifting.

On my free-time, I do artistic activities all involving the thought of her. In my poetic journals, I effectively write graphic descriptions about her. I write about how close I became to speaking to her. Creativity fascinates me, but I cannot get rid of her beloved image. I draw realistic pictures of her, but oftentimes, redraw them. Regardless of how perfect my drawings are to others, I can never seem to perfect my imperfections. Also, I make origami and sculptures, just to feel close to her beauty.

If she was to ever yell at me, it would be like a premeditated murder. I would swoon at the sound of her rage. While being in a relationship with her long enough, we would have to compromise. What if she feels like I have inferior qualities than a wealthy person she can benefit from? Like I am queasy to the sight of blood, I cannot rest if she dates someone else. Anybody touching her in a formal way even bothers me, for her soul mate solely deserves her touch. She is mine, but I fear to voice myself even if echoes does not exist.

She is a determined eloquent entrepreneur with a plan “B” to work as a district attorney. Her goals certainly overshadows my arguable existence. Only eighteen-years old, and she sedates me without trying. Exemplifying my appreciation, she is the summit of a leader, indiscriminately associating with people. An inspiration, she is, yet, I attempt to be as successful as her with my future. I applied to work at a local restaurant to be a waiter, but she stole my position. Yes, she is a waitress. I am appreciative of her being happy, even if I am a jobless doubter. If I think not of her, I am in a zombie-like state, making the workaholic her appear like she sees auras.

May my love not be near the lofty peak of Cordillera? Judging my love for her is an assumption out of fantasy without knowing her utter personality. At any moment, I would die for her, but I only worry that I suffer not a droll death. My faith is in her, for she alleviates my pain. Frankly, she bypasses my heart from its ectopic position. If I could sweet-talk her into my arms, I would smooch on the alluring, malar regions of her face. Even if her she had a mangled face, her inner beauty overshadows every imaginable subject. Her flaws can make considerable perfection question its position.

I imagine being the pure water to reach her cuticles between her black fingernails as much as the corneas of her beautiful eyes. My task would be to cleanse her body, but she would be already cleansed. She is the adorable, breathtaking mystery for why I attempt to purify myself. It pains me like contaminated water to be ensnared in her distance. It is her who enchants me without her attempts. Her, the epitome of my soul mate in the zenith, makes me want to evaporate in the clouds. Oh, how I do not want to plummet to the Earth like a hailstorm.

My sincere apology to her is for not greeting her sooner in my life. If she is to ever apologize to me about anything, it is the mist of wonder, putting shame to a storm. Partly, her seductive eyes alone holds the glorious answer to my lifetime desires. The sole thought of her makes my qualms increase as if though she is in my presence. Then, sometimes, I can imagine her accepting my personality. Whenever she accepts me in my mind, I have no qualms. She is undeniably real though. If I see her again, I cannot imagine saying a friendly adieu.

Her company is the cornerstone of my wishes, blocking the time of dusk and dawn. I am destined to be her forever, but in what way will it be? The forever in her mind as a negative connotation for death? Forever could be just a friend knowing she is in an amorous relationship. I must be her forever in never separating in what we passionately should share as whole. We shall have carnal desires. One day, we could have our own family and bond together.

The babbling breeze makes me want to be a tornado. May the tornado’s voice be heard for marriage or eradicate everything in its path. This tornado can vow for peace and endure rain galore. Our promise can never fall to gravity. I could spend forever rotating for her location, but she is in the ground.

No, she is not dead, but she lives in a well-built mansion, underground. My faith used to rove until I saw her beautiful face from the mansion. I was automatically ready to murder her quondam partners. She cannot be a snoot. And I cannot commit crimes and be a broken-hearted person. May other predicaments cease me from holding her heart? I’d rather be poor and unintelligent than be without her, but the abject fear is gradually harming me. She needs to accept me for my purpose in life, but I live off of knowing she exists. In conclusion, if I cannot have her,she will not live.

Present
9:53 A.M.

On a Saturday morning, I am watching her daunting presence exiting her home, and can clearly see her from a distance. Beside her turquoise double-ponytail, there are still strands of her hair draping down to the back of her neck. She has a silk, turquoise, ornate corset formed into the design of a fishtail, at the bottom. Embroidered with antique crystals is the thread-work below her buttocks. As flecks of sunshine rests upon her beauty, I stare in amazement. Every day, her beauty enhances in different styles.

When she looks my direction, obviously, I turn my head. I attempt to check if she is looking, but she notices me. Thus, she cracks a smile, waving her right hand in a friendly manner. Pretending to be a debonair man, I smile, and the philosophic gemblushes. Oh, she blushes, but I know not exactly why. I guess I am a debonair man. I must be a true gentleman in order to make the woman of my dreams blush. My day is peachy, but the pressure to walk her direction makes me severely nervous.

Her tender heart makes me wonder if the most bogus life-form can seem real if she pats one. I am in self-disgust when I see my reflection in her lovely eyes, for how could she want me? How am I qualified to please her? She is so perfect yet unimaginably beneficial. We must be close friends first, for I cannot risk ruining our marital future.

My mind speaks to me, “The skeins of kissing … are always missing … yet never hissing … for lipless dissing.”
I could decode her heart, which echoes with a dialect, from our longing. Our much-needed affection improves to only us. I intend to follow her, but remain hesitant. The closer I get, her soul dapples my heart, in a ticklish way. From my heart, my moon-eyed wound comes from not seeing her for so long. I flinch from the pressure of following her. Then, I deny my unheroic success of invulnerability, following her footsteps.

Her visibility gives me an opaque feeling that she can define. As I trace her footsteps in the six-inch, deep snow, I wonder how our future could be. I would never withhold information from her. Until she reaches her pregnant voice, it will be our traits of love. Before seeing her, I was an amoral person. Now, I know that my purpose is bigger than breathing. Her actions are ingrained in my mind.

Finally, I walk near her, but what to say? Her existence is spellbinding. I cannot attempt speaking just to stutter. If I give her direct eye-contact, she will know that I am appearing obsessed. I am in a dilemma. How do I concentrate without her thoughts? For some reason, I remain silent.

In a mellow voice, she speaks to me, “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Afraid of making an egregious attempt to speak, I say, “Sorry. I was in half-deceit by my mind. You’re truly an amazing person. How are you?”

Her adorable cheeks kisses the form of a smile as her lips widen to speak, “Thank you. My day has ivories under a pillow for half-imagined luck. What about you?”

“I’m good. Getting some fresh air. What would you think if I took you out for dinner? I can’t cook, but until I learn, your appetite is mine.”

She chuckles, then softly and earnestly says the gut-wrenching word every hopelessly romantic person fears, “No.”

After hearing her spine-chilling rejection, the broken-hearted me refuses to walk. Devastated, I stand with a stiff body, shaking. She notices me, but the longer I maintain eye-contact, the more I am distressed. Time seems endless, and I hear nothing, but my mind laughing. The cruel laughter is of every positive and negative person I ever heard in my life, and I am a victim. She attempts to apologize, but I speechlessly run away from the unbearable scene.

10 Minutes Later

It is 10:03 A.M., and in my room, I angrily throw all of my belongings around. All the time I was focusing strictly on her, she never felt the same way about me. The agony is promising to my qualms. I am in despair. How I live from knowing she is alive makes me want the spunky woman dead. Only then, I will not live, for nobody else needs her. Another person could be my soul mate, but I cannot possibly wait irksome centuries, just to possibly know the feeling of love.

I imagine the scene from when we spoke for ten minutes in her bedroom. Surprising me, she prepared to kiss me. The scene deceivingly switches in my mind, and she smacks me across the right cheek. Then, as my confused face sees her clothing fading, I weep. She then has a black bra and black dupatta covering her purple, ruffled skirt. As I fall backwards like a soul beneath the depths of the Earth, I see her opaque shadow, passionately kissing an anonymous bloke.

The woman I wanted to be fruitful with is now an entity in my mind. Nobody is real, but me. She is not my dreamlike character of love, for she controlled my wishes. Love defines the world for the one I may never receive. How can one person distract me? How can one gorgeous person fool me, for my soul mate could have met the wrong person. I must eliminate these feelings by stopping her.

With the imagination that she is in my presence, I speak to myself, “I can see your ancestors crinkling their faces in a smile from my frantic sullenness. I am a wildebeest compared to such a maggot. No more is there an enjoyable fixation for you. I felt like a Neanderthal person whenever compared to your beauty, but you’re an inferior entity, now. I hope you die. … Your name I’d never say, I can finally say. … Ella.”
On the television, a song plays:

“Lonely, little liar.
Walk in the fire.
A needle can help.
Like a dog would yelp.
But I do admire.
Chemical’s so hollow.
Won’t stop till I say so.
Is it too late to go?

Fire won’t walk away.
Nothing’s here to stay.
But I do admire.
Feeling for the fire.

Imprisoned in this shame.
No one needs my name.
I can’t run away.
For it’s always day.
Sleepless ways try to tame.
Forever could sleep in.
Am I innocent then?
In this race I won’t win.

Fire won’t walk away.
Nothing’s here to stay.
But I do admire.
Feeling for the fire.

Lonely, little killer.
Walk away, my healer.
You turn and burn for me.
I have this sympathy.
But I’m a squealer.
What you endure for this,
What you just can’t miss,
Is the love of our kiss.

Fire won’t walk away.
Nothing’s here to stay.
But I do admire.
Feeling for the fire.”

Metaphorically, I am with a distorted skull of incalculable tumors without her. How am I not a lifeless subject of nonsense with trampled arteries? I can no longer fool myself into believing she is worthless, and I am ashamed of myself. Everything about her glistens like preparation before a movable action. I would be limbless for her, but she would refrain from doing the same for me.In solitude, I remain, refusing the slightest thought of food. I miserably attempt to suffer from starvation, and her memories never fade.

I cannot resolve this conflict in a positive manner. Death is the only answer that sweetens the moment. At least people will fade away from my unexpressed problems. At least the embarrassment from the woman I desire will not laugh at me. I do not have to risk receiving a heart attack from the awful embarrassment. Death is having a preplanned celebration for my unquestionable arrival, and I am a killjoy.

When my blue alarm clock changes to 1:00 P.M., I head into the kitchen to fulfill my appetite. Cold slices of pepperoni pizza, I carry from a transparent, circular, glass bowl. Heating the delicious pizza does not enter my mind. Slumping down in a chair, I remain beside a wooden table, eating my food. As I eat, I notice that the food slightly looks like it would after being recently heated in the microwave.

I walk outside with my dilating eyes avoiding the sunshine. The memory of her returns like the temperature of my knowledgeable head. As I stretch my arms, I remember that without her memories, I am destined to be a useless hypochondriac. I dart my head around my surroundings as if though there is a chance she is still waiting for me. How pathetic would I appear if she accidentally spots my curiosity for her feelings? Like she rejected me, she may inform other people about my humiliation.
Hissing is the wind as I trap my sensitive ears with grey earphones, to ease my mental pain. From the song, “Bed for Eyesight,” a violin is playing with a fast tempo for a drumbeat. Then, soft sounds from a piano plays slowly. An angelic humming sound occurs with the sound of rustling leaves. A squeaky bed is shaking as a soft, innocent cry plays in the background.

A female sings the lyrics to the song:

“Mr. Benight, hold me tight.
Turn the light from this sight.
Direct height in concern.
In what’s bright, dreams will burn.

Comfort me in bed.
Then, tickle me ahead.
It’s not too dark to love.
When you come from above.

Goodnight, my eyesight.
The height can make light.
Hold me right in bed.
Then, my skin isn’t red.
I don’t need to feel played.
But my eyes can fade.

Mr. Benight, love me right.
Turn the height from this sight.
Direct fright in return.
In what’s night, dreams will yearn.

The many tears I shred.
None are noticed ahead.
I want to see this end.
But my bed needs to bend.

Goodnight my eyesight.
The height can make light.
Hold me right in bed.
Then, my skin isn’t red.
I don’t need to feel played.
But my eyes can fade.”

A flashback from two weeks ago occurs to me. I am in my bedroom alone, and I use a flashlight to see different areas. An irksome moth is flying around the room, so I use the distraction of the flashlight to attract her. She comes to the target of the flashlight as I gradually position the front of the object against the plaster wall. She is trapped exactly where I want her. From the producing heat of the flashlight, she dies and suddenly falls after I remove the object. As I come out of the flashback, I sigh with disgust.

“I’m longing your seconds. Like the taste of almonds. But having more flavors. I’ll rob you from neighbors,” I quote the letters carved on a broken tree trunk.

Midnight

It is Sunday, and am I not in her best friend’s house, feeling like a distraught person? Is it not true that I could care less if her best friend was born in the corporeal body of a male? As a surprising discovery, her best friend is in the appearance of a female as a transgender. If it was not for my curiosity to search through her bedroom, I would be without a clue. I saw Gwen’s expensive surgery bills and lengthy text messages while she was asleep. Ever since she was nine-years-old, she learned that she was a hermaphrodite. Her decision to switch her original gender of a male must be problematic to deal with, but she does not have a vestige of depression.

Risky to my way of stalking, after being half-asleep, Gwenwakes up. From my concern, she hears the alarming sound of me walking up the creaky, wooden stairs, to return her cell phone. My awareness is her moving out of bed in discomfort, screaming. Thus, I enter the tenebrous room with a black goat mask, made out of pigskin. I suffer from nefarious tendencies for what is unknown as a demented mind. Her innocent, amusing scream for help echoes as I make a tentative attempt to strangle her against the mattress.

Eagerly, as she screams for help, I doff my black, wool jacket. I rip her green tank top off of her curvaceous body. As my flesh touches hers, my nipples harden. To her noggin, I perform a dastardly attack by whacking her, forcing down her blue jeans. She feels the wrath of my fists as I imagine her dating Ella. Nobody can possibly get in the way of ruining my future relationship, thus, I target her over five times. My penis penetrates her vagina, then Iexperience the pleasant thrill of ejaculation. If she was not deflowered and raped, maybe I would had noticed her orgasm.

Somehow, she manages to position me off of her body, but I forcefully push her. She loses her equilibrium, falling sidewaystoward a milk-white curtain. The impact of her fall causes her neck to hit a steel mullion while her speeding bodyweight shatters the clear, thin window. When she falls to the shaggy, brown carpet, I witness a laceration from the right side of her forehead. She cries with the motive to continue screaming.
Uncontrollably, I cry with a doleful expression from what appears like the beginning of a ghastly murder.

She could suffer from eternal bleeding, and I temporarily worry for her safety. One secret I must keep is that I sadly murdered her best friend, Gwen. I am nearly breathless with the need of resuscitation. It occurs to me, I promised myself that I would never repeat her beautiful name, but I lied. Her unforgettable name energizes me. As I imagine Ella kiss me with the warm temperature of her soft lips, my muscles tell my legs farewell. I stare heavenward instead of homeward, and attempt to move. Only Ella can make everything hunky-dory.

The rigorous commandments of the firmaments reminds methat I am an absent-spirited person. Ella could enter my sight to cure my abject pain, but she never arrives. If she does arrive, she would literally kill me. Forever is the word which I cannot leave her upset by. Her best friend’s blood is upon my tawny boots. As I exit Gwen’s house, I know that I simply cannot tell Ella about my unforgivable behavior.

The worst Sunday of my life haunts me like yesterday, but it is just today. It is a dreadful experience I hope will never return as a similar predicament. If I can please Ella throughout the loss of Gwen, she may love me. I am willing to do anything and everything to successfully marry her. My unexpressed, hormonal emotions magnifies by the thought of her. She makes me rejoice, but may she figure out how I killed her best friend? I know I must not keep secrets from my soul mate, and any secret away from a partner is not built on love. As much as this secret pains me, I must tell her one day. I regard her as the dearest soul to ever exist.

I return in Gwen’s house from the front door I snuck into twitching a bent paperclip in the silver keyhole. In black paint, the front door is a silhouette against the foggy sky, through the windows. As blood oozes from Gwen’s face, I position my left index finger in the wound, licking it. Blood has a distinct taste, but I cherish the substance. If blood was nearly extinct, it would be rare, so I suck her wound. May I consume her physical body, but I prefer not to consider myself a vampire or cannibal.

As I walk to the kitchen, I think about how photogenic Ella is, but I have not a single picture of her. Her only pictures of my belonging are from memory. I must stalk Ella long enough to capture her pictures. Maybe, she will allow me to take a picture of her, but I am too afraid to ask, especially after her rejecting me. Until I feel like I belong in the world, I seize a keen knife, having disturbing intentions. If without her, I want to make gruesome murders. The diabolical murder scenes will be new, and a justified, female Goth will only wish I got a career in criminal justice.

I imagine myself nuzzling on Ella’s naked back, but her ghostly body vanishes. Out of rage, I bellow. Then, I run at my victim, which is unfortunately her best friend. To her jugular, I lunge the knife in her flesh over fifty times. From her body, I lunge the knife slightly over seventy times, laughing at the barbaric act. Her face suffers the impact of the knife over three hundred andtwenty-five times. After I gloat over her disfigured face, I drag her body in the nearby kitchen.

“Since you dare say Ella has no time for despicable losers, I say I’m one. Because I am a vindictive person, I loathe many people in this damn, unpraised world. She undeniably overshadows nostalgia, for her presence is ineffable. You know not what it’s like to wear sleazy clothes for years, to be psychologically tortured, and to be told the traditional lie that people care. I’m in this inextricable hope to reach her heart behind fruit-trees. I saw your text messages. Unlike punitive laws to cease my actions, this is the moment where I win. I’m a ruthless beast scorned like I’m from the Serengeti,” I shiver in fear and say, “I need you to ask Ella that if I was a Satanist, would it still matter sharing similarities with her as a Christian? If I was considered overweight and she had pink hair, what are the odds that she will date me? If without her, I am useful by always being incapacitated.”

Covered in plastic is my black book bag in the corner. I unzip the bag to remove plastic from the inside. After wrapping a wooden table with the plastic, I cut in Gwen’s stomach to disembowel her, for the preparation of food. She does not cry, for she is dead, as I place her insides on multiple, clean plates. Continuously, I wash the outside of her body with a yellow sponge.

I need to crush her bones with a sledgehammer, burn the evidence, then pour it in a lake. First, I must either eat her remains, or burn them. Her edible eyes, I pluck out. I do not cook them before munching on like dessert before dinner. She fulfills my appetite after frying the skin of her legs. Again, I wipe the evidence from the bloody scent that may have gotten on the thin, plaster walls.

Her numb face bothers me, so I stab her body as if though she is alive. My right arm goes tired after seven hundred lunges with the keen knife, so I use my left hand. With my left hand, I lunge the knife in her body seven hundred more times. Then, I multiply every vicious assault I ever imagined doing to her on her no longer attractive face. Unfortunately, the savage me causes her to be a Jane Doe. Since I am not in my own house, I am not drenched in her blood. Cleaning up is not my favorite activity to do, but I receive exhilaration from selfish experimentations. The diabolical scene makes me want to vomit, but I refrain from doing so.

I whisper to myself, “How I abhor it when I’m in school, and people expect me to speak like a puppet. How the teacher is considered to deserve more respect than the students. If I had no documented education, nobody would hearken to my voice of knowledge. I look at the principle the same way I look at the janitor and the students, for they aren’t God. I’m punished often, but I wish the day and time when these traditional people die.”

Damn, someone is knocking on the front door, but why? It is fucking past midnight. I walk to the front door to look into the peephole. Nobody is visible, or are my eyes playing tricks on me? The bushes to the right side are slightly moving as if though someone is hiding. At the moment, my first instinct is to run away from my crime. To my realization, I must block all the windows, and hide the evidence from my murdered victim.

Lovable Ella returns to my mind as the essence of beauty, which makes me seem like an effigy. Uttering her beautiful name, I show my reverence to her by meditating. Her humming, vibrant voice intrigues me as billowing love. Then, I make a subtle face asI imagine her penetrating through visible fog. Wondering about how I may one day have lively children with her, I cherish her thoughts. How I would despise the idea of her taking contraceptive drugs occurs to me. It is her will to have children, and with children, they are our human representation.

By the time I return home, Amorita is mad at me for leaving. She notices the blood on my tawny shoes, and does not ask where I was. Instead, she hugs me with tears. I nearly lose my balance to cry. I think that she does not want to know what I was doing, but only cares about my safety. My qualms decrease in her arms, as I receive vivid, scenic memories of murdering Gwen.

“When are you going to get a job. You can’t go to the military,” she says.

“I don’t want to go.”

“They’ll eat your ass alive.”

“Not if I shit.” “You should just be more careful. There are thugs around, and I have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Thugs? School? You still believe in fairytales? There’s no such thing as school! If you want an education, go to the library. Be your own teacher instead of judging others. Are you telling me you’re psychic? You must be grading people on their knowledge just as so-called thugs assume they’re tough. If you want to be a teacher, you can get the fuck out of this house.”

“This is everyday with you. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

“Are you listening? Now, you can do anything you want to do. Don’t follow pipedreams while you’re living under this roof. I than told your brother the same thing, but look what happened to him. He did not conquer the Earth. In a minute, you’ll be dead or in a mental institute like him.”

“Get a girlfriend.”

Three Weeks Later

Still, I failed to tell Ella about what she may never forgive me for. She would first have to promise me that she will forgive me, but she most likely will not. I killed Gwen, and I am Ella’s friend. Again, she received the opportunity to apologize to me for rejecting me. We exchanged phone numbers after chitchatting more.

On one Saturday night, at 7:00 P.M., I am surprised. Ella tells me in person about a secret that her parents only know. Nobody sees Ella’s beauty quite like I do, but she is beloved beyond her appearance. I love what she represents as a human being. She can never lose her dignity as a compassionate woman. The story of how she changed in the form of a woman is ridiculously causing me to self-question her. When I further think about it, a personal preference as well as a loving relationship should not be criticized by translated beliefs. Over time, beliefs can become like rumors and in the wrong voice or hands, the descriptions are redefined, challenging morality.

Without her, I have nary a worthiness to think. How can I kill myself if I am not thinking? If she is not with me, I would have to not be born, because I would be living a life without love. Love, the only challenging word that people want to believe they know. The word that even evil skeptics sometimes claim they know the utter meaning of. Well, like familiar, fresh water, I need Ella regardless of how she lives her life.

Important thoughts enter my mind. I cannot afford to abandon Amorita by being drafted in the military. She certainly is no sycophant, and I wonder if she can handle me being gone. Also, she has a peculiar, sexual attraction to dumbbells. I cannot convince the government to allow me to take care of my daughter, and I will go to prison if I refuse to participate in active combat. The only person that may take care of her is Ella. Amorita does remind Ella of the children she never had. Necessarily, I must ask Ella if she can take care of her.

It is a relief, Ella does want to take care of Amorita. Maybe if I get back from a cruel war against angels outside the country, Ella will see me as a heroic individual. I am destined to win her heart, for she is already like a mother. If I do not survive is something I never thought about. I just do not want to get shot in the face or testicles. Ella, the most lovable person I know. Amorita comes behind Ella when it involves love.

The following poems are based off my actual life:

Year We Meet

I live your love for us.
Our trust surpasses life.
I long you; be my wife.
May you be forever,
But never is no plus,
However like we were.
We deter fear as rife.
Our dreams tells our number,
And the year we meet, blur.

Satan, No Sleep
Dear Satan, life is hard.
Hot and cold has my mind.
Me, not warm and not blind.
Effigy for my sleep.
While here, time, I regard.
Been through so much while weak.
Leak the veins of the bleak.
Like the weather could peek.
Only magic is steep.

Six feet deep—no sleep.
Satan knows the real.
No, I am no creep.
Mess with me, I kill.

Strip the wounds for scarred lips.
Limbless prophecy calls.
Without you, death befalls.
Pentagram in my face.
From my mind, nothing slips.
Hypnosis in these eyes.
If I leave, no surprise.
Why not controlled in lies?
Patterns of life, in chase.

Six feet deep—no sleep.
Satan knows the real.
No, I am no creep.
Mess with me, I kill.

Goddamn, I need my space.
They attempt to judge me.
Dwelling in misery.
Don’t label me a creep.
Conformist not in trace.
Me, the only real life.
Be a thing like a knife.
Depression kills the wife.
Now, I must kill the sleep.

Six feet deep—no sleep.
Satan knows the real.
No, I am no creep.
Mess with me, I kill.
Poetry Friends

Poetry time is just for me.
The emotional therapy.
Others comprehending the ways,
But I never have friendly days.

Just isolated me and mocked.
Poetry’s in a door that’s locked.
I beg to have poetry friends.
Unseen, at home, the words extends.

War in These Wounds

I wonder of your seeping wait.
A reverie where we relate.
Alleviate my pain from here.
Intimidate the wounds that’s near.

Be not skin-deep—I’ll ooze with blood.
You’re a rosebud in a deep flood.
I could swoon just from your shadow.
If I awake, may this cure show?

There’s pores in this heart; I could love.
A war in these wounds; help me live.
Away from you is no above.
Everything for you, I would give.

When your aroma has a voice,
The leaves overshadows the choice.
You’re drenched in this humanity.
To approach, I’d absorb the sea.

Only petals can cure the pain.
Time is a vine of hopeless wane.
We can both blossom together.
Protect ourselves in the weather.

There’s pores in this heart; I could love.
A war in these wounds; help me live.
Away from you is no above.
Everything for you, I would give.

Syringe for a Dot

The syringe could introduce the pain.
I want not to follow the standards.
Conformism comes not in my words.
I could greet, but my mouth’s in disdain.

Drugs and alcohol aren’t for me.
My whole life’s like vacancy, but not.
I have no privacy like a dot.
Sometimes, the dot moves, but destiny?

The dot is the shot.
Don’t ever call me weird.
Don’t have what you got,
But my ways are feared.

Sacred scriptures plays a part for blood.
I don’t need drugs to be different.
Out the syringe is similar mud.
Drugs are confusion to the mind, sent.

Brain cells lost like church bells in a spell.
Undulating is the drugs to see.
They try to hypnotize for the glee.
Everyone’s doing it with drinks, hell.

The dot is the shot.
Don’t ever call me weird.
Don’t have what you got,
But my ways are feared.

O’ Brother, Die

My brother keeps humiliating me.
It’s his schizoaffective disorder.
He’s running down the hallways helplessly.
The school has cameras, and life gets shorter.
Save me the embarrassment I can do.
I can’t get a girlfriend, so what’s the clue?
I’m bullied past rumors and teachers laugh.
I’m destined to take away all they have.
Life is like fantasy, but this is real.
I’m an introvert who writes on the graph.
If I do attack, it’s beyond a kill.

O’ brother, just why?
The Devil’s a lie.
I’d pluck out your eye.
Never say goodbye.

They’re clueless of what I endure in life.
It’s hard for me to greet people, so wow.
It gets worse at home—I could use a knife.
He’s jumping over objects anyhow.
Then, he’s hurting me many times a day.
I do tell people, but it’s like a “Say?”
If I don’t fight, I’d kill, so let me be.
Eight hours a day, he’d yell at daddy.
I can’t sleep, for I’m like a test subject.
They claim I’m paranoid—it’s them, see.
I abhor folly people incorrect.

O’ brother, just why?
The Devil’s a lie.
I’d pluck out your eye.
Never say goodbye.

I’m told I don’t have to talk to him—lies.
He’s my brother, but I hope he dies, slow.
Thus, I’m at college after high school, sighs.
The truth denies pain, but the pain won’t go.
“Get a job,” dad yells, but I want to write.
He says he’s supportive—no dream in sight.
Quit preaching to me; I’m in solitude.
Then, a job you want me not to get, rude.
My brother’s put in and out the house, why?
Leave him out before you’re on the news, dude.
This is the realest story I told, sigh.

O’ brother, just why?
The Devil’s a lie.
I’d pluck out your eye.
Never say goodbye.

Every dream I try to reach, it goes down.
I’d kill my embryo if I could try.
I’m a black guy who writes horror, so frown.
I don’t repent—I’ve done nothing wrong, sigh.
Flashbacks haunt me through bloody middle school.
Nobody understood me, but a fool.
I wore the same shoes, four shirts for four years.
I shred tears, wanted goals, but came in fears.
I’m so trapped, for I can’t go to prison.
I’m just DNA living through the years.
Give me a chance to make my true mission.

O’ brother, just why?
The Devil’s a lie.
I’d pluck out your eye.
Never say goodbye.

Invisibility Enshrouds

Eerie shadows in the eldritch sky.
They lurk in the outlines of the clouds.
Timelessness attacks the vicious cry.
Eyes, invisibility enshrouds.

Liquor Child

Liquor him.
Liquor joke.
Liquor slim.
Liquor choke.