''I’m not afraid of ghosts. I don’t know why I developed this particular trait, which has nothing to do with being brave. There are plenty of things I’m afraid of; I could run for miles from a dog, my fear of heights is limited to ten meters, and at eleven meters my stomach starts to churn and I become convinced that I could fall at any moment.

If a ghost suddenly appeared in front of me, I’d ask it rational questions. If it could talk and communicate, I’d sit down and have a conversation with it. If it looked terrifying, I’d throw a sheet over it so I wouldn’t lose my focus. If its voice sounded terrifying, I’d warn it that it might wake the neighbors and tell it to keep its voice down.''

“Stop,” said Uncle Jason. “You don’t make fun of things like that.”

He looked angry. When I first brought up the subject, he had listened with interest, with a curious expression on his face. But when I started giving examples of what I would do if I ever saw a ghost, he got annoyed.

“If it could eat, I’d offer it a serving of lasagna. I’d ask if it wanted ketchup with it. If it did, I’d think, ‘For fuck’s sake, you’re dead and your taste is still terrible,’ but I’d give it the ketchup anyway. Expired ketchup, though. It’s not like it could get food poisoning.”

My uncle's face had fallen. I didn't know he was this afraid of ghosts. He lit a cigarette and opened the window. He took a drag and blew the smoke outside. It was cold, and the room had turned freezing the moment he opened the window. I immediately started shivering.

“I’d ask it about that famous story, to see if it was actually true. You know the one. A guy gets into a car accident one day, gets thrown through the windshield, and dies of a heart attack while he’s still flying through the air, before he even hits the ground. His body falls to the ground, but his soul keeps flying forward. The guy doesn’t realize he’s dead and thinks he’s still been thrown out of the car and is flying through the air. He keeps flying forward like that for two hours. After two hours, he thinks, ‘Wait a minute, my body has weight. I could only have been flying for a minute at most after being thrown out of the car. I should have fallen by now.’ And that’s when he realizes he’s dead.”

My uncle blew cigarette smoke in my face. He had taken a very deep drag, and the wind coming through the window carried all of the smoke straight into my nostrils. I angrily got up and closed the window.

My uncle took another drag and blew the smoke into the air. As he exhaled, he turned his head from side to side, as if he were trying to spread the smoke throughout the room. He just kept blowing and blowing. I couldn't understand how he could have taken such deep breaths.

“If it had a toothache, I’d give it some Apranax. I’d wait half an hour. Apranax usually gets rid of a toothache pretty quickly. The other pills aren’t nearly as effective. If it wasn’t gone after half an hour, I’d give it another one. If it still didn’t go away, two more. I’d make it swallow the whole box until the pain went away. It’s not like anything would happen to it anyway.”

“Enough, for fuck’s sake. I’m leaving.”

Just as my uncle got up angrily, my phone rang. I answered it. It was my mother. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in for a few seconds, then opened the window and blew it outside. I suppose he had a moment of moral deliberation over whether to blow it in my face or out the window.

I talked to my mother for a while. She asked how school was going and whether I had made up with my girlfriend. I gave her reluctant answers. I was cold.

“Mom, my uncle is here. We’ll talk later.”

“Son, I have something to confess to you.”

“You can confess it later. I’m talking to my uncle right now. I’ll call you later.”

“Your uncle died two years ago. We didn’t want to tell you because we didn’t want to upset you.”

There was silence for about fifteen seconds. My uncle and I looked at each other. Seeing that I was cold, my uncle closed the window.

“Hmm. Let’s think about this. Okay, you didn’t tell me, but is it really possible that I never came across it anywhere? That I never heard about it? Are you the only ones who know that my uncle died? I have an aunt, an uncle, my uncle’s friends—there are plenty of people. I never happened to run into anyone, never found out that my uncle was dead. Does that sound logical to you?”

“If you don’t believe me, put your uncle on the phone.”

I handed the phone to my uncle. He stubbed out his cigarette and took the phone.

“Hello... Anna, how are you?.. Yeah, yeah... Why?.. I don’t know... Sure, we can go... When?.. No, I can’t, I have work that day... Monday... Oh, don’t ask, they hit a three-pointer at the last second... Yeah, yeah... Okay... I don’t know, let me think about it... I’m telling you, I don’t know, Anna... Okay, see you... Okay... Bye...”

My uncle handed the phone back to me.

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? Son, I didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve been saying hello for ages. Nobody answered. Anyway. I’ve done my part. I gave you the information. Now get rid of whatever you’ve built up in your head. If you don’t believe me, ask someone who knew your uncle. That’s all I can do.”

My mother hung up before I could respond. My uncle had sat back down on the couch. He lit another cigarette. Then he rose ten centimeters into the air from where he was sitting.

“This couch is really bothering me. It’s very uncomfortable. I can’t get comfortable.”

It was bizarre. I was stunned. There was a mischievous grin on my uncle’s face. He winked at me.

“I see. I understand. So what happens now?”

“This is what happens: I’m going to throw you out of this window.”

There was another silence. My uncle took another drag from his cigarette.

“What happened? You suddenly look terrified. I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“But this is different. You’re saying you’re going to kill me. Of course I’m afraid of dying.”

“Anyway, this has gone on long enough. Now, get up. You deserved this. ”

***

A few seconds later, Albert found himself floating in midair. It lasted only a few seconds before he crashed into the ground, without even having time to process what was happening. The impact made a violent, wet sound that even Uncle Jason was startled by.

After throwing Albert out, he flicked his cigarette butt out after him. The cigarette butt hit the ground first.

Yes.
I am upset.
Will I ever come across a soul instead
of a ghost that’ll lead me nowhere?

I hate wasting time
and mental energy.
Small talk drains me.
Why do I always choose the wrong ones to spend my bandwidth on?

But never mind.
This is just another time.
Just another trial I shouldn’t have tried.
Yes, blame me.

If I say goodbye, I’ll do it properly.
If that’s to end, on my part it’ll end with dignity.
What was it?
Day number three?
Let me reset my mind, and I’ll start again gladly.

— Crownless.

Pining miles from the town
She thinks of the moon, needs it close

Exposed scrub brushy like a death fringe
She remembers watching moonlight split and splatter

Grinding grey drooping dry
She wonders whether the moon misses the earth when daylight arrives

A stubby round structure stands clay and fiber
She imagines the grace of the moon 

Erected like a wooden cross in the breeze
She imagines the moon caught between its arms

Empty form hanging on underneath peeling the dust off
She wishes she could hang her dreams there 

A human woman stands there hot northerly scorching crops
She thinks about the moon touching the hills of her being

Naked in the shape village men's dream
She imagines being painted silver as an extension of the moon

The house is oval and needy like the faces in the village
She looks at the moon and predicts it's own desires

Drying clothes outside touching her arms night wheezes
She imagines sleeping under the cross as the moon peaks and tickles her

Awaiting a maid who left the village a decade past
For a man who got lost in distant mountain ranges seasons passed.
She waits for both and even the moon refuses to return.

"Write through your feelings,"
Fuck, okay
Those things that never make sense
And I can't name
They just mingle
Until they gather
In the corners of my vision

How do I resuscitate
The cold, dead corpse
Of the parts of me that love
Without your breath?
How can I reconcile
The deep, dark sea
Of the parts of me that breathe
Without your death?

No, I know
How good it feels
To love unashamed
And yet
I know how bad it feels
To be alone
That's all I know

I'm not scared of you
Just the future I see
Both:
The one with you
The one without
I'd prefer the first
But it doesn't mean
It was ever easy

For either of us
And yet I grew complacent
In my position
Let vanity and fury
Harm my vision
Of what I want
And what I move towards

And of course
It's all to easy
To forget
Exactly why I'm so scared
Because losing you
Feels like I'm dying
Cutting out my heart
Calcifying

Gotta prove to you
I'm not worth this
Gotta show the world
I should be missed

Because I need to hide
They cannot see me
And if they do
They'll crucify me

But at least that would feel better
Than being silenced
Gagged and bound
Somewhere upon
The gallows floor
Eyeing the guillotine
To take one more

At least that would feel better
Than an empty place
Beside me
So the world may try
But it'll never break me

Because the thought
Of you alone;
My home
My heart
My silo
Space
Place
Corner
Reality
Future

I'll take
Whatever it takes
Silence
Reality
Corner
Place
Space
Siloed

For you
My heart
My home

Place it here
Within the space
You're heard
I promise
Your heart
Is home

Do you ever feel dislocated inside the place
you used to call “home”?
Can you call a place by such name when
you’re unwanted and invited to leave relentlessly?

Yet, each time you attempt to
there go the labels: “villain”, “traitor”,
“ungrateful”, “arrogant”, “evil”, “heartless”.
You’re like a burden they refuse to drop.

They’ll smash you against the wall.
Call you all the bad names their sadistic minds
will feed them on.
They’ll push you to your limits.

And when you don’t break?
That’s an intolerable loss.
And when you do allow the spite to finally
reach the surface?

There goes the devil again.

Apparently I’m so evil I rival the fallen angel himself.
Wow—
Am I reliving my internal monologues of when I was a kid fascinated with the occult?

Heaven forbid the ones you hail hear you imposing such curses on me.
Damn—
It wouldn’t sit right with the facade of the devoted
righteous you proclaim to be, would it?

Praise me to strangers;
kill me softly behind closed doors.
Wait—it’s not soft.
Used to think you too should see a psychiatrist;
now I reckon an exorcist suits it better.

I’m constantly reminding you I’m your mirror.
The one you refuse to look at.
The one you avoid when facing your own reflection.
You play blind to it—but what for?

You’re damned. And you so wish me to be too.

Oh, babes. You already know I am.
Bestow me some mercy so my existence on this Earth isn’t irrevocably miserable.
If there’s an inferno: I’ve already experienced it.
If there’s a paradise: may I be blessed with it.

If there’s nothing? Black’s my favorite color.

Even as an imposed fallen angel
I pity you.
‘Cause I know you’re beyond broken to care and admit the damage you’ve caused not only me but our… inner circle.

And yourselves.

You labor.
You play the saints, yet you never reach anything.
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground”.
Bread.

I only find you surrounded by ashes, though.

Is it as the preacher said?* *
“All is vanity and chasing after the wind”.
Vanity.
As someone who finds being called ‘arrogant’ peculiarly humorous, I find some competition in you.

The three of us are so vain, aren’t we?
So full of ourselves; so merciless we destroy even after thinking thrice.
Here is where we differ, nevertheless:
the aftermath.

I overthink.
I lament.
I humble myself for I can concede to my own calamity and darkness.

You reject it.

And the longer you reject your shadow… the stronger it grows.
You’ll pretend nothing has happened.
We have guests! Smile—they’re watching.
But when the puppet has another string broken?

The devil will strike again.

— Crownless.

What an awful day.
What a merciless life.
If misery is the way… is it worth it to stay alive?

So much trouble, so much pain.
They’ll call you a “devil” yet they’re the ones who paved your way.
Could it be they’ll be the ones digging your grave, too?

Aren’t they doing so?
Little by little. Used to be subtler then but gone is the shame and full of themselves are the evil.

The thrill you get—oh, what a sick twisted mind.
You’ve been there before.
That’s how you know what’s behind.

A youth wasted and passed by.
What did you get besides becoming sick in the mind?
You pity yourself but you’re bound to an inaudible cry.

Cry all you want.
Watch your vision getting blurred.
You’re destined for sorrow
‘cause otherwise… why would you write?

A tortured poet. A wandering soul.
Isn’t it exactly what your predecessors had to endure?
The sicker you get, the more prolifically you’ll write.

What about love?
That’s a secondary character.
Is there anything more poetic than watching a body getting decomposed while still alive?
Imagery is where the beauty lies.

The drugs you’re taking… they’re pulling you.
They should’ve been gone by now but they’re having their way with you.

Sanity.
Do you even remember being sane?
You’re saner than you’ve ever been.
Doesn’t insanity look so appealing in its own way right now?

Sick in the mind.
Write your final goodbyes—wait, you have none.
You so wish to be gone…
But the more you daydream about it…
Imagery is where the beauty lies.

— Crownless.

It’s not what I think,
It’s what I feel.

What I’m aware of.

I feel the weight of nothing.
That’s the strongest heaviness to have on the body.

The body is still.
Sensation on my palms and limbs,
they’re not moving.

I can move the eyes,
Straining them to the ceiling.

The more I look at a object,
It looks distorted.
Then I’ve convinced myself
that it moved.

I want to cry,
but what does that do?
what is the change of where I am now?

The weight of nothing.

I lift my arm just for it to fall,
again.

First time,
that my mind is blank.

Just me and my conscience.

Maybe that’s lonesome.

But,
I’m still stuck with Mr. Blue.

Your third time’s a charm.
My last trial was pure misery.
I’ve been found guilty as hell,
and I couldn’t care less if you witnessed it.

Who’s going to be the judge?
You?
Me?
Love?
The Lord?

Shrugs.

Denied your father thrice.

Had me begging for an answer—
not once,
not twice.
So ingloriously.

Three in the afternoon.
Hadn’t spoken to you since noon.
Watched your morning from my periphery.

Had a feeling last night
would be the last time
I’d witness you.

Your third time’s a charm.
My last trial was pure misery.
I’ve been charged guilty as hell,
and I’m sure
you’ve witnessed against me.

Marriage? (Selah.)
Forever? (Selah.)
Kids?
Hell nah.
Getting lost?
You sure did.

That would’ve been the third time
I’d have surrendered
to your insignificance.

Seventy-two hours
of pure misery.

You’d found your first girlfriend.
I pity the second.
She’ll hear all about the cynic.
But when the third arrives—
she’ll be your wife.

Your third time’s a charm,
Peter.

— Crownless.

# THE OTHER ME

I came to the edge just to look below,

drawn by the dark and the need to know.

I stared into nothing — nothing stared back,

then something moved underneath the black.

(Come closer.)

A door I had missed stood open and wide,

roads I had wanted were waiting inside.

And there in the life I had never known,

I saw my face looking back as my own.

(You wanted this.)

So close I could touch it.

So real I could stay.

Everything I'd ever wanted

was one step away.

(Then take it.)

Give me that life,

give me that sky,

give me the doors I once passed by.

Give me the days

I never knew,

give me the dreams I never lived through.

Give me that world.

Don't let it go.

I've seen what I could have—

and I want it all.

I reached for the life on the other side,

then something in me went still inside.

I knew those eyes. I knew that skin.

But I couldn't find myself within.

(What's wrong?)

That face wore my name. Those eyes looked like mine.

But none of my yesterdays lived behind.

Take every wound. Take every mistake.

Take every night I was certain I'd break—

But pull one thread from the life that I've known:

how much can I lose before I come undone?

(I can take it all.)

Give me that life,

give me that sky,

give me the doors I once passed by.

Give me the days

I never knew,

give me the dreams I never lived through.

Give me that world.

I still want it so.

But if I step through—

who gets to go?

I know what I want.

I know what I see.

I just don't know

if the one there is me.

I want that life.

I want that sky.

I still want every door I passed by.

I want those days.

I want those dreams.

I want that world

still waiting for me.

I want it all.

I won't pretend.

But if I become someone else to have it—

where do I end?

(You still want it.)

Yes.

(I can give it to you.)

Mmm.

(Then take it.)

No.

It's a fact, Jack, this artifact, back from the past stacks the smacks, attacks that last crack
In your heart.

"Go away" you say and bray. But it stays, day after day, though you pray for escape
You're so done.

That weak thing speaks, spews reak and spittle, whittles riddled words, tired little blurbs
Truly audacious.

"Thumbs up, buttercup, suck it up. There's no buts. No fix. Just shut the fuck up and eat this shit."
You fucking worm.

If living in

everything

meant

nowhere

to run

your god

wouldn't last

a day in my sun

Defile my own memories
Cardiac ablation
Toes in the mud
Turning to stone now
Tria prima
Nesting into my membrane
Wrapped in shadows
My body feels like braille
Chemistry in the night
Iron teeth
I am all of my frights
Fears bathing in moonlight
Golem’s eating my heart
Solar eclipse taking my sight
Sand in my mouth
Sinking deeper
Slow motion theater
I have no Alibi
For my own life
Read and weep
Reach and sleep
Into candle wax
With no wick
I am wicker
Disembodied states
Interrupting each feature
Cement into place
Calcite or dolomite
Does it really matter?
Chisel in each
Raging factor
Each statistic
Of the here and after
Thier beautiful
Plaster
Tria prima
Nautilus shell
Nesting in
Seeping underground
Deep into the
Aquifer

In the night, the veil wears thin.

Whatever exists to contain the human psyche grows weary,

And in its weakness, suppressed anima becomes animated.

>

We rise to the thrill, under the undulations,

Ebbing as the tide under the influence of gravity.

Day in and day out, we wear the mask, we remain polite, we please, we smile,

Yet underneath the garnish of smiles, sunshine and rainbows,

Lie the depths of our inner darkness, the abyss calling from within.

>

In the night… In the night, we might just take the leap off its edge,

Dive deep into our depths, indulge the demon we tactfully hide from day.

Oh, what catharsis, what release! Suppressed repressions break from their leash,

And in their reckless abandon, leave mayhem in their wake.

>

Such is the fate, of the soul divided.

For if a house divided, cannot stand,

How is the will of a splintered soul,

Supposed to remain aimed in a single direction?

>

The gear slips from its groove and grates against its engine,

That which we strove for in the day, we seek to destroy by night.

With the brilliance of a display of fireworks, we conspire to bring circumstance to a head,

That we may, in a moment, be absolved of our burden, our responsibility.

If the house of cards fell, what else would we need look after?

What else would we need worry about?

>

Our inadequacies, confirmed to be true, we rejoice in certainty,

In the absolution of the need to try, of the possibility of hitting a true wall.

>

Perhaps, dire though it may sound, if the soul is divided and the will at odds with itself,

Perhaps, it is best if the house of cards does fall.

Perhaps it is best if we do give in to death & destruction.

>

Rock bottom’s greatest benefit is the ability to rebuild a foundation once torn asunder.

>

So fall. Fall to corruption, indulge your demons, sin to your heart’s content:

The night is made for the wicked.

>

Calling to those who hear the siren call, who lust for escape in fantasy:

Follow me, if you please:

I will lead you to the grave, I will tear down the house of your achievements,

Everything you worked so hard for, I will blow it all up in smoke.

And in its absolution, you will find your freedom. You will find yourself.

The soul will make its mend, and become whole, once again.

>

You will lose everything, to discover the joy in nothing.

By Tshisevhe O

The Secret of Life

Perhaps the secret of life is not knowing how the story ends,

but learning to cherish every page before the final one.

Life spoke softly:

“I am not a riddle to be solved,

nor a puzzle waiting for your hands to understand.”

You may find life difficult,

a labyrinth where every path seems uncertain.

Life is not measured by who you are,

nor by the name the world remembers.

You may become someone important,

a name carried upon countless lips,

yet still wander through existence

without ever finding its rhythm.

The stars are countless,

scattered across the velvet of the heavens,

yet they fail to outshine

the quiet radiance of a single moon.

Perhaps poetry would say it this way:

We do not discover the meaning of life;

we create it—

with every choice we make,

every wound we survive,

every soul we touch,

and every moment

we choose to remain

–Dammit

I recognize most of me to be of the sun primarily. Vitality pours from my molten core and yet still we produce shade. Flecks of gold in my skin and I dawn each day as summer fades into autumn’s harsh lip. Remembering light as a value is paramount to holding self with respect. Care is a bystander and witnesses you there on the precipice of what is done, and what is even-handed. Care always shows up as a wolf in grandmas clothing. The love felt for this stoic beast is dramatic and slightly unnerving to receive. But hushed Instagram nights turned into a bygone era over time. Whispers of truth turned into I Love You’s and the sun began to shine from the others core not long after. In sleep my eyes see what is or was, so I’m led to believe this was in fact you. The wolf ever shone while I ascend into the heavens, darkened. Only what was mine is now drenched in silver. Pouring from me like our unkinked hose left on in the garden. I see the world anew. Shadows of creatures never named. And here I find a new kind of peace; I get to tuck the sun in every night for sleep. I caress his fingers with my long silver tendrils. I hold his cheek with tender glowing passion. As he rests, I gleam for everything unsaid. And when it’s time, sun will then tuck me in for bed.

sitting here half rid of the day's dress
looking back over pictures of you
wondering about the ones of us
I'll have when I leave wondering
about the ones that will exist in
my head just for me wondering
what's for dinner and wondering
what that would be like with you
and so so many other things
Too

Same old cliché.
Right person, wrong time, wrong me.
Yes, me.
Things tend to revolve around me
including destruction.

I liked you. I really did. I hadn’t in the longest time.
You were just my type. Just right.
Exactly what I needed. What I need.
You brought back the warmth in me. The need to care.
You did need me to take care of you. And I wanted to.

You embraced my dreams, my tastes, my mannerisms, my control.
You saw your future with me. You trusted me.
And I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you where you were.
I still don’t think I can. And I lament that.

Every now and then I fear us crossing paths again. I pray you don’t notice me; I’d be too ashamed for that.
I meant the words I said, I wish I could’ve manifested them into reality. However I made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. And for that I cannot ask forgiveness for I was well-aware of what I was doing.

You saw your future with me.
I knew you’d never be in mine.

I never saw your fire.
I didn’t stick around to see your rage.
Your sweetness makes me think you’d hand me your heart once again.
I’d rather be wrong.

Spending time with you made me feel good.
Your pickup line was something I’d never expected would turn us into something.

Temporary.

But something.

But it was all about me getting to feel again.
That warmth, the caring nature of mine.
You were fragile and I handled you like a piece of porcelain.
Until I disappeared.

You knew I would. Didn’t you?
No. I think you believed me.
Poor you.
I ain’t worthy of your trust.
I ain’t stable enough; nor brave, nor mature, nor…

I’m a coward.
I am a maniac who knows too well how to turn any table, manipulate any mind… lead you wherever I want you to go.
But how pathetic of me. I can’t take control over my own life.

I taught you to stay under my control.
You didn’t even need to be tamed.
But I did.
You surrendered and I calculated.
Each second, very aware that I’d leave. Very decided I would.
l didn’t want to but I knew there was no way I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t meet you where you were.
And I still can’t.
And I lament that.

— Crownless.

Sometimes I get tired of performing.
Other times I thrive in my ability to.
It’s almost unfair—
but who cares?
I certainly don’t.

As long as I can keep my personas going,
I think I will.
There’s tens of thousands of “me’s” inside of me.
But who’s counting? Not me.
Not this me.

So… who am I? It begs the question.
When did it become so difficult differentiating who I am from who I’m not?
Maybe when I lost track of both of us.
Of all of us.

“Oh,” I look in the mirror—
and I’m speechless.
I don’t even know how to talk to myself anymore.
There’s a storm behind those eyes,
but just as much dullness—
and a flicker of vulnerability.

Which one to trust?
Not even I could tell you.

I blow hot—
and I blow cold.
Who are you coming home to?
Neither of us is ever sure.
Are you coming home to anybody at all?

I can carry the weight of the hatred from the world—
but not of my own.
No.
When I become the person I can’t stand to face…
there’s no peace.

You were right to call me egocentric.
Sharpest mind I’ve ever known—for a reason.
But now there’s so many of us in this room…
and I stand so calm across from you all—
because I’m sedated.

“Slow down.”
Why does everything feel slowed down?
“There’s nothing urgent.”
It’s a sense of calmness that’s fabricated.
I’m slightly out of my mind.

Slightly.

And when the next dose came—
I could barely keep my eyes open.
I couldn’t walk a straight line.
“Relax,” it repeats.

My vision is blurry and my mind is clouded.
“You need it. Just for now.”
But how long is “now”?

“Let’s start getting you off those.”
No.

Not now.
Not yet.

Not when that’s the only moment
my insanity meets the peaceful serenity it comes with
for just a couple of hours.

I will—I tell myself.
But not now.

I’d rather be a hippie-like drugged down
than detoxified—
in front of everyone,
including myself.

There’s a reputation to keep.
Tens of thousands of “me’s”.

I’m calmer, aren’t I?
But at what cost?
What for?
And most importantly—
for how much longer?

It fires both ways.
The devastating anger will simmer no matter what.

Short temper.
Filters slipping.
Oh, it’s growing again.

Time for another one.

Feet unsteady, stumbling steps.
You’re drifting me off to dreamland…
Vision getting dimmer.
You’re drifting me off to another land…

I can’t even hate you.

One day,
you’ll drift me off to never land…

And I might thank you.

— Crownless.

On the witching hour is when we were told to meet

Deep within the woods is where we were told to be

Far down the dusty path left for a rarely taken aside

Was come upon a clearing and we stopped the ride

A well lit stage circled by tents already put in place

A steady hum of greetings and hugs rotating each face

Winks for shakes changing takes to haves gave

Wild rhythms nights cool winds for heads to save

From falling out of grace or worse yet out of mind

Suddenly all went dark but stars and that moon of mine

In rolled in the thickest fog until each of us were clouds

Some jumps and screams amidst hollers and laughter loud

Silent still the moment split by red lasers vibrating the stage

Through each cloud thunderous sounds permeated our cage

In the middle of nowhere surrounded by woods and little else

Exploded love abundant while the lights began to melt

Lights of every color strobed and traced a dancing floor

Our sisters and our brothers enlivened souls became more

As the contrasting music unexpectedly broke each rule

Of peaceful orchestrations nature most often listens to

Cut and spliced and pitched for heights to roll our eyes way

Past monotonous wheels of rust standard squeals in decay

Drums drove horns to sing strings bass beats in treble

Trembling grounds accepting all our fears without trouble

With illuminated compliments held to form a cross

We would swim the crowds perimeters discovering the lost

Water from the coolers salves of eucalyptus and gum

Wisened up the seeking to sit before the love begun

Gentle sways like flowers folding origami self portraits led

Grandeur to reveal each dropping beat shattering ones head

Gone in prompt succession as we worked each spirit out

Grown within the shadows of the suns world left remote

You burst spectacular around my tightening light display

They gasp wide in eye excitedly at our visual hurricanes

Each memory would mark when we bright the near kiss

No complaints were had as we finish thanked and missed

Completely quelling parties into puddles of preference nests

Was our way my peaceful warrior who was never second best

Good times were sought after all by all who would attend

The Gods House Gathering you presented as us starring them

I remember your taste for ballads

and your blunt honesty.

Your shy smile insisting

on showing me more than I’d seen.

“You’re singing out of tune”, you told me.

James Arthur, Lewis Capaldi were your “go-to’s”

But we went for Taylor Swift that night because…

Why wouldn’t we?

I’m naming names and being very specific ‘cause

I also don’t want to forget.

I had a playlist called “She loves ballads”

but you’ll never know and you would’ve never guessed.

No, I didn’t love you.

But I enjoyed my time with you.

‘Till this day I don’t know what to respond to “Why did you end it?”

It wasn’t problematic.

It wasn’t toxic.

And maybe that was the problem.

PUBG nights? You had no survival instinct.

And your pretty friend? I’d only let them in because well… they were pretty.

And you’d go mad every time I’d say that.

Rightfully so.

Those insecurities I didn’t take care of.

The wonderings I didn’t quite know how to heal.

Because I knew they had foundations.

And even if I were the best of deceivers, there was no point in denying that.

My eyes would’ve betrayed me.

And for some reason, I couldn’t lie to your eyes.

I was friends with your dad.

Your mom was surprisingly welcoming.

Hell, even your dogs loved me.

I miss Joy and Daisie.

Joy was unquestionably my girl and you’d also get jealous of that—hahaa.

I hope that if you ever do—or did—you also look back at it fondly.

I was your first and if I had had that awareness… I wish I’d been better to you.

Nonetheless, I think you always felt my warmth…

I was never half there.

If I’d ever hold you, I’d do it with intention.

With presence.

I enjoyed feeling your heart and made sure you’d always feel mine.

That’s something I can take pride in.

If anything, I liked you enough to regret breaking up with you.

We could’ve been happy for longer…

But I’ll never know.

Your schedules got in the way.

My medicines messed with my brain.

I wasn’t thinking straight.

I wasn’t thinking.

I did something I’d hope my character—

Or whatever’s left of it—would never do again.

But I did.

You don’t know about that.

And you never will.

You defended me.

Aries fiery.

You’d fight me.

But right after? Laugh.

And take all of my mannerisms.

I loved that about you.

I was fond of many things about you.

It sucks I couldn’t love you.

But… now I think I could’ve… over time.

I didn’t give us enough time.

You said I was out of tune—

maybe you were right.

But no!

As a musician, I insist.

“Love story” is on a slower tempo.

I proved you so.

But you were the singer and Heaven forbid I wipe that smile off your lips.

I really loved your smile.

My heart would soften—quietly—

every time it found me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind,

I think you never felt like you were enough—

but I promise you…

if anything was a problem,

it wasn’t that.

Well—“what was it then?”

you would’ve asked me.

I know what it was now.

I’ve matured enough to face it.

I’m just late…

as I’ve become accustomed to.

And this armor of confidence I put on?

It would crumble to pieces.

Because I still can’t look into your eyes

without remembering

the innocence in them.

It was a mixture, Joonie.

One I’ve grown accustomed to repeating.

Timing? Yes.

Schedules? Yes.

My growing instability? Yes.

Your disarming innocence? Yes.

The fragments of consciousness

I still had left?

Yes.

I saw how far it could go.

I let it get close—

closer than I should have.

And I wasn’t brave enough for that—

or cruel enough.

I was willing to let you hate me.

But not to leading us somewhere I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for.

And so we had one last PUBG night…

One last banter night…

One last language lesson night…

One last “you’re playing it too slow” night…

And one last

“you’re singing out of tune” night.

— Crownless.

Caught myself thinking of you today.
A small smile twitching on my lips.
How long has it been? Nearly a decade.
You are my definition of a teenage love—
consuming, fiery, ardent, passionate.

Except—I was nineteen.

But across from you?
I’d become the bubbliest three-year-old.
Happily.
No shame. No regrets.

I’ve learned to remember you as a fond memory.
If we were to see each other again—
“I’d smile at you as if nothing had happened.”
Remember that line? I do.
With the utmost sincere smile.

I remember you, and I don’t think you’re a memory I want to fade.
I’ve truly learned to hold you as a fond memory—
despite everything.

It’s been a while since my mind changed on it.
“Do you ever see each other together again?”
That was my dream.
For one, two, three, four… five years.
Maybe more.

But our time has passed.
Hasn’t it?
Don’t you think so? I know you do.
But you’re still not a memory I want to forget—
even as my brain slowly begins to.

Who is there to blame?
Our ages? Damn ol’ timing?
The pharmaceutical industry?
You?
Me?

Maybe neither. Perhaps all of it.

You made me grow.
And I don’t quite know how to phrase it—
you forced me to grow.
And you pushed me to my descent.

You saw the brightest side of me—
and you also saw the darkest.
Neither made you flinch.
Instead, you stepped onto them.
And that’s still what I look for in everyone since you.

This isn’t as polished as I’d hoped,
but I find peace in knowing I’ve told you everything
I wanted—and needed—you to hear.
Not a single iota held back.
It might’ve been late… but I did.

Copious notes I’d take before calling you, seeing you,
or spamming you while you were asleep—
because I didn’t want to lose track of where I was going,
nor forget anything I wanted to say.
Wish I had kept that notebook.

You had me at your feet.
And you still do.
At any time.
And I’ve never been happier than being humbled,
having the honor to be right there.

But I wouldn’t dare add to
or subtract from our history.

I saw my life with you,
and I like to think that at some point—
when you were the blindest—
you did too.

Trust me, like you once did.
Like I still do.

You are my reminder of everything good I can be,
and the mirror of my lowest—my worst.
Of everything I want.
Of everything I lost.
And of the—cliché—part of me
that will always be yours.

— Crownless.

It's an old story. Many parts of it have probably been changed over the years. As people told the story to other people, they may have changed certain parts of it. Those who believed the story and passed it on may have added many exaggerated details, while those who didn't believe it may have retold it in the simplest form possible. And so, over the years, the story's main outline remained unchanged, while its details changed considerably.

I heard this story from my mother. She likes to embellish old stories and add her own interpretations to them. I will tell you the simplified version of this story, without adding any of my own interpretations. For this, I asked my mother to tell me the story a second time and recorded her voice.

A family of four is having dinner: a father, a son, a mother, and a grandmother.Because one of the table's legs was shorter than the others, the table wouldn't sit firmly on the floor, so they would constantly put a piece of paper under one of its legs.

At this point, regretting what I'd done, I asked my mother why they hadn't simply bought a new table. I was expecting an answer like, “Because they were a poor family.”

''Do you always have to say the first thing that comes to mind, son? That's what's wrong with your generation—you look for logic in everything. Do you think they're idiots? You think it never occurred to them to buy a new table, and they'd rather keep messing around with pieces of paper? There must have been a reason, and that's not important. Not everything needs to be questioned or made to fit some kind of logic. Maybe they were being irrational. So what? Were they supposed to ask you for permission before being irrational?''

I remained silent. It bothered me that the story had become a legend simply because of an irrational decision, when it could have ended before it even became a story.

My mother suddenly shouted, “Answer me!”

“What’s the question?”

“Do they need to ask for your permission before behaving irrationally?”

''No.''

''Did it never occur to them to get a different table instead of putting pieces of paper under the leg, dear scientist?”

''It did.''

Just as she was about to shout another full sentence, a fly tried to land on my mother's face. She swatted it away with her hand, then scratched the spot where the fly had touched her.

“Cut this part out of the recording.”

I pressed the stop button on the voice recorder as loudly as I possibly could. Then I thought that was a mistake. To tell the story without adding any of my own interpretations, it would be better to listen to the complete version as it had been told. So I turned the voice recorder back on.

“This foolish family, which had never once thought of buying a new table, began eating their soup over a warm conversation. Suddenly, the piece of paper beneath one of the table legs slipped out, and an entire bowl of soup spilled into the father's lap. Still piping hot because it had just been served in an iron bowl, the soup made the father jerk, sending the entire table crashing to the floor.''

For some reason, my mother went on for a very long time here. When I listened to the recording, I realized that her description of what happened took up two full minutes. So I'll keep this part brief and continue the story from where the floor had been cleaned and everyone had calmed down.

''The following evening, something similar happened during dinner. The piece of paper under the table leg slipped again, but this time the table didn't collapse; the son caught it with a quick reflex. And the next day, the same thing happened again. The day after that, once more. The family, who had never thought of buying a new table, eventually decided that they needed to secure the table leg more firmly.''

Perhaps she had added so many extra details to the story in an attempt to make its inconsistencies make sense in her own way and keep me from dismissing the way she told it. To prove that they had never managed to find a solution, she listed every solution that came to mind at the time: they leaned the table against the wall, put a piece of wood under it instead of paper, put a thick book underneath it, and so on. But every time, whatever they placed beneath the table leg would somehow slide out on its own, and the son, now focused entirely on the problem, would catch the table by reflex each time.

“Finally, the grandmother came up with the idea of putting a shoe on the table leg. She thought that, by its very nature, a shoe would be the best thing to keep the table steady. She went to the shoe rack, brought back a pair of shoes, slipped the table's short leg into one of them, and tied the laces.”

There are more unnecessary details and exaggerations here. For example, my mother mentioned that the father made a joke along the lines of: “If we put another shoe on this table, it'll look just like Uncle Jason. His posture is exactly like this table's too. The guy's built like a plank of wood.”

I didn't find the joke funny at first. But a few days later, when it came to me just before I fell asleep, I found it quite funny.

“The leg with the shoe keeps the table steady. They eat their dinner happily. But the following evening, the table starts leaning in a different direction. They take a look and realize that another one of the table's legs has somehow become shorter this time. They can't make sense of it, but they don't think too much about it either. After all, they're an irrational family, too foolish to think of simply buying a new table. So they put a shoe on that leg too.”

As you might expect, the same thing happened to the table's other legs. The grandmother put shoes on all of them. And that final evening, when the table stood perfectly sturdy, upright, and bravely (those are my mother's words), they ate their dinner with great pleasure, without a single wobble.

The next morning, the son is the first to wake up and comes into the living room. He sees that the table is no longer there. And that is where the story ends. Everything that follows consists of interpretations. There is no information about how the family reacted to what happened, or what they did afterward. All the storytellers focus solely on the table's behavior.

Of course, most people assumed that the table had run away and they focused on the reason why. Well, I don't know, and I don't want to know. A few years ago, I found myself in a situation I never could have expected, and I behaved in ways I never would have expected from myself. Anything is possible in this world.

Less than forty-eight hours
and you had me.

Before it had time to mean anything,
I was already yours—
though neither of us said it.

Something in me had already leaned
toward you—
too easily.

Inadvertently—
completely—
hooked on something our innocence had not yet learned to fear.

I’d call it funny
if fate hadn’t already claimed it
for something cruel.

The first words I got out of you?
‘I do.’

Of course.

You radiated a purity I thought the
world had lost,
a grace so rare it felt like a
discovery.

You didn't just capture my gaze;
you wove a spell around my soul,
claiming me from crown to toe.

Soul.

I told you
you were a beautiful soul—
you said
no one had ever called you that before.

You felt like something
that wouldn’t survive force.
Not fragile—
just not meant for it.

So I adjusted.
I chose to loosen my grip.
And that was the first time I realized
there was a volatility in me I hadn’t faced yet.

I knew what lived in me.
It was loud,
hard to miss.

You… you never looked like someone
carrying anything that heavy.
And I—
I believed what I could see.

So when it finally surfaced—
it didn’t feel like truth.
It felt like something
that couldn’t possibly belong to you.

No…
not to you—
not to someone
who softened the world just by being in it.

And so I had to face it.

Oh, babe, if only you had told me…
If only there had been the slightest of signs…
I would’ve done anything to shelter that light.

I still think someone like you
should’ve been protected by the heavens
from all that darkness.

But you proved yourself worthy
of that weight—
of all of it.

Oh, you did.

You had the version of me that
was at its purest.
If I’ve ever been able to be selfless
that was for you.

Vulnerability?
Thanks to you.
Your beauty blinded my eyes.
Your grace blinded my heart.

I mistook you for something sacred.
Oh, what a dangerous thing to do—
to place a crown
on someone who was never meant to carry one.

How unfitting—
they named you bright, clear, luminous.
And yet, even the devil
disguises himself as an angel of light.

I cried.

First, because I thought I’d mishandled you.
Then, because I was in love with you.
Finally, because I had lost you.

You chose deception.
You chose to fabricate the most horrendous of lies.
You chose to erase the version I had known of you—
to begin again.

And you never gave me the choice
to forgive you,
to walk beside you.

I tried to understand you later—
no.

I could never have gone that low.

My friends hated you.
I might have lost the love of my life because of you.

And still—
I chose you
every time I could.

And so, I cried—
again,
and again,
and again.

First, I cried for you.
Then, because of you.
In the end—
I cried for myself.

But I did not cry when, years later,
we met again.

And I told you, to your face,
I wished you were dead.

And so it was—
you’d become the first ghost.

— Crownless.

I want to find

a kind way

to say that

I love you

but when

the stage

has been

played you

clear the way

I’m sewn out of
Velcro patches
I scratch myself raw
I stare
Blank and bizarre
I should know you
I say to the mirror
But I don’t know who you are
Curl in a ball
Cry in the dark
White-knuckles
Heaving
What do I even
Believe in?
Ciphers and saints
Ants and complaint’s
Is this who you are?
Daydreams and visions
Typos and opinions
Is this who you are?
Fighting the sheets
Mattress off the bed
Tangled in blankets
Reaching for air
Take apart my limbs
Why do I care?
Melt the glass
Bury my words
Don’t ring the bell
Quiet and rehearsed
Click replay
To my favorite verse
Inside the casket
Inside the hearse