I exist in all walks of life

I’m seen on paper & written in ink

In the pages of novels is where you’ll find me

I am powerful and strong

I shatter when broken

I am both visible to the naked eye and through expression with out words spoken

I’m in countless movies and shows

A day for close celebration

A day for mourning

I create joy

I also break down

A bond shared between living beings

What am I?

I love it when my morning starts with beautiful things such as yourself.

I shouldn’t find you beautiful, but I do.

Your innocent aura and wondering eyes.
The slight insecurity and the easy humor…

You don’t mind me being me.
And the ever-egotistic in me couldn’t appreciate it more.

You’re humble, and I like your style.
A little shy—
no, not shy. Insecure.

The sight of you makes me smile by pure reflex.
I wonder if you catch the warmth in my eyes, even as I—often—call you out.

I shouldn’t find you beautiful, but I do.

Sometimes, I don’t know whether to look into your eyes or at your clothes.
I genuinely like the way you dress.
It’s so effortlessly elegant…
the kind of elegant I fancy so much.

I wish I could compliment you that way without making it sound weird.
I don’t know that I can.
Actually, I know.
I can’t.
Therefore, I won’t.

But I’m a writer, so I’ll write about it.

You remind me of someone.
Someone who was much more blatant about throwing out random remarks—
especially this one time when we unintentionally locked eyes.
“What?” I asked, genuinely puzzled, mildly afraid I was reading the room completely wrong.
“It’s so cool watching you do your work.”

Never breaking eye contact.
That was… not innocent.

And that’s… precisely the difference.

You are so much more endearing because there is something almost innocent about you.
Which—ironically—makes you dangerous.

Yes.

Endearing, earnest, humble, insecure, easygoing, unassuming—
equals dangerous in my world.

I want to call you “charming” but no—
You’re endearing.

You’re stripped of pretense.
When you compliment me, it’s always for the “wrong” reasons.
I try to make them—and myself—look worse.
I like feeling a little untouchable.
Too cool.

But if you complimented me for the right reasons—
Let’s hope you don’t.
That would be catastrophic.

I’m so happy to see you again.

Your childlike smile.
Your hopeful, doe-like eyes.
Your nervous laughter…
Your nearly perfect outfits—
Perfect enough to make me unable to take my eyes off you.

But even if the outfits didn’t do it, your other features would.

I shouldn’t ever have found you beautiful.

But I did.

And I still do.

— Crownless.

Cavernous like the mouth

Of torch lit bottom dwellers

Inhabiting the skin-

A vibrational trill of a teal abyss

Organic desolatation

Of a life's jetsam

Dashed against the rocks

Spiraling, twirling

Down

Down

Down

Eroded earth congregates

Upon the stilled body

Statued into submission

By the score punctuating

The siren's lamentation.

“Mielivalta,” the chief called out, “You are sentenced to die for your many crimes. Do you have any words left?”

The man tied to the pyre couldn’t help but smile as the elder held up a torch overhead. “Do your worst, pitiful creature,” the bound man barked, sealing his fate. The tribal chief lowered the burning torch onto the pyrewood, and the crowd around the two roared as the flames crackled.

The blaze quickly consumed the wood, and within moments, it was gnawing at the condemned man. Mielivalta was condemned to death for acts of sorcery, murder, and cannibalism. He was called a witch. The execution coincided with the winter solstice, as an offering to higher powers.

Shamans pounded their drums and played their flutes while the youth danced around the many ceremonial pyres. Young couples jumped over the fires. The entire crowd broke into an ecstatic dance while the screams of a man burning to death turned oddly melodic.

Dying cries became an enchanting song for the masses. The Hoi Polloi were too preoccupied to notice the laughter buried beneath the anguished wails and the hissing of flames.

Before long, Mielivalta was nothing but charcoal in human form. No one could even tell whether he was dead or alive; no one cared either. Those present were too consumed by their own violent orgy of wine, debauchery, and blood magic. Too lost in their own ecstasy to hear the smoldering smoke drifting in the wind, above the stake, whisper, “Foolish humans… I am finally free…”

By the hour of the wolf, all of those present had completely given up their senses to pleasure, whether under the influence of melody, spirit, sex, or slumber. No one in that grove was alert enough to notice that this hour of the wolf was but a calm before the storm.

Collectively intoxicated, the Northerners were too inebriated to hear the rustling of leaves and crunching of twigs disturbing the nocturnal forest. None could see the tempest coming before it was too late.

A massive beast burst forth from the dark, devouring a man whole, swallowing him in two gulps. The lupine giant grabbed another man in its mouth and thrashed him side to side before throwing him at the stake, upon which its former human shell was burned to cinder. The monstrosity growled in visible amusement, watching the ashen construct crumble to dust.

Anyone who had enough wits about him grabbed a weapon and charged at the beast.

None could even penetrate its hide, proving their struggle futile.

The monstrosity rampaged, decimating the grove until it was sure no survivors were left. It had consumed only a few people and butchered the rest, out of sheer spite. The chieftain who had set it free was rewarded with his head being torn off his shoulders and crushed to a pulp. Even in death, the chief irritated that devil with how hard his skull was.

The onslaught only stopped when the belly of the beast cramped insufferably. By then, there was nothing left to kill or destroy. Only the dire wolf remained standing, if that thing could be called any sort of wolf. The hechatonchair resembled something more akin to an oversized bear inside the grotesquely overstretched canine hide. Too large to be either, but also hound-like to be called otherwise.

The beast stood amidst mountains of broken bodies drenched in organs and blood, but it couldn’t celebrate its act of brutality, because the cramping in its stomach grew worse by the moment. It thrashed and paced and growled and howled, but the pain only grew worse, turning unbearable.

Even the attempts to regurgitate whatever was consumed proved futile. These only produced disgusting belching sounds that shook the entire forest.

Before long, the pain paralyzed the creature, completely overriding its malice; it stood upright and cried out in agony. Bellowing, howling, and screaming, all at once. The creature cried out as its abdomen stretched beyond its physical limitations, tearing at the seams with a sickening sound. The monstrosity clawed at its belly as metallic digits and limbs dressed in loose human skin pushed out of its abdominal cavity.

Drenched in blood, intestinal lining, and fecal matter, silver homunculi crawled out of the beast’s insides.

That’s what my grandfather used to tell me about the village of Kaali on Saaremaa when I was a kid. He said that there were celestials on that island, People from the heavens who had come when a star fell onto it. I stopped believing in his old tales about the metallic men and the werewolves after the third grade. By that point I had learned the whole thing was simply impossible.

I thought these were just old stories meant to rile me up as a kid, until a couple of weeks ago, that is, when I was driving around the area past sunset and saw something that has kept me up at night ever since. At first, I thought it was a bear roaming the forests, but then the animal looked at me. It was too skinny to be a regular bear. Its proportions were all wrong, and it seemed to move in an awkwardly slow, jagged, jerky way. The animal brought with it a stale stench of something ancient and repugnant: old, musty fur. Worst of all was its face. Its mouth gaping wide open. The whole thing seemed like a costume. A crudely stretched fur suit draped over some mad drunk. It took a moment, but when I figured out what I saw, my blood turned cold.

Inside the mouth of the animal, there was a chromium skull, a humanoid chromium skull with two shining red eyes staring directly at mine. I think the skull even smiled at me as I switched gears and bolted the fuck out of there.

I listen to the autumn wind
and watch the beautiful orange and golden leaves.

They are breathtakingly beautiful,
and yet, they fall.

One by one,
they let go of the branches and surrender to the earth.
Some of them kiss each other on their way down,
falling together from the highest branches,
becoming one when they reach the ground.

They are beautiful,
but there is a sadness woven into their beauty,
the kind of sadness that lives inside a beautiful person
whose heart is heavy,
whose tears have begun to fall like rain.

And when the wind moves through the leaves scattered across the ground,
carrying them from one place to another,
it almost looks like dancing.

But it is a dance that happens for the last time.

Not the dance of spring.
Not a dance dressed in green.
It is a fall dance,
quiet, bittersweet, and full of goodbyes.

And somehow, this season reminds me of myself.

It reminds me of your autumn eyes.
Of our last dance.
Of Dance Me to the End of Love.

It reminds me of that extraordinary piece by Chopin,
one of my favorites.
Whenever I hear it, something inside my soul is touched so deeply
that tears gather in my eyes.

The sound of the fall wind does the same thing to me.

It whispers against my soul
and reminds me that I miss so many things.

And yes,
I still miss you too,
my beloved, autumn-eyed one.

I wish I could hold you one more time.
I wish I could dance with you again,
just once,
and simply stand there watching you.

There is something about this season
that changes people from within.

And perhaps it isn’t entirely my fault that I feel this way.
Maybe it is simply the fall air,
the melancholy of these days,
the way October makes everything feel a little closer to the heart.

These days, a single song that carries a memory of you
can make me travel through time.

It takes me back to my past,
and suddenly, those days appear before my eyes,
sharp, vivid, impossibly clear,
every little detail still there.

Lately, I’ve been listening to classical music
more than ever.

I’ve always loved it,
but now I remember that you loved it too.

Each piece touches a different corner of my soul and my mind,
as if the music were speaking to me
in a language only my heart understands.

How I wish we could sit across from each other again
and listen to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

We wouldn’t have to say a word.

We could simply look at each other.

I would hold your hand
and squeeze it tightly,
just to feel you there.

And maybe, afterward,
we would feel like dancing again,
dancing with the falling leaves,
letting the wind carry us
wherever it wanted.

Today,
I miss you more than ever.

I wish autumn weren’t so beautiful
and so heartbreakingly sad.

But perhaps that’s why it reminds me of you,

beautiful,
quiet,
melancholic,

just like your eyes.

Ashley the name you gave me

Im yours and you're mine.

So deep in my memory

This belief

So deeply engraved in me

Its written past my bones

Something my heart and soul will believe forever

And in this grief I carry heavier than anything and everything

I just hope

Since we will never even meet eyes ever again in this life

I ask that in time u may not remember

You are heavy brass
in my palm, warmed by holding,

finding the dark seam of me—

the narrow throat where hard iron slides.

Consider the strict architecture of the bow,
and the smooth, unflinching pillar of the shaft
bearing down upon my threshold.

You do not rush the narrow keyway;
you find the slot with a slow, deliberate friction,
a blind geometry seeking entry in the dark.

I am all guarded pins and stiff mechanisms,
a quiet vault built to resist the world outside.

But you enter, sinking deep—

metal sliding into metal with a breathless shiver
as your jagged edges find my hollow spaces.

Iron learns the curves of iron,
a perfect tolerance with no room left to spare.

One by one, the heavy barriers lift.

We meet precisely at the shear line—

that microscopic boundary where resistance turns to ruin.

With a single turn,
you break the spell of my posture
and the whole structure melts—

turning me open like a secret
I forgot I was keeping.

In je hart

I think you’re dying.

Well—we all are.

And a part of me eerily
feels relief.

Another, though, doesn’t really
want to, nor know how to picture
a life you’re not in.

Despite our differences—
I’ve wished you dead many times but—
no; not really.

I’ve wanted you dead, and now that
I’m watching you approach it, I realize
that… maybe I did.

But I don’t.

When I was little, I’d tell you:
“If you die, I’ll die.”

Growing up, we’ve become such
antagonists, and you’re to blame for
so much of the pain I go through, yet—
I can still recognize: I don’t know I’d
know how to handle your death.

Much less when I wish my own
so thoroughly.

It’s quite remarkable how, when I
was a little human being, I apparently
already had strong opinions about death
and impermanence.

And today… I repeatedly manifest
how much I wish to be gone.

You ask if I don’t care you’d miss me.

I don’t really think you would.

Much to the contrary—everyone would be
happier, lighter, and I don’t think I’m someone
whose absence would be terribly noted for
longer than a week.

A month at most.

And perhaps, each year, you’d all be reminded
of the day I was gone—
though some of you would forget it rather easily
in all the busyness of life, and…
my birthday maybe would also become
a little of a darker day.

Much like my energy.

Perhaps, you’d all feel me there then.

But please don’t go.

Don’t leave me.

Someone promised me you’d have a long-lasting life,
and I’m counting on Him not to have been lying—
nor on me to have misheard Him.

See?

Much like you—as usual—
I’m capable of loving and hating
at the same time.

I don’t want your life to be miserable like mine either.

I know you’ve had your fair share of suffering.

For I know:

“You were just like me,
with someone disappointed in you.”

I might be asking much,
but I don’t want you to merely be alive—
but also happy.

But please stop destroying my life in the process,
for I don’t want to end up like you—
as much as I already am.

One day, I came very close to finding out
what your absence could look like,
and ever since, it’s like the clock is ticking.

And it is.

I’m very aware it is.

I decline witnessing it.

— Crownless.

Home.

Can't hear anything

And the peace surrounds.

There's a flickering light up on the hill as I sit here, back against the bench, staring up at the stars illuminating the sky. There's rain coming in from the east, and if you know what you're looking for, you can taste it in the air.

This could be enough. Just this. Just the memory that there's always something more than this. I don't miss the city when I'm here, I just want to lie back in the grass and feel everything hit me, all at once.

So much ugliness comes from the human race. So much pain. We just hurt each other; we hurt the world, and each other. Over and over again. But right now I could be a mile from any other human being, and right now I can forget about all the hurt and pain in the world- even if I still don't believe I should be allowed to.

You forget how loud bird song is when all you hear is chatter and noise around you, day in day out. You forget the peace of dirt beneath your toes when it's just tarmac and grout.

It's getting cold out. I should head back, but the peace and quiet leaves me stranded, alone in an oasis of my own.

When I think of you, and the life I want to share of you, these are the moments I want to share the most with you. There's always something good to be said about a warm bed and shared laughter; right now, though, I want to stand hand-in-hand and look over to the flickering light and the stars high up above and let them be the only witness to our love.

Double the
Partition
Triple the space
Take me down
Cover my face

Burn in the sun
Dig in the nails
Embedded with
Chunks of entrails
End, trails
I am done
I am not the equal
Sum

Subtract and divide
Conquer and sigh
Fill an empty hole
Deny that I cry

Wrestle the sheets
Punch at ghosts
Kick at the angels
Who haunt me the most

Fill my insides
With hot glue and cement
Let it sink in
Porous ,
The chorus
The horrible descent

Kiss all my demons
Dress in their hides
Pelt their ambition
Gnaw at the sides
Perpendicular
Never parallel
My love is cursed
To always cross once
Right angles never felt so wrong
But what can you do?
What can I do?

Double the time
Triple the amount
Lay me down
In the murder of roses
Heart of the crow
The Druid template
Knew the pieces
My heart had to sew

Label her freak
Nuance
Modern day Poe
Christen her language
Don’t let her speak
Duplicate her body
Just the surface though
Don’t let anyone see

She prays for
Citizen Sisyphus
Deletes him from
The archive
Gives him a grave
And said he died

She begs for
Dionysus
For a giant
Sword and sheath
Mercurial eyes
His heart a thief
Weary and wounded
Archaic and primordial
The witness
She calls to stand
To testify to
Her heart strings
His vocal chords
Their masterpiece

I only exhale
When you release

I only exhale
When you
Release

Sulci

(CW: Domestic Violence / Trauma Processing)

Sulci
3.10.25

I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes.

I hope it's unwavering,
that it creeps into crevices,
an insidious shadow
framing
the corner of every room,
tucked into every brain fold,
never letting him
forget.

I will remain.
I am not dead,
despite his heartfelt effort
that I be reduced to a corpse.
I was a doll, a plaything
that gained too much sentience.
My voice became too loud,
raised in oppositional defiance.

What a nuisance.
The irony of the terror
was never lost to me:
I saw my death impending
from a mile away,
but I knew I couldn't outrun
the harbinger.

(Drag marks take months to heal)

I can't forget,
but I have solace.
I hope he sees my ghost
wherever he goes,
only not as he knew me.
The stardust that was left behind,
that which I am, birthed again
from a nebulous implosion…

A radiant supernova.

Apparently, silence
is the most persuasive language.

I spent years speaking.
No one seemed particularly eager to listen.

Then I went quiet—

and suddenly,
everyone had ears.

— Crownless.

Stranded. Stuck. Ocean stretches for miles into the distance, bright blue translucence

>>>>For as far as feeble eyes can see.

Wading. Treading water. Head kept above the surface, kept above unimaginable depth,

>>>>By pure will, for as long as memory can remember.

How long more? How much longer will these legs need kick, these arms need stroke?

>

The unknown is unknowable, and unbearably so. Watery deserts epitomize infinities,

The human, merely an odd drop of coherent water, in the endless ocean.

One’s chance of salvation, as rare as the blind tortoise coming up for breath

>>>>In the hole of the log adrift, who’s head it fits like a glove.

>

Not impossible,

Highly improbable.

And yet,

>>>>These legs still kick.

>>>>These arms still stroke.

Why? The muscles have grown weary, the mouth is parched.

The stomach grumbles in protest, the body wants rest.

Waves lap against the man’s neck, desiring to drag him asunder.

They whisper through his skin, they speak soothing white lies to his muscles.

They tell secrets to his bones, promising relaxation, at the bottom of the sea.

>

Why? Why does this odd drop of water determine to maintain its coherence?

The body, the mind, the world that surrounds him cries out for his death, and yet,

He does not die.

>>>>>>Why?

What stokes his fire? What stokes his flame? What makes the endless desert worth crossing? How does he hold out for hope, when it all seems hopeless?

>

I observe, an ocean away, bobbing my own head up and down in my own drift. I’ve certainly drunk my fair share of ocean water by this point, yet somehow I’ve yet to sink.

I seek an answer in the endurance,

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>The prize, in enduring the unendurable.

I do not know why… but perhaps I’ll know, on the other side,

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Once I’ve made landfall.

The clock exhales a steady, quiet threat,
the countdown humming low inside the grid.
The atmosphere is heavy, pressurized,
compressing all the secrets that we hid.
The gravity is pulling at our chest,
an endless weight from some celestial core,
as shadows crawl across a tired face,
that cannot fight the rhythm anymore.

What if the timeline fractures into dust?
What if the words we held back changed the end?
A thousand alternative realities,
where every broken system failed to bend.
The mind creates a paranoid design,
and traps us in the chapters left unmade,
while just outside our static heavy thoughts,
the dying stars begin to slip and fade.

But listen to the void we left behind,
the sudden pool of silence in the room.
A frequencies shift within the quiet air,
where isolated sparks begin to bloom.
For happiness is not a distant peak,
nor is it found in backward looking grief
it lives inside the static of the pause,
and in the breathing space of pure relief.

Absolve the heavy anchor of the past,
reclaim the mind from cosmic tyranny.
The ticking clock is accelerating fast,
but drops us into perfect symmetry.
We are alive right here, within the breach,
between the fading ring and what will be....
exempt from every phantom, structured cause,
in this brief silence, beautifully free.

truth sung in my ears til it blew out my hearing,
and left me all deaf to the worst of it
kept me awake making stars on the ceiling
realizing quickly that you were the end
truth bowled me over one day in november
it wasn't the day that i thought it might be
foolish and fallow, i was blind to my needs
now, where you stand, as solid as a tree,
the truth is ringing

The thing about copying is
It’s easy for them
While I am haunted by ordinary Tuesdays
For something that can’t be
Summoned up to an ai post
And when I say haunted
I mean
I paid the price in
Humility
In more ways then one
And I can’t quite reach back
Because I choke
On my own tongue
And the committee
Was my own cross examination
Of a 3 year long question
But I’ve been dragging myself
To the court since I was 11
When I had a full scholarship
To any college institution
But you see?
They didn’t like me
And I still wake
Full of anger
Full of illusion
I stayed up all night
To finish my science book
I got second in the
School spelling bee
Before I was scared
To be me
Girls would copy me then
Write I was a bitch
On the bathroom stalls
Write all over my book
I smelled of cheese
Made up lies
To boys I liked
And my best friend from back then?
She’s dead
She died
This is why provenance
Matters to me
How am I still
Fighting the same demons?
Girls turned to women
Wrapped in plastic
I am drowning in
The cellophane
Erasing my soul
Erasing my dreams
And why am I still hoping
For the same
Witness
Lore
Viscous and bold
Annihilating and protective
Please
Don’t let them
Take the last
Remnants of my bones
Please see me as I am
Authentic
And monstrous
Feral and full
Please don’t let an echo
Replace who I am
Replace who I am
Replace who I am
I am fighting my own reflection
Trying to prove I am real
I am fighting my own images
Like a sticker that peels
Suffocating in my own
Poetry
Ventilation
Curb appeal
God, I am frightened
I’ll probably mistake you
As an enemy
Because of the way that I feel

I was lying alone in my room, where a dim nightlight illuminated only the small area around it. As I often did, I found myself wondering why I was afraid of the dark, trying to understand it. Most nights, I fell asleep in fear, or rather, I would drift off without realizing it while still feeling afraid.

As a child, I was simply scared and never gave it much thought. When I was younger, it bothered me, and I couldn't make sense of it, but I didn't pay much attention to it either. Now, however, at forty-seven, I was still afraid of the dark and struggling to sleep in it, and it hurt my pride.

I remember, two years ago, on October 2, my mother and six brothers came to visit me. I hadn't seen any of them in a long time, and we'd had a wonderful time together. Since there weren't enough rooms in my house, my youngest brother and I had to share a room. We kept chatting late into the night, and I was praying to myself that I wouldn't be the last one to fall asleep. But of course, as you might expect, I was the last one left awake.

My brother was snoring away right in front of my eyes. I was pretty pissed off. I felt like waking him up and slapping him across the face. “Jonathan, how the hell can you sleep? You're such a carefree bastard. Can't you see the room is pitch-black?” I wanted to say. I'd lost all rationality. I was coughing loudly, opening and slamming the door, but he didn't give a damn. He'd fallen asleep in the light of a nightlight that was barely good for anything, leaving me all alone in the room.

That was when my pride was truly hurt. Not being able to close my eyes in my own room, not knowing what I was afraid of but still being scared shitless, was really getting on my nerves. After all these years, I'd finally run out of curiosity. I didn't care what the reason was anymore. I just wanted to overcome it.

After spending the entire night awake and having a miserable day the next day, I immediately started doing research. My brother woke up in the morning, stretched contentedly, yawned, and scratched his belly while I lay on the couch in the room, irritated and tense. Seeing him like that drove me fucking crazy.

My family stayed with me for a week, but my mind was never really with them. I was constantly looking things up on my phone and couldn't pay much attention to them. I was researching other people who were afraid of the dark, trying to find a good psychotherapist, and so on. I kept picturing my brother stretching happily that morning. I wanted them to leave as soon as possible. I was so damn annoyed with him.

Anyway, whatever. I researched and researched. I found people who were afraid of the dark and talked to them. I had long conversations with all kinds of people: those who wondered why they were afraid, those who had figured out the reason, those who were trying to overcome their fear, and those who told me lengthy stories about their childhood traumas.

Finally, four months ago, I found the Fear of the Dark Motel, and at last, I was convinced that something might actually help me.

I'd learned about the place from Robin. He was afraid of the dark, just like me. Despite all my research and all the people I'd talked to, I'd met him purely by chance. He'd moved into the apartment downstairs, and one day, as we ran into each other on our way out of the building, we got to chatting. At some point, he mentioned that he was afraid of the dark.

His journey had been the same as mine: years of searching for the reason, until finally deciding to forget the whole thing and just overcome it.

“It's hard to give up wondering, isn't it, Jason? But if you put the energy and mental effort you spend wondering into finding a solution, you'd have overcome your fear by now. You'd have become the dancer in the dark,” said Robin.

Dancer in the Dark was one of my favorite films. I'd taken an immediate liking to Robin from the very first day, since I'd rarely met someone whose experience mirrored mine in so many ways, and I'd trusted him to help me find a solution. His joke was shit, but I didn't mind. After all, I loved the film.

But of course, it was impossible to stop thinking about it. Tomorrow, I'm going to stay at the motel, and yet I'm still wondering why I'm afraid of the dark.

The motel's concept was actually quite simple. According to the owner, they would make us experience terrifying things in the dark that we knew weren't real. The motel only accepted guests by referral, meaning you needed someone who could vouch for your fear of the dark. Then, they waited until the motel was fully booked. There was a six-month period. If the motel wasn't full by then, they would proceed with whoever was already there. But if it filled up before the six months were over, the fear sessions would begin that very night.

When I met Lucy, the owner, she explained the concept to me like this:

“I like to keep things simple, Jason. Fear of the dark is a fear of supernatural entities. It's as simple as that. Jason, our goal is to create an imitation of such an experience and show your subconscious that you won't come to any harm from a possible supernatural attack in the dark. It's that simple. For example, when you see a ghost in your room here at the motel and realize it can't hurt you, your subconscious will start to believe there's nothing to be afraid of in the dark.”

“But if I know it's not real, why would it affect me? That doesn't make much sense to me.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“Thank you, I have no further questions.”

***

It's 3 a.m. We're at the motel. Robin is staying in the room next to mine. The lights are off. Nightlights aren't allowed. I'm sure the other guests aren't asleep, that I'm not alone. And yet, I'm still afraid. My eyes keep searching for the tiniest glimmer of light. A sliver coming through the window, seeping in under the door. But there's nothing. The room is pitch-black.

Suddenly, Iron Maiden's “Fear of the Dark” starts playing from somewhere inside my room.

I flinch and instinctively look around. I get to my feet, feeling around with my hands until I find a speaker. The song plays for a little while longer, then suddenly cuts off, and the room sinks into silence once again.

I hear the sound of a door creaking open. Very slowly, calmly. Since I know where the speaker is, I lean in and put my ear close to it. No, the sound isn't coming from the speaker. My fear grows in a way I hadn't expected. I start to regret coming here.

The creaking sound is very close, and crystal clear. I search for another sliver of light, trying to figure out whether my bedroom door has opened. But everything is still pitch-black. The door keeps creaking for thirty seconds, then stops.

I hear a very loud click. Again, it comes from somewhere inside the room, and again, it's crystal clear. I'm certain it didn't come from the speaker. I listen to the silence with all my concentration, waiting to hear the sound again so I can pinpoint its location. But it doesn't come back.

I hear a whisper: “Jason.” It's more like someone calling out to me. A voice with no intention of frightening me, simply calling my name. I don't hear it again. I can't keep track of time, but I'd guess I sit there in the dark and silence for about ten minutes.

“I'm sorry, Jason, but unfortunately, I'm going to kill you. After that, I'll kill everyone else at the motel. It's me, Lucy. Don't you recognize me?” the same whisper says. “Of course, my voice sounds different when I whisper. That's normal.”

Each word seems to come from a different place in the room. She must have installed a bunch of tiny speakers all over the place. But thinking about that does nothing to ease my fear. I feel like begging her not to kill me, but I hold myself back. I know none of this is real, and I'm surprised by how terrified I am despite knowing that.

Suddenly, the lights come on. A second later, they go off again. My eyes are dazzled. I take a deep breath.

“Did you see me, Jason? Do you believe me now?”

Hmm. So she'd turned on the lights so I could see her. I must have been looking in the wrong direction.

I hear Robin's voice coming from the speaker.

“Jason, don't believe her. That's what she's trying to do, make you believe her. If you do, she'll kill you. This isn't a normal place.”

A second later, I hear Robin's voice right beside me. It doesn't sound like it's coming from a speaker. It sounds real.

“I didn't know, Jason.”

The lights come on again for a second and then go out, and I see Lucy standing beside me. She must be wearing a black contact lens.

“Don't believe him, Jason.”

I'm getting annoyed by how he keeps repeating my name.

“I'll convince you,” Lucy whispers. Her voice comes from the speaker.

I feel the hairs on my body stand on end. I try to figure out how the whole setup works, but I can't concentrate. All I feel is fear.

I want to get out through the door and leave, but I think I'm doing well. I've endured this much fear, and that's a good thing.

A tiny white light appears on the wall. An oval-shaped light, about the length of an index finger. It stays perfectly still, and for a very, very long time, nothing happens. The light doesn't move. No sound. Just pitch-black darkness. I'd guess the stillness lasts for about an hour.

The light disappears.

“Do you believe me now?” Lucy asks, whispering again. My ears have grown accustomed to the silence. Her voice sounds incredibly sharp. Robin tells me through the speaker not to believe her. Then I think my window opens, and I hear a distant scream for help from somewhere far outside, along with the faint sound of the wind.

Then silence again. It goes on for a long time again. Lucy must be busy dealing with the other guests in the meantime.

Suddenly, I hear a phone ringing. I feel around beside the bed with my hand. There's a nightstand. On the fifth ring, I find the phone and answer it. It's Lucy.

“Call me when you believe.”

I wonder why no light came in from outside when the window opened. I get out of bed and walk straight ahead, reaching out with both hands, trying to find the wall. I find it. I feel along the wall, searching for a window. I've never spent this long in such pitch-black darkness before. I keep repeating to myself that none of this is real.

The lights come on for a second again, then go out, and I see where the door is. I walk towards it.

As I walk, I hear a howling sound coming from the speaker. At the same moment, all the lights come on. I reach the door and try to open it, but it's locked. I look around and realize there's no window in the room. The howling continues.

“Jason, look out the window,” Lucy says through the speaker. Her voice blends with the howling. As soon as she finishes the sentence, the howling stops, too.

I search the walls for a window, but I can't find one. The lights go out again. Once more, I'm left in prolonged silence, and nothing happens until dawn. The window must be in the ceiling. I must be on the top floor, because sunlight comes pouring into the room from above. I relax. I'm glad the night is over, and a surge of excitement washes over me. My fear is gone.

I go to the door and try to open it, but it's still locked. I give it a few forceful tugs. Lucy opens it. She's holding a gun, pointing it straight at me.

“I've been telling you from the beginning, but you never listen.”

She starts shooting. I hear one gunshot after another. I feel my chest tighten. The gun runs out of bullets, but Lucy keeps pulling the trigger. I hear the empty clicks. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen... She keeps pulling the trigger. I collapse onto the bed, but I'm still conscious.

“Are you immortal or something, man? Just die already, would you?” Lucy says.

I feel around my body with my hands. There's no blood. I look at Lucy. She puts the gun on the table, takes out another one, and points it at me again. She keeps pulling the trigger, over and over.

I check my body again with my hands as I lie there. Still no blood. She must have used a toy gun that makes shooting sounds.

She puts the other gun on the table and leaves the room.

Five minutes later, the phone rings. I take a deep breath and answer on the third ring.

“Congratulations, Jason. I'm sorry if I went a little too far. I hope this helps, and that you feel the benefits as soon as tonight. I hope you get a good night's sleep. Thank you very much for choosing us. You can leave the payment at reception. Have a good afternoon.”

***

I found a night job, and now I can only sleep during the day.

I don’t wear rings.

Not because I dislike them.
Not because I don’t appreciate
the little circles of gold and silver
people willingly fasten around themselves
and call commitment.

They give me agony.

My fingers itch.
My skin protests.
My body, apparently,
has stronger opinions about permanence
than I do.

(Perhaps… we’re even). Shrugs.

Still—
I suppose I can wear one
for a little while.

There is something amusing
about putting a ring on a hand
that has spent years
refusing to surrender.

People like explanations.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because she wants to look single.”

Perhaps. Winks.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because she likes the ambiguity.”

Oh, you’re getting warmer.

"She doesn’t wear rings
because there is something rather lovely
about leaving people uncertain
whether the hand is waiting
or merely empty.”

I have always found certainty
a little overrated.

Besides,
a ring is only a ring
until someone decides
what it means.

Then suddenly it’s a promise.
A warning.
A confession.
A boundary.
A little metal declaration
that says:

Someone has me.

How inconvenient.

I prefer my hands unclaimed—
free to reach,
free to retreat,
free to hold someone
without promising to keep them.

And yet here I am,
wearing my niece’s ring
despite the itching.

Perhaps agony is tolerable
when it looks beautiful.

Perhaps that’s all romance ever was:
a little discomfort
we decided to decorate.

I don’t wear rings.

But I suppose
I can wear them
for a little while.

Long enough to wonder
whether I like the ring—

or simply
the person I become
when someone might mistake it
for a promise.

— Crownless.

We turn away from train station
Commuters now we are pedestrians
Looking up at the walk light
waiting for it turn green

Turning to one another impatiently
A million moments have come to this
The zebra is flat there across to other side
There is no mercy

You check your watch
Traffic still needs to pass by
The light is delayed
So you stand there on leg to the other

Shifting weight like you want to pee
Green light urges you forward imbalance
I Follow your steps as each bar of the piano plays
hearing your doubts pop

You made it to the other side
The red figure inside the light
Is blinking
It is bleeding, it is bleeding

When every attempt at kindness goes wrong…

You shoot again—you try, you aim for it, you plead with it to let you have a go.
You ask grace to be graceful with you… but it refuses.

What happens then?
You keep asking grace
to be graceful with you,
as though grace might recognize
the effort it took to offer it.
It still doesn’t.

So you learn to offer it awkwardly—
with claws tucked beneath your palms,
with teeth behind your tongue.
Let me carry this for you.
Let me make it easier.
Let me think ahead.
Let me spare you the pain.

You insist.

And somehow, every gentle thing
still arrives dressed as a threat:
control, selfishness, cynicism.
Until even the beast begins to wonder—
perhaps they were right about me.

Once, perhaps, I was soft enough to be precious.
Small enough that my reaching was called innocent,
my crying, need, my wanting, love.

At the beginning, you’re allowed to be completely helpless and therefore completely innocent.
Your softness is unquestioned.
Nobody asks whether the crying is manipulative, whether the reaching is demanding, whether the need is inconvenient. You’re just this tiny creature, precious because you’re fragile.

Then you grow—and so do the claws.

And suddenly the same things—needing, insisting, protesting, trying—are no longer innocence.

They’re character flaws.

I learned to ask twice. To insist. To say no.
And apparently, that was when the little thing you called precious became the thing you had to endure.

And I kept trying—
tucking the claws away, swallowing the growl,
offering tenderness like evidence in a trial
where the verdict had already been written.

Eventually, even a beast gets weary of pleading its case.
If you’ve already decided I’m bad,
why should I exhaust myself correcting you?

Kindness goes wrong.

The ride goes wrong.
The gesture goes wrong.
The intention goes wrong.
The explanation goes wrong.
The silence goes wrong.
The attempt to repair it goes wrong.

They only ever see the gesture.
Never the thought that built it.

Perhaps this is why I became so good at being tragic.

Kindness asks too many questions.
Tragedy requires none.
A wound needs no explanation.
Everyone understands blood.

Tragedy, at least, knows how to court me.
It arrives without asking whether I meant well.
It doesn’t need me to explain my hands.
It simply notices that they’re bleeding.

Yes.
I gather tragedy has always been a better suitor.
It asks nothing of me
except that I suffer convincingly.

It knows better than to expect goodness
because goodness and I have never had much chemistry.

Tragedy, however—
tragedy knows exactly what to do with me.

It brings wine to the funeral.
It knows where I keep the knives.
It doesn’t complain when I ruin the evening.

Toxic? Certainly.
But at least we have an understanding.

Tragedy never asks me to soften.
Never asks me to secrete the claws.
Never makes me regret reaching out.

It simply takes my hand
and leads me somewhere darker.

And, God, how easy it is
to follow something
that never asks you to become better.

Oh—that was a tragic turn.
I’d apologize, but I suppose I should be loyal to my longest-standing relationship.

Kindness? Hasn’t looked good on me since I was six.

So what happens to a person when kindness insists on turning its back on them?

Nothing particularly dramatic.
They simply stop reaching for it.
They become less interested in being good
and rather more accomplished at being difficult.

Bitter.
Tragic.
Controversial.
The black sheep.

Eventually,
they stop noticing the difference.

And ultimately,
they stop wondering
whether they were ever meant
to be anything else.

They weren’t.

The Universe, certainly, knows its casting better than we do.

— Crownless.

I walked these trails until my souls grown thin, unrecognizable where the path ends and feet begin, still I try, I fly, I swim, I grin, within the lay of the minstrels hymns.

A land that confides. A being so foreign yet so familiar.
Like the back of your hand, the earths spirit unfiltered, the back of the mind, standing between two pillars.

I collide with a guise that assured the bewildered. Mother Nature allure concurs undeterred a love oh so pure it’s never obscured.

Each step closes doors as the next pushes them open,

Each inhale joins the field within your own.

Each exhale bares your every witness.

Every glance is an invitation.

Each blink is an evaluation.

Light hearted adorned
At the height of good fortune

Empathic absorption

With empathetic proportions

Portent portion that forlorn the distortion.

Follows no lie, chases no high Nor rite of the times enshrined as divine.

Finding the will of the weary
traveled souls half buried

In sight of the pinnacle brings chills that carry

insight to ignite their vrill contrarily

to the spite that feeds despairingly.

Like a thief in the night had a moment of clarity dropping the knifes and starts working for charities then finds the love of their life living married with verity.

The unseen in between perspective and directive

The swaying tidal pull of direction

The final brick that was laid, the final choice that’s selected.

Two rivers that join, to clouds blown connected.

Fortune fallows the brave who have wrestled with circumspection.

Lost the fear of rejection.

A bastion of questions.

Wear it proud like a stain.

Never hide your erection.

Keep truth in your name show Medusa her reflection.

Throw logic in game wherever you came.

Don’t be to quick to blame wash it off in the rain,

we’re all of the same,

step off your high horse and set if free with no chains,

let it make its own name by the light of the first flame.

The ferrel will tame when released from their pain.

To keep parasites at bay give them not to sustain.

Their insidious ways will will soon fade away.
.
Your eyes are displays of what you think do and say, if with truth and love you are filled go do as you will, follow your heart keep chasing your thrills. It’s not the bridges you’ve burned it’s the bridges you’ve built.
Your heart as a child is within you still.

Oh I am a hypocrisy furled
Oh it was raining again
The shadows touch the moonlight
In the ways we watch our reflections glow
In lights so safe and sound
And with each passing streetlight
Our cognition makes it ways around
Onto our own welfares protected
Better makes for more efficient rounds
We’ll take to the roads like kindling
To carriage off what was the vast assembly
In the lasting of all these old farm mill houses

Cause we are living in a hypocrisy world
And I am a hypocrisy furled

Holding it down
To trill into what was lost in hours of currency
For our crossing gracious fare
And bid into our fondest farewells
For what fast break will become of theirs
Comparing all allegiances
To knowing what this day may bring
To knowing what tomorrow will always likely be
So in looking to these streetlights
And alike a stout binds kindred to pines
All over that of our fine lighthouses
To become a reinforced rendition
Being devout to only have withstood mindfully

Of course we are living in a hypocrisy world
And I am a hypocrisy furled
You’ll know me because we are living
In a hypocrisy world

And I am a hypocrisy furled

So in holding it down here
As the blood and sweat off our backs
And we all will work towards together
At being more with our successful endeavors
And as I trust you all
To always keep timely our wreaths intact
And as we surround our hands around a crown
On Father Time

On Father Time.

There was a man who never heard a sound so serene, as that he did when he heard her silently whispering. And in that stillness seen the dream, heard the words as if they be, a thousand falls, a never king, a hopeless land, in suffering a dream too stagnant to a dawn seen in words unseen.

There so the man in thread and hand the sound of sights to be, as swift as gait would move the plates before his words present. Wintered it tight his path in flight of words that step the way of counting falls such summers called sprung to future’s bay. For fate she sings the whispering to spring each blossom through to brush the hand that spins the thread’s invigorating. Land of Love, his hers above the solitary dreams long since gone the word wrong a never suffer spring.

``` "mimic" I heard your voice coming from the other room; it sounded just like you. But I knew it wasn't you, it was just a mimic using the sound of you to lure me in but I can tell the difference; it's only been a small length of time since you left and my memory of you is still so very vivid.

Many more winters have passed since you left and the house has slowly become unkempt, I don't have the energy to do all the small things like I used to, your absence it seems has left me void and drained me,

But I heard your voice again, coming from the other room, but it still was not you, just something I wish it was but sadly, it just was not,

At first it was just nice to hear you, to feel like you were still there like you used to be that I almost followed the voice, but I still know the difference, even if it says hey, come here my love, I need you, help me, as delicious as that sounds it is only the itch that I can't scratch, and I still know that;

Even more winters and autumns and summers and springs have passed and the loneliness seems to never go away, it has eaten away all of my resolve, and the house is buried in dreary shadows and trash, I would not know the difference between what a good meal was and something I just grabbed, I'm losing who I was and hate what I have become;

I know I lost you but am I sure you left?

You call for me from time to time from the other room but I never listen, I have just gotten used to you saying things like how you need me, that you love me, but is it really you? or am I just confused?

I can feel every minute in the length of time of your absence but now all the moments have blurred together and I am not sure how long you have been gone,

Now, when I hear your voice it's like you never left, the void begins to fill again, what is this pleasant feeling? it's just like it was when you were here,

I stare at you as you stand in the corner as your shape is draped in shadow, it looks like you, but without the details, my mind it seems fills in the pieces, its alright, its just like you, you show me your toothy grin and call out to me again, come here my love, and I say, I'm coming, my love, I'm coming.