The mist is moving.
My legs walk through.
They disappear beneath me
and I become a phantom.
I stop to look over
my stiff shoulder.
I see the horizon in waves
darkening as I go further.
My hand is cold
as I move along.
It's the first thing that died
when I abandoned my life.
I lost my heart
in the snow.
I tried to find it but it's gone.
I can't weep because it's gone.
I lost my life
in the storm.
There's nothing here to keep me
and my hand beside me warm.
There's nothing left
to grasp onto.
Reaching through heavy mist,
I'm touching the reaper's cloak.
The sweetness
of a rotting world
rolls off of his tongue and onto
the waves of mist that I breathe.
With this hand
and this heart,
death has veiled my crown.
Forbid and forgive this body.
I have long
given into him.
 

I saw them,
outside my window,
outside my door,
out on the patio;
swarming
tiny bodies
rising in a chorus,
out of harmony,
out of tune,
out of line.

I saw them,
beneath the bed,
beneath the rug,
behind the TV,
humming
little things,
breaking everything
on the walls,
on the shelves,
on the tables.

I saw them,
around my legs,
around my arms,
around my head,
screaming
angry things,
sucking the air out,
of this house,
of this room,
of these lungs.

Today, I saw black flies.
The storm brews,
the cat growls,
the day is night,
the sun is dark.
Where has it gone?
I am blind.

There is a black blindfold
around my head
and I walk like a zombie
out of the house,
into the night,
beneath the black sky-
the sky of death.
There's a whole swarm

The scene in front of her
was almost perfect.
Almost.
Her lips were pursed,
pink and flourishing,
saying things,
sweet,
that tasted like candy
and powdered sugar
on her tongue.
It was almost perfect,
(Click!)
the sound.
It was a noise
that signified perfection,
but that sound,
(Click!)
never came
when mascara
ran down her beautiful,
almost smiling,
almost perfect,
face.
(Click!)
Her heel turned.
She faced her,
the tears running,
her lips quivering,
pursed and pink and
flourishing.
The wind was silent,
almost deadly
as the distance
gaped. Gaps
never close
when blushing,
beautiful people,
who have been told
their whole lives
that they are,
seriously,
perfect,
turn pale,
eyes puffy,
and never see
the beauty in

I have family in Canada and my mother, sister, father, and I were on our way to visit them. It was my father's birthday and he had greeted us with a smile that only birthdays could give. We hummed back because we were still half asleep. It was 9:00 AM, but my father and I had stayed up late. I was revising a story I had written a year ago and decided that it was alright to submit since I was too exhausted to truly critique it. I had gone to sleep at around 12:30 AM, but I've always had trouble falling asleep at night, so I didn't sleep until around 1:30 AM. We packed our bags and climbed into the car. My sister was driving, my father was in the passenger seat, and my mother and I sat in the back. It was a rainy and foggy day and the smell of petrichor had already settled into the morning air. We were taking our three and a half hour journey and were going to head onto the north highway soon. As the car rumbled on, we passed a cemetary that seemed ominous amongst the fog and shadows.

10:44 AM
I'm tired but I'm awake.
Late night.
Morning coffee.
Everything is sunlit dining tables
and open curtains.

12:30 PM
My sandwich is tasty.
Filling up
another cup
to fend off the late night nerves
slowing way down.

3:55 PM
I'm not hungry anymore.
My ribs
stick out
like a birdcage beneath a sheet,
of pale pink baige.

6:00 PM
My dinner never changes,
same as
every day
that I have been too skinny,
to grow up strong.

8:30 PM
I haven't spoken to them,
my friends
who care
but never ask me if I'm
in any way okay.

11:21 PM
I've been sleepy all day,
and I
wonder 
if there is a cure to this,
tireless migraine.

12:35 AM
It's late and I am tired,
but not
all too
weak enough to collapse,
in reaping arms.

1:00 AM
Four years and I am,