Wanderlust

Roaming aimlessly, you don't know what you're looking for, but you know you're going to find it.

Walking backwards, you can't see where you're going, but you can feel it's the right way.

Trailblazing down concrete streets, you don't have time to stop, but you take in everything as it is.

Skimming across a tightrope, you won't look down, but you know what's waiting if you fall.

Venturing, you aren't very brave, but you don't have to have courage to have a good time.

And when you get home
                    you'll be all alone
                             humming the sound of your own footsteps.

Velveteen

If we know velvet
What is velveteen?


Is it different somehow
    if beautiful and luxurious?
    if soft and comforting?
    if new and shiny?


Is it an imitation
    if it looks just like the real thing?

Is it cheap
    if you can't afford better?

Will a photocopied memory last

    if the ink happens to bleed?

What is velveteen

    if there is no word for velvet?

    if there was never any velvet at all?

I am velveteen.

What am I?

Popping the Question

He opened his lips a sliver, forming a crescent moon in between all the pink. Sucking in a cold breath, he tried his best to stop his heart from pounding out of his chest.

It didn't work.

"You hear me?" She said. Her fingers shifted slightly, clammy around the knife. Her other hand was in his hair, pulling his head back painfully against her collarbone. The blade was inches away from his bare throat. 

Very slowly he leaned back, as far away from the weapon as possible. He could smell her, the distinct musk of nicotine and her jasmine perfume. He didn't want to be close to her, but he valued his own life more.

He still hadn't said a word. His memory was throbbing, too busy to give him something to speak up about.

"Listen to me," her lips said, hot against his ear. "Listen to me carefully. You are going to die. Do you realize that? You are going to die and this knife is going to kill you."

The weapon in question twitched slightly in her long fingers, and he winced as the tip of it prodded the flesh by his jaw. Please don't make me do this.

"Or..." She whispered, slowly and suddenly, sending chills up and down his spine. Her voice turned velvety and smooth, and a strange sense of familiarity began to creep through him. "Or you could think about what I asked. You think about that. And I think you'll reconsider your answer."

His mind was shapes and colours, millions of little doppelgangers, screaming his name, shouting instructions through his system. His heartbeat seemed to quicken, then screech to a halt, only to start the race again, leaving him gasping for breath, his lungs not being able to contain what was needed of them.

"Baby?" Her voice was pleading. Soft fingers ran through his hair. He closed his eyes. He remembered everything.

"I'm going to ask you, one more time, okay?" The knife wavered, as if unsure of itself. The uncertainty in her voice made his heart swell with hope. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe...

"Will you marry me?"

The knife clattered to the floor. There was no blood on it.

Skittish

A blind figure
   draped in cloth
If you can't see them
   they can't see you

I'm hiding
   behind my own shadow
And wince at the sound
   of my own voice

An avoidance of mirrors
   they always seem to break
My ragged breaths
   would fog up the glass

Dip my feet
   in a puddle of angel tears
And stare up into
   the sunless sky.

***

That was so freaking random.

Conscience

"Hello."

Tens of thousands of feet each day. Shiny leather, gleaming buttons, zippers that don't ever stick. Shoes don't look you in the eye, but past you, like they have somewhere more important to be. You don't just take a joyride on someone's foot, you know. Shoes like that, you're going places.

"Good day, sir. How are you doing?"

There's a buzz in the air, like someone knocked a pot of coffee over and it spilled, down into the atmosphere with no umbrellas to catch it. The sky was dark and spotted with clouds, yet somehow, it wasn't raining.

"Morning. Funny weather we've been having, huh?"

Ringtones blur into a haze of pleasant chaos, and it's cold out. You can see the breaths of people passing, and not just the smokers. Suspended in the air like little cauliflower ghosts, they wave their little foggy tails in parting before they disappear.

"Hello. Hi. Hello."

I waved back once, but everyone looked at me like I had sprouted another nose. Maybe I was going insane, talking to objects that only seemed to exist for a few split seconds until they, too, were swept away by the economic demand on Wall Street's sidewalk.

"Ciao. Bonjour. Aloha, ma'am."

When I talk to people, they look at me like I'm crazy, too. Whenever I open my mouth, the little frown lines on someone's brow make me want to close it forever and swallow my tongue, locking it up in the safe that is my stomach and throwing away the key forever.

"Hello there. Good day."

Nobody really feels guilty, overlooking me like a fly on the wall. Just another stranger, right? I'll probably be the guy behind the counter when you swipe your MetroCard home, or the guy walking his dog in front of your apartment near the park, or the guy who asks you for a stick of gum, because he has a date tonight and doesn't want to scare her away.

"Hi. How are you? I'm fine, thanks for asking."

They don't ask. They'll never see me again, after the subway or the sidewalk or the corner store. I'm a face, and I blend into the crowd, like someone smudged their fingertip across the chalky mass of New York, blurring the lines together until no one is recognizable anymore.

"Good day. Good morning. Good afternoon, miss."

I say hello to everyone that passes me, and make deals with myself, to try to talk me out of what I'm going to do. If anyone says hello back, if anyone nods back, if anyone gives the slightest hint of a smile, I won't do it. I won't be the guy on the news who went on a trigger-happy rampage through a high school. I won't be the guy on the wanted posters hanging in the police department window. I won't be the guy who hung himself from his living room rafter with the only shirt he owns.

"Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello."

If anyone pays attention to me at all.

"Hello?"

---

Just don't sweat it

Hope you regret it

When your elevator takes you there.

Look up, honey

It's raining money

And people are starting to stare.

Hold my old boots

While I dig up the roots

And your hands remain unsoiled.

Face facts, baby

Possibly, maybe,

In guilt you will be boiled.

Skeptic

Put your two cents in
Kindling for the fire
That creeps along my spine.

Speak your mind
Let the words come out of your mouth
And seal mine shut.

Tell me a secret
Make my heart twist
Trying to make it count.

Erase me from your memory
But watch the ink bleed
You're permanent on my skin.

Rub it in, why don't you
It's a balancing act
You fall, I fall.

What do you think of me?
Who are you to judge?

Nameless

Is she new?

Hair, cut close around her face, streaked different shades of black, blue, and green. A new colour appeared every week or so, but nobody asked for an explanation. Eyes shaded with dark pencil, usually only half-open, slits of defiance. They were dark, murky brown, not unlike a swamp monster's footsteps in the sand. Long nose with a ruby stud in one nostril, mouth tweaked up slightly in a permanently crooked smirk.

She actually looks kind of scary.

Fine, she stood out. From the cookie-cutter straight-A, all-American cheerleaders that roamed the halls of the school. The ones that were so perky, their voices could make paint peel if you got them happy about something. Being mad all the time wouldn't be an endearing quality. 

Usually.

She wore her iPod earphones in class, artfully tucked behind her many piercings to disguise them from her teachers. People within a ten-foot radius could hear the pounding beats of The Clash or the soft strumming of Jack Johnson or the honey-smooth voice of Alicia Keys. It was a different song every day, and he often saw her subtly tapping along to the rhythm, her green-tipped fingernails scratching out a beat through her desktop.

Does she play anything? Guitar or something?

He saw her at her locker, discreetly slipping a pair of drumsticks into her sweatshirt pocket. He imagined her at home, headphones on, multicoloured hair flying, the room filling with loud music. Not angry pounding, nor annoying cymbals. Merely the percussion of what was on her mind.

I wish I could play something. All I play is baseball.

At lunch she didn't eat, just slipped a tablet under her tongue and disappeared into the crowd. 

Isn't she hungry?

She pushed past all the people in front of her, not being rude, just trying to get by.

Where is she going?

She made her way through the throng all the way to a table at the very back, where a bunch of his friends were sitting. Marsha, John, Patrick. She whispered something into Casey's ear and walked away.

I should really get Casey an anniversary present. Last time I forgot and she had a hissy fit. Maybe flowers or something like that; I'll make a car-

"Excuse me," she said. I looked up. It was the new girl.

That's odd... What could she possibly...

She leaned in until her swamp monster eyes were level with mine. I uncomfortably looked away. "I told your girlfriend you were staring at me," she said. The silver braces on her teeth glinted in the dim light. "Might want to go fix that."

Um, what?

"I have a name," she spat. "And it's most definitely not 'new girl'." He watched her walk away, keeping his eyes on the back of her arm. He squinted. Scars, all in a row. Like lines on a chalkboard.

Oh my God-

"Hello?" Casey's voice was in my ear as she roughly grabbed me by the elbow. "Quit checking out the freak!" He ignored her and craned his neck forward to see where the nameless girl had gone. He searched silently, but no head of black and green appeared in the crowd.

Is that why she won't talk to anybody?

It was like she'd never been there at all.