As the moon sleeps silently in the wake of the morning's sun, I find myself walking the canopied sidewalks of hushed streets and fallen dreams. The trees whisper a language of comfort and hope, while the storm that's brewing strikes shallow lightening bolts beneath my feet.

"Hang yourself out to dry, with the realization that what you'll get in return is simply the aftermath of this storm that's settling at your feet: tampered and torn with nothing to show for it. You'll ruffle your leaves and break your branches with the hope that someone will be there to pick up the mess. What you'll soon realize is that you're the only one that will be there in the end. you'll slowly pick up the pieces that have fallen somewhere in the wreckage."

So when the sun rises and the moon's found his way behind the mess we call a storm, I hope the debris is manageable. I hope it's forgotten.

Beneath the shadows of doubt, through the coldness of your skin, i wonder if their lies a heartbeat that is heard by anyone but yourself. selfishness is a disease, with no cure but reality. but i wonder if reality really ever kicks it. ya know. makes the disease crawl from the depths of your veins, out the skin that shelters it. it's so cold to the touch, how it incubates anything but dead cells, i'm not sure. nevermind that though. because i'm fully convinced it's incurable. so then how do we maintain it; keep it from growing. shrink it in a sense. i would really like to know what your skin feels like warm - with a bit of color. you'd be suprised how much more you can feel. sensations are unbearable; rich beneath blood that flows with something other than yourself. i wish i could give that to you. it would be my gift and your tragedy. but you'd live. and we'd survive.

They told me to dance. Said I didn't have a choice. So I moved until my feet were caloussed with raw wounds; until blood was the only thing that felt good on my barefeet. And when I stopped, my feet no longer able to listen, I sat down in the dirt head in my hands. A throbbing ran through me, like a drunkards ache for a simple sip of booze. It existed somewhere other than just my toes; my heart made music on my chest as it pumped anger and disgust past my ribs. But instead of lashing out - instead of giving them what they wanted - I used the beats my body was creating.

At that moment I got up and I danced. But what they saw and what they felt was far different from the previous. It was rich, heartfelt. My muscles moved with the freedom of liberation and rebellion. It was my creation that made the burns disappear. It was my movement that made them see that I was not a failure. My gift. My life. My decisions.


They told me to dance. I should have never listened.

Silence is eerie when he sits next you and attempts to have a conversation. His head is tilted back, resting lightly on the arm of a couch the two of you are sharing. He’s extended his legs so they rest gently in your lap, like a lover’s do on a cold winter’s night. There’s beauty in the way he doesn’t ask you how your days was or what you have planned for tomorrow. How he shouts nothingness that makes more sense than our crosslegged natured world. Rather, his eyes leisurely blink, balancing at a close for what seem like moments longer than most would allow. And as his feet begin to warm in your lap, you fail to remember why Silence ever scared you. Why the way he looms beneath the notes of expression cause tension. His face is in fact soft beneath such defined features. Almond eyes do not watch intent on discovering what we demand remains unspoken. Quite the opposite. He waits, patiently, for the space to be filled with language. It is not his to imbue quizzical thoughts and unanswered questions. Silence provides the silence. We provide the couch.