Over my aged headstone I stand, in a murky cemetery, twilight for a sky. I see right through the pit and flash back to the day. My nightmares foretold I would be buried alive. I custom ordered the casket to be a clear glass to watch the dirt cover up my sunshine as I was shoveled into place. No need to fight it. I enjoyed the feel of the satin caressing my dying soul as the air grew too thick for my lungs to circulate. I closed my eyes in surrender. Every wake brings me to the day I died.

Momma used to tell me everything will be okay. In my innocence, her reassurance would be the only thing to calm my pounding heart. But the more time passed, the less she would reiterate this when I'd ask her. One day, with tears of suffering and incomplete experience in my eyes, I demanded her to tell me it would be okay. She looked into my eyes, then turned her sad eyes away from me while I squeezed her hands. Without a word she said it all. Now I'm telling you mom, it will be okay. I need to believe it.

She's easily attached to the unknown. The blaring music booming from inside the car, the abundant laughter outside, the city lights were a sweet haze surrounding her buzz. She sat quietly as her head spun, her body locked in the seat. Her glossy eyes gazed outside at the blurry group of late night festive party crowds. Everything came into focus as the man approached the car in a drunken stumble, wishing them the best in life. It was clear then. In the thirty seconds she knew him, she kissed him for five. She fell in love with the beautiful stranger.

What happens is that everything that rushes to penetrate my brain simply hovers my neurons. Words, memories, conversations, details dance around within the proximity of being embedded and captured. My open mouth releases spurts and fragments of what has been entered and stuffed in my head. My encyclopedia has been chicken scratched in there by a nine-year old boy's hands. So what you can do to make my expressions intelligible to your ears, although possibly without accuracy but at least with gist, is collect them all in specially marked phrases and put them together yourself. Then, maybe, it'll make sense.

Mother Nature: I know I'd promise I'd be one with you, love you and understand you. My natural hair color remains, my lil boobies contain no saline, and my contacts are strictly for enhanced vision, not vanity. But after that messy glob of concocting my own organic banana shampoo and using synthethic makeup brushes instead of squirrel hair ....I decided you don't benefit my body. So forgive me if you feel betrayed....I got my nails done! They're covered in some kinda Chinese gel. And gosh darn it!...they look so pretty! Now I just need ‘his' back to dig them into.

It was the first time I was scared in all the months I've lived alone. The silences that usually encourage my loneliness were interrupted by noises that don't belong in the deep of the night. Things that go bump. My body lay frozen. My senses heightened....and I knew I had company. To my side was an uneasy, unsettled up and down breathing soul disturbing my bed. My instinct to run yelling for help was cancelled as my weight sank into the bed as if he placed a human-shaped anvil over me. So I shared the night with a sleeping ghost.

"...so, what you see is what you get. Simple, huh?. Now..it's your turn. Start from the beginning.-

"Ok. I was born in....hey? What are you doing?"

"Looking for a pen..keep talking.- I began fumbling through my books and journals. Shuffling misplaced papers and bills as he spoke.

With a perplexed look he continued hesistantly. "...and it's me, my brother and..... What now?-

Pen in my hand, I was furiously short handing his story at my desk.

"Writing your life down. I want to be the one to finish your book.-

"But its missing pages.-

"I can rewrite them for you.-

The sound of their approaching feet announces the turn around the bend of the cubicle. Am I the only one who's figured out that veering to the side will avoid a near death collision? The 6'5 salesman's heavy galumph. The little Indian girl's pitter-patter tip-toe. The ex-New Yorker slapping her over priced sandals. The engineer's paranoid scuttle. It's not very hard to identify them. Sometimes I'll purposely stomp right up to them justly before a crash. We shuffle around. "Wanna dance?"I say, give them my polite smirk, and wash it off as soon as I pass their startled passage.

You don't wear cologne? How the hell do you smell so intoxicatingly heavenly? I hate the smirk on your face that I can't see when you whisper to the top of my head with my nose on your chest, that it must be "just you-. You tell me I always smell delicious, edible. Yeah! At least I admit it. I smother my skin with oils, drench my neck, and spray my hair with any scent that will create redolent memories for us. Someday, I'm going to break into your apartment, and find where you hide your bottles of aphrodisiac fragrances.

The phone rang a nasty ring. A rude awakening for my cotton candy dream. Startled, I slithered my body to the phone charger on the floor. Gasping for some air, I cleared my throat ..."hi-. On the other side of the telephone connection was your rough, thick, tired voice to ease me back into calmness. "Hello"you said like you always do. In your dumb country boy (man) accent, you add a vowel, rush the ‘Hi-e', and roll the ‘llouw'. Despite the pounding headache, I let your twangy voice become my dream with the receiver pressed hard against my ear.

No expectations! The recording I've looped in my head. Your hand in mine...I didn't expect you to do that, or to wait out my tears, or to hold me so tight. Same way I didn't expect you to walk right past me w/o acknowledging me, or tell me you weren't ready, or leave me alone with the moon that night. I've never expected anything from you, because you've offered nothing for me to expect. It's just as loopy as the phrase I repeat to myself. The one expectation weaving to join the looped threads: not expecting makes the fall unbearable.

Her piercing blue eyes are the reason for my deep green envy. But a harmless envy, for I cannot be bitter that her precious stones were picked straight out of a dream, because at least I was blessed with having them in a friend. Understanding them is another story. Often we find each other face to face at a table, surrounded by conversation, gossip, or embarrassing tales about her childhood. Her eyes will tell me things my mind can't hear. Half-way rolls and pleads to heaven. I may never learn to read them but I'm satisfied she truly sees me.

She tossed and fumbled the pen between and around her fingers, trying to achieve a good grip. She spent the previous night tearing her right arm's muscle tissue for vanity, in vain. Consequently, her brain was blocking signals to prevent her writing.
In hopeless frustration, she flung the pen across the room, watched it crash the wall, then land next to a carnation pink Crayola. It had been countless years since her innocence smelled fresh crayon wax. At this thought, a rushed surge of strength flowed throughout her arm. She reached to grab the crayon tight and colored time away.

The sunrise seduced me.
I have danced with the sunset.
I made love to the moon.

But to be with you,
I will personally scorch the morning sun.
I will murder Apollo in his sleep.
I will shoot the moon.

You've blessed me with your gift: the remembrance of your blissful countenance.
I willingly give you the raging madness of my actions wrapped up in tangled ribbons. Undo and unravel my insanities, and I will do anything your heart desires. I will carve your essence in diamonds to finite detail and scatter them over my forsaken affairs with the heavens.

Define normal. Webster says something that occurs naturally. What happened that night was normal. After the ‘incident', I continued highlighting the magazine. I felt their eyes on me, so I slowly raised my vision without lifting my head. They're paralyzed faces stared at me, then littered the room with laughter. The friendly, sympathetic type. It became a saga, passed to my closest friends and family. The kicker was a month later when I admitted, and still do, "I don't think it's so crazy to bite the cat." They think I'm weird, but sinking my teeth into her fur came naturally.

The conversation was never ending. The spotlight was on Grandma...the event and reason for the perfect weather. They probably thought I was off wandering my world where everything is sparkling dreams. I had wrapped my hands around the thick lightweight mug, tipping it back and forth in the rays of the sun. The light refracted a luminescent erupting volcano on the liquid surface of my mocha-colored coffee. My vision fixed on my drink, I seemed preoccupied, but I was carefully memorizing every word being released in the air by my family, smiling as I made the picture appear and disappear.

My legs were lightly wrapped around the backward chair. I sat facing him, planning a logical confrontation. He just flew around in little bee bounces.

"I thought we had a deal.-
"And I kept my end of the bargain...I shot him good and hard."He chortled, almost prideful.
"You missed his heart, you little imp!"I was containing myself from flaring nostrils.
"Accuracy isn't guaranteed, missy. That costs more money."Haughtiness contaminated the air.

Minutes later:

Cupid lay over the plastic chair, frantically fluttering his wings, crying with an arrow pointing out his chunky pink ass, as I walked away.

We were a ball of human flesh, glowing by the fireplace, covered in fleece. His breath warming my neck became a whisper.

"What's your favorite color?-

"There's too many wonderful colors to pick one. That's why I like you so much! You change colors.-

The pace of his breathing changed. He waited for an explanation.

"Monday you were red, when I lost your keys. Tuesday you were brown from the tan at work. Wednesday, you were gray... your football conversation was boring.-

"What color am I today?-

I pointed at his crotch and ran away with the blanket, laughing.

"BLUUUEEEE!-

The middle of the scene. I don't see or hear the people shouting at my face, or the thousand frantic waving hands trying to snap me out of my trance. I shake my head violently to return.

My mind was blank! My voices were quiet! My tears ducts were empty!

The drama is over!
......Uh......what do I do now?
Exeunt my character.

The curtains close in conclusion.
They majestically open, exposing another crowd, while I meander backstage in boredom.
On a doughty whim, I run to the become part of the next scene, fighting off the producers and prop managers.

SHE is going to be there. Boys love the way her eyes twinkle when she throws her head back to laugh at their asinine jokes. Her juicy pimples and mangled, disheveled lion hair are overshadowed in their sight, by her eagerness to suck alpha male cock. He knows about her, and he's talked to her...but this will be their first actual encounter. If he becomes her prey, he'll walk out of there with a scabby runt of the litter. I fear this, but it's the moment of truth. I pick my hunt with pride and honor. Is he worth it?

A piece of work?
A piece of art?
What do you mean?
Am I a Mona Lisa, a failed painting layered over paintings until the masterpiece was successful?
A Picasso surviving the Blue Period?
A twisted creation of a Dali?
An impressionist slathered canvas: tiny speckled colored dots that show nothing until you step away for a complete observation?
Artwork in the form of music, not colors. Ups and downs in a melodic world. Music to your ears that not even Van Gough's absent ear could deny.

My brain has been sending me images of apples. Mountains of profuse apple piles. I crave a poisoned apple. Why poisoned? Because everything I desire is harmful to my body. My wants, devoured by my eyes, stir my insides until within me lies the reason for my demise. To follow is the guilt and remorse that taunts my residual sanity. Today, that sanity begs for an apple, but to save tongue, I can tell you now it will be poisoned. His vivid color seduces me. The first bite will be insanely sweet, but apples always leave me unsatisfied and wanting.

A congregation elder came up to me as I entered the hall, "It's always a pleasure, and such encouragement to see you walk in here with that smile?" The bad fluorescent lighting was forcing my eyes shut. Through a lop-sided squint I questioned, "Am I smiling right now?-

Apparently, I was.

The group of deaf kids I hung out with in high school gave me a sign name. The sign for "E-, curving from the corner of the mouth up to mid-cheek. With their hands they waved, YOU SMILE ALWAYS.

Truth is, I don't know why I smile so much.

He pushes his weight up with his hands from the thick mud puddle he was accidentally tripped into by some faceless stranger. The city beat swarm is uninterrupted by the fierce dark clouds and paperweight raindrops.
"I'm okay. It's all right. Just a little wet!"
He wonders if he is as transparent as the water sent from the sky. He throws his head back to curse the heavens. He extends his arms wide open, ignoring the shoves attempting to budge his anchored legs. In that moment, he realizes he could hear each drop splashing to its surface, one by one.

The words displayed on my refrigerator magnets are mastered by my efforts to forget you. I used to arrange the pieces of plastic with hope in mind. You used to spell your name in a straight line. Now, the colored letters remain scattered, like whispers lost in a strong breeze, so they will not speak your name. I scramble them around to forget your fingers had written me sweet messages. On a good day, I'll walk past them as if nothing, but some days I'm tempted to let myself slide them into phrases of hope...to write your name once again.

You sit there, fermenting in your sweet juices, but you'll not let me taste you yet. I'm mindful that your surrounding conditions are ideal as you suffuse into perfection and maturity. My patience runs warily thin trying to open and drink you. Strong and robust, someday you can heal me as you make your way down inside me before you flow through my blood to intoxicate me. I can and will break you. I'm not like the others. I will remain to wash off the crimson spill that trickles down my body. It's unfathomable your fine wine go to waste.

The tight rope is loosening. I struggle in my unsteady balance and search for you in the crowds of buzzing spectators, hoping to regain my strength and control. I find your hands careless, at the end of my rope. You're smiling and waving at the laughing children, while beads of sweat dripping down my body create glistening lines of uncontrollable instability. The waves of my voice pleading your name for help hit your ears faintly, disguised as sweet and gentle. Hopelessly distracted, you will not see me release our rope in surrendered disappointment. Our act is over. The children cry.

Your actions promised me goodbye. This time there is no bitter anger or pictures left to burn. My memory holds our invisible snapshots, the scent of your raggedy #77 t-shirt, the fog on your truck windows, our hands palm to palm, your late night interruptions to my dreams that rendered the next dream sweeter. What could've been, couldn't have been. That's my consolation. I remain uncertain, because you're still lost, this time without me. The hope that we kept floating around us, we've caught it and buried it. You are free. So am I. I will miss you so much.

The body is not even cold yet and I already regret my decision. I used to check my phone for missed calls in about 15 minute intervals when I waited for you. But I cut you off, and I'm still waiting and checking for your call. Are you still thinking of me? Are you laying on your bed, passing your dialing thumb over my numbers, knowing too well I'm on the other side, wishing you would not be scared to press them? If you still care at all, don't call. Leave me waiting. Let me forget what I'm waiting for.

She takes slow languid steps toward the tattoo parlor. If she could ink his name on a readily visible spot of her skin, a beautiful black antique font, run a permanent slashed line through it...maybe this will help her submit to her decision. This could be the post-it of a lifetime, reminding her not to vacillate in the quandary her heart holds. The man with a wrapped hand around an electric needle, and grotesque dragon flying down his cheek senses the tremble in her demeanor and says, "The Henna last only a few weeks-. She picks the font with relief.

TO DO LIST:

-Not cry at ex's wedding, look better than the bride
-Buy my house
-Exorcise ghost in my room
-Quit steady job, for unsteady career as court interpreter
-Make sure the magnet phrases are clean when I have company
-Not wait for his call
-Let everyone you love know it, by not driving them crazy
-Stick to Pilate workout
-Deny the existence of doughnuts
-Increase my limited vocabulary, use the words I know more
-Drink more imported beer
-Paint toenails more often, wear more strappy heels
-Never shop at Abercrombie&Fitch, GAP, Aeropostale...any white girl store
-Pray more often