Necrophilia

“The world could end today.” He stated matter-of-factly.

He rolled onto his left side on the blue and white striped sheets to face her. The bed squeaked in protest. She did not acknowledge it. She stared a vacant stare; she was off in wonderland.He reached his hand up slowly and lightly touched her hair. Maybe just maybe the slight vibration would penetrate her skull and tickle her brain drawing her back to him.

Her eyelids closed and when they opened she was back. She squinted her eyes a tad bit like she usually did when she was focusing really hard on something. Her face was smooth no creases although her lips were pursed as if ready to lay a kiss on his forehead. He knew every crease. Every curve and flavor for he had adventured it late at nights and early in the mornings on filthy corners and even in puny closets that by no means diminished it’s sweet ambrosial taste.

“The world has been over for a while now,” She whispered almost like a sigh. “I was there  eyes wide with innocence. Mind utterly unprepared. The world has been over for a while now,” she let the silence sit,  “I remember…. I was there.”

He hated when she said things like that. It was like she was teasing him with all the dark corners of her soul she had put in vaults and didn’t want to share. It unsettled him. Her darkness unsettled him. He nestled closer to her an automatic reflex after months of this routine. He knew that asking wouldn’t make a difference. She would simply withdraw from him an armadillo into the shell that was her mind. Eyes vacant, body cold, he didn’t like to be with a zombie.

She was still a little warm from the last half an hour. She wrapped her arm around him and nestled deep into his hairless chest. She pressed her body against him almost painfully. It felt to him as if she was trying to drown in him. She’d rather be in him than out of her mind alone. She just didn’t want to be alone, even if she was just a zombie. How did he fall in love with a zombie?

He lay on his back and she automatically rearranged herself deeper into him. He stared at the filthy white ceiling. Nothing had changed it was still rough. No matter how many times he looked and wished he were somewhere else staring at something else it was always rough. He squeezed his eyes and tried a little harder. It was still rough. He was stuck just him his bed and the filthy rough white ceiling. She kissed him softly on his chest blurring his thoughts. He loved the sensation, a slight distraction from the roughness.

How did he fall in love with a zombie? He never thought she was. He remembers a park bench, laughter so deep it rocked her body, and he never realized it didn’t reach her eyes until they finally lay down. And he lay on his back watching the rough white ceiling. He loved her no matter how many times he stared up wondering what demons she had locked down deep inside her; what demons took her away from him even as they shared heat; what demons she thought were to heavy too share with him; what demons made her a zombie? He knew her too well to even ask. He squeezed his eyes again and opened them to the same filthy white.

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February Lovers the Essay


“February Lovers”
For shame
they say that lovers
are blind, but we
only choose to see each other.
The warmth of your ___ is what smothers
me and causes the
cold heat of February lovers.
If only we were 
still ignorant as
when we were
babes just months ago with our rebirth.
As you were born
and I were born
on this grand day
known as the -anniversary.
It is not my fault
that I am so selfish
you have given me your
 all
and I have never had to share
so why should I start now
I would cry as you would cry
lack of normality and my soul leaks it’s blood
through my eyes
I bleed for you. (February 2008)

We trudge along the cold streets of Brooklyn, NY hands intertwined. We have dated for a little over a year and are now high school freshmen. Separate schools cannot keep us apart. Tuesdays and Thursdays we leave our homes early and meet at the train station near my school. It is February in New York and it is probably twenty or below. My fingernails are purple but he is here and I am warm.

We clasp hands and I shove them into his pocket. His hands were and still are double the size of mine. They are rough and could probably palm my head but in my hands they are pliable; soft, warm; they are protective; they are supportive. We troop through the Jewish neighborhood, past their kosher stores and beautiful two story homes and well-manicured lawns, but their beauty is easily ignored for we are deep in conversation. We converse about life, where we want to be, who we have been, philosophy, morals, jokes, videos. We share almost every thought and ask almost every question. We are peeling off each other’s soul skins and digging our teeth into the rich fruit beneath. We are devouring each other’s very essence.

We have talked for what seemed like an eternity if an eternity was twenty minutes. My school looms in the distance and we are quickly approaching it. Footsteps get weary and my chest tightens. I will not see him for another day. We reach the bus stop, thankfully it is right in front of my school doors. We wait, still in animated chatter accessorized with pokes and sometimes squeezes of the hand.  The bus is across the street and now our conversation is rushed trying to wrap the latest topic of discussion up. “Goodbyes”, “I love you’s” and “have a good days” roll off our tongues without a second thought, with ease. Another squeeze of the hand, a hug and he is gone I must face another day alone.

If you had asked me in February of 2005 if I would ever walk for blocks in the blistering cold just for some witty conversation with him I would have looked at you as if you were on cocaine. It is amazing to see the difference a year makes. The weeks go by but our ritual does not change. Snow disappears, as do the blistering winds. The gray streets of New York come to life. We are no longer lonely lovers stealing secret moment. Trees begin to flower, the morning joggers creep out from their winter caves and we have witnessed the change. The heat starts to creep in and some mornings he bring me breakfast from home, eggs, pancakes, bagels with cheese. He nourishes me body and soul through the winter and the cold.

It is our first college Christmas vacation and I am strewn over his couch head on his chest and he is breathing.  It is the single most relaxing sound I have ever heard. Like a lullaby it soothes my soul. My usually tense muscles relax and my defensive layers melt away. I have always told him that he smells like home and that has not changed. He draws circles in my palms and I listen to him breath. The television is on but the time together is more valuable than all the gold in the world. Soon our responsibilities to our families and ourselves will rip us apart but for now we are perfectly content ignoring the world. The tv is mute I am too busy listening to his heartbeat strum to pay attention to the words. His body sings a song to me and mine dances to it. The strumming of his heart has harmonized with his breathing to hypnotize me completely. I have no other option. He is mine and I am his.

We trudge along the bitter streets of Manhattan souls intertwined. We have dated for a little over five years and are now college freshmen. Separate schools cannot separate us. We have walked for what seems like a lifetime. The Megabus looms in the distance an omen predicting the lonely weeks that are to come. He waits in line with me patiently, patiently pretending in pleasant denial that we will board the same bus to the same destination. We play pretend as we bathe in each other’s essence. We kiss, tainting each other’s souls enough to last ‘til next we meet. I sit and exhale and watch him go through the window and reluctantly realize I must face the next few months alone.

If you had asked me in February of 2011 if I’d ever imagine standing in the blistering cold waiting for a bus to leave him I would have laughed in disbelief. It is appalling to see the difference a year makes. The weeks go by but our ritual does not change; he is the first person to text me when I wake up; the last person to text me before I go to sleep. Snow disappears, and the blistering winds of Connecticut ease slightly. We are lonely lovers now more than ever, imprisoned by distance but nourished by hope. Trees begin to blossom and so does the knowledge that I will soon know the blessing of his warmth daily. We both can sense the change as hope creeps in with the heat, painting everyday as a day less to wait. He fortifies me when I am close to breaking. He nourishes me mind and soul through the winter and the blistering cold.

It is February 2012 and he is miles away. College has placed him away in Philadelphia- no more morning walks in the cold. No more fingers intertwined despite the blistering winds. But I still love him and he is mine. We talk through android phones minds intertwined. Morning walks have been replaced with morning calls.  Text messages and video chats allow our rituals to survive.  Deep conversations and declarations of love have not faded with the years as with many other couples. “You are young,” they all said “you won’t make it through high school.” Didn’t we prove them wrong? “You are young,” they still say “You won’t make it through 
college,” don’t we intent to prove them wrong?

-Revised

Broken things and broken limbs

Today I woke up and did not break down. Today I put my foot off of my bed and it hurt today. Today I can not run and everything I have worked so hard for… blood, sweat, time, and tears is put on break. Today I woke up and was not the same.

To understand the magnitude of my dilemma place yourself in my shoes. Shoes that trek across campus all day long but after classes do not return directly to their dorm. Instead these shoes tread into the field house where there exchanged for running shoes and pounds the ground in search of speed. These shoes support me when I lift, when I stretch, when I run and yes even when I sit in need of rest from the strenuous activity of a approximately three hour practice.

“My shin hurts” I mutter repeatedly under my breathe but there is no rest for the weary and no excuse for a division 1 athelete. For months my shin has plagued me on and off it has disappeared and reappeared like any celebrity turned addict in and out of rehab but this time it stayed. The pain crept up on me bit in an refused to let go like an animal gone rogue. It pounded and struck up my inner right shin. It shocked me. It made me cringe to put pressure on the ball of my foot and what’s a sprinter who can’t run on the ball of her foot? Out of commission that’s what.

A day passed and nothing has changed and ice has not numbed the pain. I stand and cringe. I get dressed and find my way to help. His hands are meaty and warm and gives mine a shake enthusiastically. “How are you” he asks and nods as I answer his queries and describe my predicament. “Possible stress fracture” he says and I do not blink nor break for I have prepared myself for this possibilty. X-ray today he presses and MRI tomorrow “No running until I have the results pool and biking only.”  I take my slip and smile because of the two options that’s the most respectable, and based on your view the braver and stronger thing to do.

I march or a pathetic attempt at one into the field house. I trudge about looking at my teammates dressed and ready to train. I am an outsider today and I’m seeing things differently. My coach instructs me to go into the pool. I do not protest. I quickly change and walk back and forth in the chlorine pit and 20 minutes run by. I exit silently to attend to the next matter of business.

My usual gait wide and confident has been tainted my an ugly limp. It changes every few steps to accommodate the pain. My x-ray goes on incident free after of course being asked a billion times if I was pregnant, the favorite question of any medical staff to a female patient. I retire to my room to brood with Netflix and a Butterfinger in an attempt to drag myself from the pit I have sunk into. Self- pity was never my thing.

Another day passes and I wake and to no relief at all. I soon find myself in the hospital a place that I have always detested. We twist and turn until we finally find ourselves in Radiology department. Where we wait patiently and make conversation to pass the time and in my case fight off any negative thoughts lest my body reacts to my thoughts. The man is tall and nice as far as I can tell. “Where does it hurt?” he asks and I point to the spot. He places a yellow liquid filled sticker on it and I lay down head on a bed of pillows. “It will be about twenty minutes” he states before he leaves the room and leaves me with my thoughts.

The machine is huge and loud. Black ear muffs cover my ears and I am not allowed to move. The machine devours me I move deeper in as it shouts and yells rather offensively at me sounds that are hard to inscribe but varied and sometimes sound rather techno. The timer on the machine flickers on and off in it’s green lettering and I close my eyes to help it fly by more quickly. I do not panic. I am not claustrophobic.

It is over and I receive a disc. Now all thats left is to wait to have a the results read in a few days. There is nothing worse than not knowing the imagination has a strange way of running wild and tormenting you with possibilities. So I sit here distracting myself from all the sick possibilities with the help of itunes, facebook, netflix, homework -__-, and yes you wordpress.

p.s I’m going to see Hunger Games tonight!!

update: I indeed have a stress fracture. I’m in this boot for approximately two weeks.

Caribbean Masquerade


I wake up early excitement tingles through my veins and a smile dresses my face. The day has arrived. My costume has been displayed, assembled, paid for, and picked up over the course of months. Energy pulses through the air as I try to cage up my excitement but of course I fail.

I reach into the bag that was assembled especially for me. My bracelet is put on lest I be banned from the festivities. Orange fish net stocking decorate well-shaved legs and are soon followed by a skimpy orange boy shorts. The diamond-encrusted bra is next; hues of pink and orange diamonds tumble down upon a naked stomach. The arms and legs are adorned with feathered cuffs that tickle not only the skin but also the imagination.

The last piece to be placed is the headpiece. It is what attracted me to the costume like a child to Dylan’s candy store. It is massive and inspired by Native American headpieces. Feathers upon feathers of blazing pink and orange are layered and cascade down like a waterfall. I adorn my crown and pick up my spear also decorated with feathers of pink and orange and a gold tip. Of course the flag of my country has been tied to it. How else will the hundreds of people on the other side of the gate know that is where I hail from?

The time to meet up is swiftly approaching. My mother, sister, and I depart my house. It has barely been a few steps and I can feel people’s eyes on me. Whispers and even some compliments drift on the air. A little skin is nothing on a day like today. The sun is blazing down and as we walk we see street vendors lined up with flags, t-shirts, necklaces, whistles, just about anything you could imagine placing a flag on. Flocks of people teem down the streets like ants to a major kill. They all wear flags some around their necks, others on their clothing, or in their pockets. Everything that they are, that they represent hang from their pockets as if telling the world “Hey, this is who I am and what I am proud to be.” I will not be with these commoners today.

I separate myself from my family and take back streets until I join those who are dressed as I am… the people in my Band. They have also decided that this is where they feel most comfortable. We greet smiles, laughter, and accents radiate. We sit and wait patiently until it is our time to begin our gallivanting. Liquor tinges the air but no one thinks twice about this. Today this is normal. Today we are free to be sensual and untamed without fear of judgment; today we are amongst our own.

The music begins to seduce the air. It pounds and struggles yet caresses it. Whistles blow, people shout, and yell; it is utter chaos; it is beautiful. Metal barricades separate us from the others: family, friends, and complete and utter strangers stay at us as if we are on display and we are today, we are the brave few. Policemen line the streets like trees but they do not exist in our fantasy, they are behind the rope that identifies us with our pink wristbands as one.

It does not take long for hips to begin to move. The music has kidnapped our bodies. We move without thought and without restraint. We do not feel the heat; we are chasing the sense of freedom and intend to achieve it. We chip along in a very steady rhythm. Feet shuffle some run, others jump, most wine their waists as though they have indeed been wound up. I am here but I am not; I am myself but then again I am not for no other day of the year, at least not in Brooklyn would this be socially acceptable.

My waist is not my own, neither is my legs; it belongs to the music. As my feet pound away at miles they begin to ache. The ache however is soon forgotten; elation succeeds it. People take pictures and some even shout my name. I run over to the metal barricade and touch a hand- give a hug; they have been waiting for me and have recognized me amongst the madness, they deserve recognition for their patience.
Who needs drugs? I am running on a natural high. Feet pounding, body twisting, bodies crashing, leaning, moving there is nothing quite like becoming one with the music and losing yourself. I can feel it beating in my chest. It has beat away worries, stress, and any fears. There are no exams there is only the music, the sun, and me. There is only ecstasy.

-Rough Draft

February Lovers The Essay


“February Lovers”
For shame
they say that lovers
are blind, but we
only choose to see each other.
The warmth of your ___ is what smothers
me and causes the
cold heat of February lovers.
If only we were
still ignorant as
when we were
babes just months ago with out rebirth.
As you were born
and I were born
on this grand day
known as the -anniversary.
It is not my fault
that I am so selfish
you have given me your
all
and I have never had to share
so why should I start now
I would cry as you would cry
lack of normality and my soul leaks it’s blood
through my eyes
I bleed for you. (February 2008)

We trudge along the cold streets of Brooklyn, NY hands intertwined. We have dated for a little over a year and are now high school freshmen. Separate schools cannot keep us apart. Tuesdays and Thursdays we leave our homes early and meet at the train station near my school. It is February in New York and it is probably twenty or below. My fingernails are purple but he is here and I am warm.

We clasp hands and I shove them in his pocket. His hands were and still are double the size of mine. They are rough and could probably palm my head but in my hands they are pliable; soft, warm; they are protective; they are supportive. We troop through the Jewish neighborhood, past their kosher stores and beautiful two story homes and well-manicured lawns, but their beauty is easily ignored for we are deep in conversation. We converse about life, where we want to be, who we have been, philosophy, morals, jokes, videos. We share almost every thought and ask almost every question. We are peeling off each other’s soul skins and digging our teeth into the rich fruit beneath. We are devouring each other’s very essence.

We have talked for what seemed like an eternity if an eternity was twenty minutes. My school looms in the distance and we are quickly approaching it. Footsteps get weary and my chest tightens. I will not see him for another day. We reach the bus stop, thankfully it is right in front of my school doors. We wait, still in animated chatter accessorized with pokes and sometimes squeezes of the hand.  The bus is across the street and now our conversation is rushed trying to finish whatever the latest topic is about. “Goodbyes”, “I love you’s” and “have a good days” roll off our tongues without a second thought, with ease. Another squeeze of the hand, a hug and he is gone I must face another day alone.

If you had asked me in February of 2005 if I would ever walk for blocks in the blistering cold just for some witty conversation with him I would have looked at you as if you were on coke. It is amazing to see the difference a year makes. The weeks go by but our ritual does not change. Snow disappears, as do the blistering winds. The gray streets of New York come to life. We are no longer lonely lovers stealing secret moment. Trees begin to flower, the morning joggers creep out from their winter caves and we have witnessed the change. The heat starts to creep in and some mornings he bring me breakfast from home, eggs, pancakes, bagels with cheese. He nourishes me body and soul. Through the winter and the cold.

Fast forward from February of 2008 to now February 2012. He is miles away. College has placed him away in Philadelphia- no more morning walks in the cold. No more fingers intertwined despite the blistering winds. But I still love him and he is mine. Morning walks have been replaced with morning calls.  Phone calls, text messages, and video chats allow our rituals to survive. Deep conversations and declarations of love have not faded with the years as with many other couples. “You are young,” they all said “you won’t make it through high school.” Didn’t we prove them wrong? “You are young,” they still say “You won’t make it through
college,” don’t we intent to prove them wrong?

Rewind December 2011. Christmas vacation and I am strewn over his couch head on his chest and he is breathing.  It is the single most relaxing sound I have ever heard. Like a lullaby it soothes my soul. My usually tense muscles relax and my defensive layers melt away. I have always told him that he smells like home and that has not changed. He draws circles in my palms and I listen to him breath. The television is on but the time together is more valuable than all the gold at the end of a rainbow. Soon our responsibilities to our families and ourselves will rip us apart but for now we are perfectly content ignoring the world. The tv is mute I am to busy listening to his heartbeat strum to pay attention to the words. His body sings a song to me and mine dances to it. The strumming of his heart has harmonized with his breathing to hypnotize me completely I have no other option. He is mine and I am his.

The Edge- Off to College; Beginnings and Endings

(suggestion listen to The Edge of Glory-Lady GaGa while reading)  
Today I was up at 6 a.m. Today was the day that I helped my boyfriend and high school buddy move into their new dorms. It was time to ship them off and on their own. I honestly had tried my best not to think about it but as I got dressed to hop into the car I couldn’t deny it any longer.
There are many things that I am good at. As a matter of fact I excel in a various number of things; however, exposing  emotions is not one of them. I dislike displaying emotions. The drive down was okay I tried my best to keep the mood light and escape any possibility of spiraling into depression or breaking out into tears; but what are you suppose to do when Bruno Mars’ “Just the way you are” is playing and your significant other for almost five years looks you in the eyes and says “I’ll miss you.”
    I know sounds cheesy but I assure you there was nothing cheesy about it in the moment. We reached the school about 9ish and begin the process of unpacking, packing, and organizing/ turning a dorm into a temporary home. There were no tears shed here just efficient movements and a steady rhythm at work. There were jokes and smiles and laughter. I even went downstairs to help my buddy unpack; more jokes and smiles.
    

                           The rest of the day went pretty smoothly went to Five Guys, walked around campus, went to a seminar, and yes we even slept :); but maybe the positive and the jovial air is what made the impending good bye all the more sinister and heart wrenching. It was 6 a.m however and we had to get going; it was time to clip the umbilical cord. So after being heckled by the new security guard for an i.d (I finally managed to get) we held hands and ascended in the elevator. 22nd floor; doors open; tears spilled; words of reassurance; hugs; kisses; and “keep strongs” door almost closed; one more good bye; door closed- it’s over. Or not but it sure does feel like it. It seems when you’re taking another step up in life something must end for it to begin. I know that it’s the beginning of a new appreciation for each other and for the time we have and have had.

                One more goodbye was left and I swore I wouldn’t cry and I didn’t. I’ll miss her she was like my guardian angel taking every step I took and going through just as much pain as I did. It was good while it lasted and I hope and will try my best to keep in touch. It was a hug; a behave ;), and a see you later; then a group hug.
  And with that we were off. In three more weeks it’ll be my turn.