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In My Last Scorching Breath; Part I



“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host.

But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”

—Maya Angelou



            He still bore scars, livid at his fingertips, from how he had fumbled while lighting his first cigarette.


            It had been an accident, his first burn. The chilled air of that morning had scraped his lungs until his voice was raw, and his hands had been shaking—so violently that his fingers stumbled over each other, letting flames sear his skin.


            It had hurt, of course, but it had been a good sort of pain. It had blocked the memories of the night before and it had burned out all remaining feeling. It was what Will had needed then, and it was what he needed now.


            The thought of what he’d seen just that morning made his heart slam around in his throat. His stomach lurched and twisted and writhed inside of him, an untamed, beastly thing born of his own weakness and disease.


            While Will’s hands struggled with the keys to his house, his mind fought to raise walls high enough to keep ragged memories from drowning him.


            The accident he had seen on his way to work had been far too familiar. Twisted, misshapen wreckage and contorted figures smothered in their own blood, and the blood of other victims, dragged grimy fingertips through his memory. The images his eyes had absorbed earlier that day had brought snapshots of his accident back within his grasp, and his need for the sweet sickness of the fire had overcome him, smashing him around like a ragdoll for the remainder of the day.


            Will wrenched his door open, his hands falling limp to his sides as his bags plummeted to the floor.

            The memories were dark, and they consumed him, killing anything and everything else he was capable of feeling. It wouldn’t be long before he sank so far into them that he would forever be lost within their despair. He had never been able to drive them away—only the fire could do that.


            Only the fire—and as the flames dragged over his skin and left marks of untempered anger, Will momentarily found refuge from his monster.



            He’d been drunk—but far more intoxicated than he was now. In the present moment, things were a little bit blurred and a little bit bright, amplifying and bringing into focus the self-resentment that made his insides churn and his teeth clench. Amid the depths of that night, he had been too drunk to understand any of his own thoughts, too drunk to rationalize, too drunk to know that driving was asking—begging—for a life to be stolen.


            When he had woken up in the hospital, he had not known what had happened—not at first. But sluggishly, as the morphine had drained from his damaged body and his consciousness had become cloudless and lucid, he had begun to remember.


            A nurse had come in to give him more medication, skirting around the edge of his bed like a cat, and he had asked her, “What happened?”


            “You were drunk,” she’d said tersely. He could still recall the unadulterated, toxic disgust in her face. “You got into a car accident.”


            He remembered thinking that she would not be looking at him with such an unpolluted hatred unless someone had died.


            “How many?” he had croaked. His voice had sounded cracked and worn, like parchment. “Was it my fault?”


            The nurse had stared at him, the anger in her face creating lines and frown marks and crevices in her face. She seemed to age several decades in that moment. “Three,” she said, “And yes, it was your fault.”


            In the present moment, he lay sprawled on his couch, lazily flicking the lighter on and off and watching the warm glow of the flames as they licked his fingertips. It was a soothing warmth that blistered at his fingers, soft and rather bearable compared to the jarring, knife-like pain that seared through him whenever he cut.


            Even now, lying on the couch, he could still hear the peaked sounds of his family rushing into the hospital room he had lain in. They had known it was his fault, and they had not blamed him. He still hated them for that. Uninformed, irrationally, they had leaned over his bedside and told him it’d be okay and that they’d take care of everything, and he wouldn’t have to do any jail time.


            These memories weren’t as harsh as the memories of the crash, but they were no less unpleasant. They still fogged his mind, and they still turned the fire inside into a raging inferno, hell-bent on tearing him to jagged little pieces.

            And he would let him.


            He was determined to be destroyed by his treacherous fiend.



           “Pass me a cigarette, would you?” Her voice was astute and had a lilting sound to it, not unlike the rolling of wind off the waves. He didn’t have to pretend to like it. Her face was sharp, her eyes seemed to be dark caverns cut into her face by knife edges. She had an interesting face—not traditionally beautiful, but one that was fascinating to look at, and to explore.


           Wordlessly, Will handed over the second last cigarette in his pack to her. “You run out, Keahi?” he asked, drawing in a long breath of smoke.


            “I had my last one this morning,” she told him, lighting the cigarette with long, tanned fingers. “I won’t be able to afford any more smokes until I get paid, so I better enjoy this one.” She blinked lazily, like a cat basking in the sun, as she breathed in the smoke, and exhaled.


            Will was quick to notice the red, irate marks on the insides of her forearms. Nobody at work had ever dared mention them to her, but Will understood. Her weapon of choice was different than his, but the reality was that they were the same: something had gone horribly wrong, and they were to blame. 


            Keahi caught him looking. “What’re you staring at?” she asked, her voice sounding incensed beneath the casual tone that only just barely masked it.


            Will shrugged. “Your scars,” he said bluntly, and drew in another breath of smoke. “They look a little bit like mine.”


            Keahi arched one eyebrow. “Yours?” she inquired, her melodic voice rising and falling rhythmically in pitch.


            Will shrugged. “I stopped cutting a while ago. I have different methods, now.”


            Keahi glanced at him, and brushed a strand of dark hair from her face. She did not look at him, and it was at this moment that Will realized he had made a mistake.


            She had not come to terms with her own destruction, he realized. She had not accepted that she would be the beast to tear her out her own heart. She had not realized that it was she who would be her own demise. In this, she was not like him.


            Will knew he was going to die, someday, and likely by his own hand.


            It was just a matter of being ready to walk into the fires of hell and embrace the devil’s demons with open arms.



            When he arrived home, he lit some more candles and lay on the couch for a while. As the sky grew dark the candles glowed brighter, so did the clarity of his own memory. He always remembered everything at night. It seemed that darkness brought with it a hoard of new details, new sights and smells for him to agonize over, new details to remember from that night.


            In the dimness of his home, Will took the last cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He breathed the smoke in and out, wondering absentmindedly if dragons would feel the same burning sensation in their lungs when they reduced their victims to ashes.


            Slowly, he became aware of his eyes beginning to drift shut, but not aware enough of the cigarette falling from his fingers and to the carpet. 



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My soul is the abandoned theatre

My soul is the abandoned theatre down the block,
next to the internet café where I first met you
and the Greek deli with the French fries—you know the one.
It’s a big building, old, and you can tell it was pretty once.
But the doors are chained and deadlocked now.
Peek through the window, crawl past the tarp
and the homeless guy sitting on a pizzabox—
Walk the distance to the stage, hear your steps
echoing down to you from the unlit ceiling.
Turn and face the missing audience
There is a silence so sincere here that it is reverence, and
a sadness that has so much purpose, it has simply ceased to be sadness anymore.

The arches and columns are flying buttresses, the boarded up windows
stained glass windows— the graffiti the mark of Michelangelo,
a faceless black hoodie ducking out of sight—
it is a pocket of forgotten humanity.
My soul is a cathedral,
a work of art a thousand days in the making;
There among the dusty stars and in the soft stillness
exists the tenderest form of worship.

My soul is the abandoned theatre down the block
—you know the one.

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what is the difference
between rainfall
and a shower?
both are meant
to cleanse the filth.
perhaps we are only willing
to be clean on terms
of our own control.

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Black roses,

melting among our fingers mingled,

wintery, lost, only

shift-forward petals of wax;

we made our way about ceaselessly.

Old options emptied, we

constantly ignored the wings weaved

underneath our hands.

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The Time of Turning

The silent dance in a moonlit square
the sound of softly falling tears
and the choruses of heavy air
in the breath of a burdened evening

Turns the dancer to the sky
chin lit sharply to the night
eyes and hearts feel low and dry
as she turns and turns and turns

Sighs she, sorrowed and oppressed
by the weights of idols golden glowing
which weigh like murders on her chest
holding breath in the burdened evening

She turns and turns and turns again
but cannot find the lights in heaven
she had a where but not a when
so she thought it all a lie

The breath of evening, base and low
a sad addendum of the years
hangs amongst the dancer’s crows
and darks the dancer in silent square

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I've Forgotten Flowers


Scents used to tickle the nerves
residing in this nasal cavity;
now, it seems that all that lives there
is a cavity, dulled to the splendor
of  Flora’s careful  handiwork,
her scratch ‘n’ sniff tapestry
swept away by the winds of Favonius.
The marriage of fragrance to my sensory
has long since been annulled by a
higher power—
higher functions deeming petals too
delicate to endure the affront
of a hard logical approach,
too yielding to stand against
the rigid structures that have
usurped their former reign.
Even with pistols, they could not
hold up a shadow of a thought
or a makeshift memory.
They’ve been lost to barrenness
of what my world has become,
a reflection of my mindscape
and the harshness it has adapted.

I’ve forgotten flowers
and now struggle to weave them
into the braids of my words.