There's something in the crawl space. I know because I put it in there. It knows because it's already trying to escape. I hoped it would nestle in near that old mirror we probably should get rid of. Snuggle up in the dust-coated bin of stuffed animals we should really cover before it attracts the mice. But despite the many nooks and crannies I have for it to inhabit, it doesn't seem comfortable yet. There's only so long that it can roam out in the wild before it wears out its welcome. You know how these things go. It has a peculiar way about it that is at first appealing, but without the proper channeling, err training, is bound to come out sideways. Now it's just a matter of time before it makes its way out. I can hear it scratching. It was supposed to go back where it came from on the night of the full blue moon, but kept it around a little longer than I probably should have. I want to give it the time it deserves, I really do, but it has drained much of the life out of me. Now I'm just hoping it goes dormant long enough for me to get some rest. 

Her ears are burning. She can hear you talking. So concerned with another that you might want to strike. You can take her down but she'll still survive. Can someone be so pro life that they'd actually wish death upon a woman for doing what she had to do? We are all separated by the choices we make. There are more like her and they'll meet again. We smile in our sleep.

​Blessed be. 

​HER: Sometimes it happens overnight. I woke up like this. I just didn't notice until midway through my morning shower when the world stopped but the water kept flowing. I heard them yelling again, loud enough to disrupt my quiet bathroom thoughts and I had enough. I heard something crash and the murmurs roar. The dogs sounded and then, midbark silence. I clicked the water off to get a better sense of what I thought I heard, or rather, what was absent from my ears. I only had one leg shaved but I wasn't going to see him until later so I knew I could just get back in. Right now I headed to find out why the world stopped. I pulled my towel around me and went out to verify the silence. I opened the door from the bathroom to find everything still. She was still holding the coffee pot. I marveled at my parents floating like statues. Quiet, frustrated shells of what they were in that moment. Cicadas hovering a few inches off the ground. I approached our rottweiler lingering at Mom's feet with his eyes fixated on Dad, who had unleashed the veins in his neck. I wonder what words I caught in mid-air, what I shielded mom from. What I did?  How did I know it was me? I did this? I was just in the shower and heard the madness again so I thought to myself, "Ahhh, make it stop." And that was it. Time terminated (or is it just levitating  like they are?). I spin around and squeeze my eyes shut, a-pinch-to-see-if-its-real-moment. It is. Drips of drool splash at the kitchen floor from my dog's jaws and my mind starts accelerating pace. Shit. Now I'm panicking in only a towel with a bit of conditioner still left on the end of my hair. I better get dressed in case I need to get out of here. On the surface this is a mess that has rocked my world, but deep down, I feel something different.

HIM: I walked the block a few times before I felt it happen. I knew I didn't need to be with her to know she's capable of freezing time the span of the city if she wanted to. If she trusts herself. That's usually the turning point in teenagers. The reason mental disorders like bipolar don't start to emerge until around that time. They need a stronger sense of self and enough maturity to sense it. Develop their sense enough to start shifting the world. I was kiddy corner from her block when I saw life on the street freeze before me. Holy shit, bravo dear. You did it, finally, I thought to myself. I basically skipped there, smiling, past the morning joggers and around the UPS driver mid delivery. I wonder what's inside that package. I could peek if I had the time. It's still eery how quiet everything is, but the birds. The birds don't freeze but they are affected. They sense it but are somehow immune to it; although it does seem to do something different to the crows (More on that later). I've been keeping an eye on her for so many years, but that was just to protect here. Now that it's her 18th birthday, it's time to introduce myself. Because now that stopping time comes with the territory, so do I.  It's the two-for-one BOGO special she never dreamed of.

HER: Now that the dogs are quiet and the screaming stopped, I can hear the birds again. Even though my heart is beating out of my chest, enough that I'm almost unable to tie my Vans. I can hear them chirping, squawking, warning. One small wren sits perched by my window gawking at me like a creepy knock-off version of that helpful animatronic one in Mary Poppins. Maybe she could stop time, too? Wait. Now I hear something else. A door slam? Shit. I barely had the time to process what's happened and it's already over? I peek out from my room and pull my wet hair up, twirling it into a quick top knot and securing it with my scrunchies while tiptoing back out the hallway. The light casts a shadow against the walls with taunting movements, but my parents are still still. "Happy birthday." A faceless voice calls out, triggering a fear wave inside so fierce I'm almost knocked flat on my ass. "Who's there fool?" I call out with fake-it-til-you-make-it confidence and and a prickly exterior. A shadow calls into the hallway door, humming the tune I thought I was delirious about hearing before. He moves a step forward and the light reveals familiar feature of a face I've seen a few times before. "I'm your watcher," he says in a way that's less creepy than it sounds.

His presence is comforting actually. Although anything living and breathing would be compared to this wax museum before me. I don't remember the number of fights I've witnessed or the hours I spent under my bed waiting for it to stop, but after a few minutes of admiring them with him standing in silence beside me, it all came rushing back. Crystalizing like stalagmites around the living room den. I was Elsa, Queen of Trailer Trash, tapping into the powers to the see my seedy past. More clearly, like the Frozen sequel, I have evolved into a more self-aware version of who I once was. And holy shit, I might even have real super powers. I can't even be on time for anything but now I can stop time? Maybe it's a glitch, some kind of life simulation test (which could explain why they are floating?). Or an overindulgent Baz Lurhmann dream sequence. I'm panicking again, so I kick over the ottoman, but nothing happens. Dad is still frozen above the carpet in resting jerk face (why isn't that a thing?) I picked up a coffee cup with the forgotten remainder of this morning's pot, shattering it in a splash across the coffee table. Shit. No reaction and now I have a real mess to clean up. 

An organ with magic chords showed up seemingly out of nowhere. So, they built a stage around it and turned it into a production. It was a whole thing.

Him: Want to come with me to check it out?
Her: I didn't think you were a fan of musicals.
Him: I'm a fan of things I like.

​"Conjure up the courage to make real what I have imagined." - Glennon Doyle

I glanced out the window and noticed a strange cat on the roof of the neighbor's house. A tabby with an intentional gaze. She looked content as she sat perched near the gutters. I've never seen a feline like this before; did she belong there? Stray cats have the tendency to strut past here all the time, but this one is different and sitting stationary, seemingly waiting for something or perhaps someone. If that's the case, maybe she is more wise than I'd think to give her credit for. Maybe she isn't going to just sit around and wait for the election results to come through or for the pandemic to pass. I read the other day that "Mitch Mc. Connell and Co. haven't quite gone full death cult on us" yet but if the tides turn, isn't that the inevitable? If in fact, we are really a year away from losing someone we love to the impending civil war, shouldn't we plan our escape now? It's funny how much your fears can play a game of cat and mouse with you when you're wrapped up in them, but maybe they have the right idea. It's possible this cat is just confused, but it's equally possible that it could be an alien. I'm just washing dishes, a task I've done a thousand times before today, but I haven't looked down at a single glass. I'm using muscle memory to get them clean. My eyes are steady glued across the alleyway because I'm telling you, something is up with this cat. The wind is picking up now and it dawns on me that I haven't seen the woman that resides there in well over a week. I've lived beside her for years and I never did manage to catch her name, at least I can't seem to recollect it right now. I watch above as something small and orange starts to drop into my view. At first, it appears to be a balloon dropping in from the clouds, slowly deflating in helium and conflating my view. At second glance, I confirm that it is indeed a balloon, but it's not the kind I first considered. It's growing bigger by the minute, like the bewitched peach James tried like hell to hide from Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, only this peach isn't a peach at all. It's actually a hot air balloon, and if I had to guess, I'd say it's heading straight for that roof. I knew there was something up with that cat. My jaw drops and so does the sudsed-up coffee mug in my hands. It shatters into the sink but that sound is muffled by the roar of the burners levitating this bizarre ship right at me, altering my worldview. I can't see anything in its basket and the balloon never quite lands. It just gets close enough for the cat to leap into it like clockwork. As fast as it comes in, it's gone. Up, up and away. On a permanent ride to hide. Right on schedule, I imagine. Lucky cat. 

I made friends with my shadow. She's my little dark side. I'll find her lingering behind or ahead of me and can never quite tell what she's up to, not clearly anyway. She'll pop up when I least expect it but she's usually close-by. I guess that's why I was so surprised to find her untethered from my footing, all the way across the room the other night. Once you realize your shadow has a mind of its own, you hope that she's got something exciting in store for you. I stood there staring, wondering if she was about to lead me to a secret door or the never neverland I never thought I'd know. I've always wanted to be Wendy waiting by the window, but I grew up way too fast. Now I'm too worried about becoming a Karen and it's hard enough to make actual friends as an adult so I'll have to settle for my other half. I keep my eyes on her to see what she'll do next but I fear she's up to something sinister. Eventually I'll have to decide if I should follow her or lead, but for now it seems that I'm  I'm too curious to keep to myself.

You can bury me in the winter, but I will dig my way out. Leaves fell, snowfall, but after a while that wonderland will wear off and it will start to feel small. I don't want to sink back into the sea of homogeny, but the underground scene isn't for me. A little rest will be nice along the way, but I won't enroll in Zombie University. Instead, I'll practice emotional archeology. I'll collect nature as it comes to me, crush eggshells and save them to provide sustenance for the soil. Clip magazines and modpodge them to make a statement by the soft glow of my oversized screen. We'll go dormant during the cold dark months, but I'll hold onto my shovel for the first sight of spring. 

I thought about death so much as a funeral director's daughter.
It was under me the entire time, so I looked up.
Lover of murder podcasts and Jesus.
Surround myself in something dark enough that I can still see the light. 
​
​Bury me in a crewneck sweater.
Something safe, something sound.
Rest in peace.

Just ask for the Chef's Special.
​Who knows what you'll get. It depends on the day, the mood.
What's seasonal? Pumpkin or poison? 

I have this recurring dream. I've had it since the day I woke up with my hair parted in another direction, after I tried to change the way things were. I don't think I seem as neurotic as I am. But I am. And it's not something I can just sleep off, but I tried.
It starts the same way every time; I am hustling down a dark path on a road that looks as though it could belong in my the same rural town I spent middle school summers in, just off Main street. I feel like I'm being followed and it's as familiar as it is unnatural. I'm approaching a house with a ton of commotion and I'm not sure which way to enter but I feel a pull to find someone, or something. Nothing is in focus except me. I'm on a mission but I can't quite pull it off and I can't say anything (which for me is much more nightmare than dream state). I get into the house, hustle past a murky cast of characters and approach the room I'm looking for. It's upstairs and the stairwell is long and narrowing around me. I'm searching for something up there and it feels tense in the air. My breath is fleeting with my dreaming. I already know I'll wake too fast to retain anything so the moments are heightened.
​When 90% of your inner monologue comes from movies of the late nineties, you'll spend your whole waking life waiting for the ghost of your dreams to say "can I keep you?" But you really cannot gain control of the narrative, not so far anyway. I'm really not trying to get too meta, but I am trying to process how my dependence on screens may be hindering my ability to seek answers about myself in my dreams. There's a trick to lucid dreaming when you're first getting the hang of it. You have to scrawl something on your hand before you go to bed and remember to check for it while you're under. So much of what we've dreamt of starts to fog over after a while. But that doesn't make it any less clear when I wake up. And then I can't sleep, so I just keep scrolling.

The ocean is an attention whore! (so she has to step her game up to be seen; it's a tricky thing). The waves crash in, she splashes back with acts of rebellion:
1. Put on the most distracting shade of coral lipstick.
2. Wear pearls to feel powerful. 
3. Cut your own hair to maintain self control. 
4. Hide under covers and read. 
5. Take the covers off and do whatever you want. 
6. Crown yourself Miss Whoever You Want To Be. 
7. Care entirely too much about yourself.
8. Be unapologetic about it.

There's a tap at the window, but no one's there. Tap. I keep hearing it. Tap. It's something. No branches at the window, no passerbys I can see. Tap. But no letting up. Tap. I heard it again and looked up in time to see it. A bee, begging to be let in. Bugging me. Expecting the glass to just go away so it can enter. How strange, I thought as it hovered outside of my office, but then I went about my day. So when it happened the next day, I became uneasy. Tap. Ok, I was already a bit uneasy but I became more uncomfortable in my skin because, on top of everything else, a bee now seems to be beckoning me and is being quite stubborn about it. I already feel people watching me who aren't there outside my window and now I've got this dizzy bee to deal with?
Tap. Is there something I don't know that the bees know? Tap. It seems a bit desperate. Is it about honey, because I'm really not that sweet. Tap. Is it about money, because I really can't afford to share, so they're not going to have much luck there. There's not enough luck to go around here in generally lately, certainly none that I could spare. Tap. I'm not sure if it's related, but I have been smelling unusual cologne in the quiet pockets of my home. It's a lingering, unfamiliar musk. Is this what the bee is after? Tap. Now that I mention it, I've also been feeling quite frantic lately, buzzing around the house without a direction. Do they sense this about me? Tap. Ok, seriously. Am I crazy or what is this bee's deal and why is it so adamant about getting in? I wonder what it wants from me, or what it wants to tell me. Tap. Perhaps it's a messenger, busying about, whizzing through the air on paper thin wings, wailing its head into the paned glass on a mission to tell me something. But what? Tap, tap. It's been two days now and this bee has been incessantly banging at the same window. It wants in, but what if it stings? 




​

This isn't what I expected.
It feels like a snowstorm in October,
Because it is one, and that's exactly how it feels.
​Cold. Can we talk about it? 

Meet me at the Starlight Diner.

You can make it there by rocket, or by winding drive. Past the church on the corner with the cemetery behind it. Follow the curve where the the wind whips the leaves into spirals, where the tree line swallows you whole. Keep going, just follow that road and try not to get lost in our memories along the way. The late nights and early texts will peek out from behind the trees. Unearth what we could have said from the fallen leaves. What we did say the last time we were both seen. Like, you told me once I was made of stardust. Did you mean for it to mean so much? Did you mean for it to lift me up enough that I would lift off? Out of here. Will I see you there? 
It's not too far ahead, but it's really hard to tell. When you get where you think you're going, just keep going. It will look a bit familiar, but it's not quite how you remember it to be. Never is, really. Go on, past three homes made of stacked stone, the ones with the wrap around porches made for iced tea pitchers on a humid afternoon. The kind of surface-pretty places that look too good to be true, that function as Hallmark made-for-tv-movie backdrops as long as you don't ever look in their basements. Who knows what they're hiding, but you know it's something. Approach the crossroads, then go two stops past those. Around the bend of NO RETURN. Make your way beyond the horses waiting, kiddy-corner from the pasture of cows wandering. If the moon isn't lit well enough to see the place, just follow the buzz of the neon lights. And that's it. You're now approaching Starlight.
Don't come for the coffee, but will you meet me for a cup? I'll be at the part of the counter that's worn in all the right ways. Don't worry about what to eat; they always serve up the sunday special (with gravy) with your choice of egg. Do you still prefer them over easy? I wonder what else may have changed. It's been a while, so I'm worried that you might not recognize me anymore. You don't know that I'll be there, or what I'll look like when you get here (I'd like to think I've changed a bit, you know?) But you'll likely catch on; I still leave glitter everywhere I go. I hope you make it while the coffee's still hot. Sure, I could always put on another pot but it won't be the same. So if you could try to be on time, great, but don't let that keep you from taking your time. I lose track of time when I'm with you so I hope you can hold your own. Reality bites, but this is the kind of place where the minutes become moments because you can't tell if time is slowing down or speeding up. It's part of its magic. The way it shines, like you do (but you're still out of reach). I still sparkle but I'm out of touch. I wonder if that's what you meant by stardust? 

I think I'll just hide out here until the coast is clear. Until the monsters have made themselves scarce. I hear them at night when they think I'm sleeping. Stirring, scratching, creeping. In here, I'm as safe as I make myself. I feel shadows dance by the windows but they can't get in. So I keep on dancing in the shower, protected by the walls that separate us and them. I feel their eyes on me from a safe distance, so every once in a while I will put on a show for them. I will fashion a stage and flash a bit of a smile and put on a classic side face, the kind that makes my cheekbones look just right under the lights, just in case they're still watching. I don't know if they really are though but I don't know that it matters much either way. I don't have more than this corner to myself, but it shape-shifts into a castle when I let it. Perspective warps time and space that way. Expanding and contracting like the highway does behind the headlights of a long drive. The way the minutes make themselves known differently depending on how much caffeine and nicotine I've had a chance to consume. You can get lost going in one direction if you're not careful. If the road doesn't veer for you after a while, your mind will take the wheel. You'll start seeing them, hearing them a bit differently. Start recounting the things you wish you could have stopped or slowed. You'll drive on, numb to the blinding lights before you and you'll start reliving the moments in parked cars where you got out too soon. Where you said too much, where nothing you'll say will ever be enough. Life stretches on like that, but I can wait it out. Here I am, under the safety of the same worn sweater I've worn since the day I got in. Haven't seen the road in months but when the minutes are what you make of them, you'll do what you can to keep the beasts at bay. It helps when you can get lost in your brain that way. It's a form of survival, I think, as long as you don't let your guard down long enough to let them trick you. I hear them knocking, and I'll do what I can to resist the urge to let them in. 

Find a mask you like and wear it like armor. It's nice because it protects you. At first, it feels strange but after a while it starts to represent you. And then you're committed so you don't take it off, because people have gotten used to it. And now you feel like you can't take it off because how will people recognize you if you do? You found this new face, you wrapped yourself up in someone else's smile. You used it as your own and now it's become your own. I hope you chose wisely. I mean, you probably have a proper public facing assortment now considering your status as a functioning adult. It is the way. But let's hope your capsule of masks suits you well. You can only protect yourself for so long, even with your party face on. Of course, you'll feel most at home in the one you wear before bed, but even that one, albeit oily and asymmetrical, doesn't quite depict the real you. It's only a part of the story.

An infatuation with the afterworld. She once found a diorama in the attic with the living dead. I don't know if they came from Saturn or if she drummed them up from the fears in her mind, but here they are and here she is. Right place, right time? She's blessed by the darkness so she pretends to feel nothing. But underneath her wide brim and baby bangs, she's smirking. Underneath layers of black lace, she feels very much alive. She died and went to heaven, then made friends for the afterlife. 

I heard that if you breathe in too many wild blossoms in the back alley, you can get carried away.
Walk the tree line pretending to be Taylor Swift for too long, and you'll lose sight of who you are.
Get lost in plain sight and lose track of time.
It's a slippery slope.

I heard about this girl who walked in like she owned the place, on stolen land.
She tried to have one glass and drank the whole bottle.
Put up a fight with her emotions and lost the battle.
It's a slippery slope.

I heard that if you want one more drag so bad you dream about it, you could buckle and buy the whole pack.
If you free write about the fears in your head, you could wake them.
Pronounce your intentions too loudly, and you'll hear them.
Conjure up something, but have the courage to face it.
Broke in. Broken.
It's a slippery slope. 

CAUTION: Just because you have a cauldron, doesn't mean you should use it. You should use it with caution. Keep it together. Crazy isn't just a state of mind. With the wrong intent, what becomes of it is evident in the end product. We can tell by your concoction. Be mindful of your ingredients: garbage in, garbage out. 

​You are what you manifest. So don't be an instigator; it's disgusting. You'll attract the flies. 

There are nights where
​ the street light plays tricks on me.
It pretends to be the moon.
Ahead of the ramblers in a row,
I held my gaze.
I hold onto it for dear life,
and hope that it won't go out.

There's this girl who throws up glitter. ​She was extra. Extra! Read all about it. 
She wears L.L. Bean but listens to metal. Wears her sunglasses inside. Wears her heart on her sleeve. But she pukes actual glitter and it's actually quite political. It's a statement. She's a national treasure. She does it without intending to; it's just her way. It usually happens when she's trying to adult too hard. She pushes herself to the brink to be serious and orderly and measured and shiny and happy in all the right ways and then she just cracks open like those confetti sprinkle cakes you see on Instagram and there is no going back. What's done is done and you have to deal with it. Obnoxious, neon nonsense all over the plate. She holds back and she tries really hard, but she can't help it. It bottles up and eventually what comes out isn't going to come out of your carpet anytime soon.
Sit with it, it will stay with you. It should. She can't contain her insides and it just comes out. She can't help it. Glitter is invasive. Once it's unleashed it creeps into everything. It spreads from the soles of your shoes, it stays under your fingernails. Good luck trying to clean it up. You can't. It just disbands over time, long after it's made an impression, and by then it's everywhere.  
She apologized, but she's been working on the need to do that for every little thing. Girl, stop. Women carry that burden of having to feel sorry for everything all the time. Even if it's not your mess to clean up, you're really "sorry" someone had to go through the trouble of taking care of it. But, why? Don't. So she won't because she doesn't have to; because she shouldn't. You know what? She actually won't apologize and she's not sorry. So there. Her vomit isn't like the rest. It's just her expression and it can't be contained.

​It's just art, man. 

She didn't know they would grow teeth, if it makes you feel any better about the situation. She just wanted them to have a good life, to thrive. So don't even think about it. Don't think for one second that she's to blame for the accidents that transpired and were made famous by that campy musical. We're not even about to blame the woman in this origin story. She did what she had to do. And she did it despite no one actually believing she could pull it off. So before you even start to question whether or not we should point the finger at her, just know that you shouldn't. She studied plants she believed to be native to upstate New York and raised them to become who they intended to be. It was simply the way things were.

You'd think she was just a gardener based on the dirt under her fingernails and the sun on her cheeks, but that would be foolish and surface of you. She may be a greenhouse full of growth above the soil. Rows of stems and flora, mortal and leaning toward sunlight for survival, waiting for water, wearing their own admirations and adornments. But beneath the dirt there were roots zigging and zagging among insects and secrets. Deep, winding worlds, a strange and unusual habitat that only she had ever seen. She was so much more. She was a botanist with a penchant for the absurd and she knew how to make a scene without even trying. I know because I met her the summer she grew them during my fifth grade summer camp in the Adirondack mountains. We went on a field trip to the nearby gardens and she gave us a tour and talked to us about plant life in such a way that I wondered if I would ever understand something as clearly as she understood them.

Listen, she made an impact on me, not a productive one for the plants though (but that's on me). Since then I couldn't keep a single bonsai tree alive that was gifted to me in a special moment by my mother for my first apartment. And last winter I forgot about my jasmine plant in the garage and it froze to death. But I do trust her enough to know that she didn't know they were going to become red-blooded killers. She was just trying to raise them right. And not everything she harvested could bite. Other species could see from their center. Some could feel emotion. Others crept about in the night. It was the general repose of the plants that just didn't sit with people right. 

I can't even begin to criticize her ability to get out of control with her phytology because I can barely keep it together. And what she did was still a step forward for science, was it not? I wish I could ask her myself, thought we really don't know if she still resides on that acreage or what has become of her. But we'll lose ample time wondering what her purpose was; was it a combination of her deep heart and green thoughts? Or was it her dark heart and her green thumb?

Dear botanist, if you see this, share your truth. 
​

They used to call her the class clown, but she prefers pierrot. She now sleeps in an ornate, long-forgotten-about teacup. She's fancy like that. If you look hard enough at dawn, you'll find her. Through the trees, moseying across the morning dew on the edge of the city.
If you saw her on the street, you might believe her to be sullen like a mime who’s lost her way. But that’s not entirely the case. It is true she no longer speaks, but she does in fact, know just where she's going. She just has a crooked pace about the way she gets there, a performative nature to her mannerisms. But really, it's nothing more than what the rest of us put on. She just does it with face paint. Her hair is sugar-spun, but she's more sad than sweet. An unrelenting mood of anguish piled to the heavens. She pulls out pink puff clouds from upside her head and passes them out when the mood strikes her. Desperate to brighten up someone's day in exchange for their sorrows. She can take them away. The only problem is, she's cursed to keep them. So she fashions herself a suitcase out of hand gestures and arranges her souvenirs of despair accordingly. Then she brings them back to her cup in hopes that they'll fill her up.