CNF: My confession

I am in love and insane.
I wonder the “what if’s” and “why’s” of the world.
I hear the beat of my lover’s heart pulsating beneath my ear.
I see his circumspect smile flash when I peck a kiss to his nose sprinkled with freckles.
I want to grow old with him in the Victorian house on 100th street.
I am in love and insane.

I pretend I don’t possess the past I know I do.
I feel the desolation of pure love.
I touch his lips gingerly with mine as he slumbers.
I worry I’m not sweet enough, caring enough, or gentle enough for him.
I cry when eyes close, and lights dim--when I am alone at dusk.
I am in love and insane.

I understand that everyone is blessed with flaws that make them perfect.
I say “Nothing is wrong. I’m okay.”
I dream of the prospective future with the love of my life.
I try to be an adequate friend, girlfriend, daughter, aunt, and Christian.
I hope I can truly smile everyday, someday.
I am in love and insane.

I wish I could change the world, make everyone happy.
I hide my misery.
I lie to protect.
I pray for my enemies.
I am in love and insane.

I sing as boisterous as I can.
I speak the truth.
I think the world and its occupiers are corrupt but beautiful.
I believe in God and his love.
I am in love and insane.

I accept diversity.
I admire my grandmother and her strength of will.
I admit I miss my great grandpa Criswell even after six years of him being gone.
I avoid judgment and terror.
I am in love and insane.

I apologize for my mistakes.
I battle depression and memories.
I change nothing for oppressors.
I deserve what I give.
I am in love and insane.

I challenge opinions.
I destroy my own confidence.
I fail at consistency.
I force myself to grin and laugh.
I am in love and insane.

I fear guns, love, rape, and loneliness.
I hate wrong-doings.
I ignore gossip and chit-chat.
I imagine a better, more accepting world.
I am in love and insane.

CNF: A little boy grows into a man in two pictures

A child sits in his first car. Molded from plastic, dyed red and yellow, he plunked himself inside, closing the small, banana-shaped door. He loosely grips the wheel, the circumference as large as his miniature head covered in lemon-blond peach fuzz. No smile is spread across his face; his deep dimples are hidden under the blank, numb look stuck on his face. He stares as if hypnotized by the camera lens pointed towards him, positioned perfectly for the photo like a doll, save the non-existent, cheesy grins usually plastered on a child’s face. Had a child so small foreseen his tumulus future right at the moment the camera snapped paralyzing him in that state? Could a child’s mind recall it’s own forming from a drug-addicted mother that lay complacent with her life formed by meth? Could an infant so innocent of the world and it’s evils possibly know the difference between tight and wrong in his family?

Yes. By the too-serious look on such a young child’s face, yes. He could.

********

December, 1995

A snapshot of the next few years of his life: Thrown against a wall, holding in the tears--crying would only show his weakness--screaming to his older sister to run, run, run, kicked, picked up, tossed callously as if he was the dirt beneath his whore mother’s feet, beaten, bludgeoned, starved. A concerned neighbor nearby pounds in the three numbers of justice--911. She suspects drug abuse in the house across the street with the sweet, little blond boy named Richard after his father. The father that beats him so severely, so mercilessly. Red, white, and blue swirls around on the top of the black and white cruiser reporting to the would-be murder scene if he had not shown up when he had. The policeman trudges to the door and knocks. Once. Twice. Thrice. Finally, a fat, scruffy, bald man grudgingly answers the door, denying the various accusations the officer fires at him. Looking down, ready to leave, the officer notices a droplet of blood and politely suggests he come in. Little Richard lay bloody and near death against a wall, unconscious. Handcuffs clink when smacked onto the little boy’s father.

********

November, 2009:

Ice slicks the roads after a game of hunting. Jack and his grandfather drive home looking forward to the warmth of home to escape the dreadful, battering rain. The vehicle swerves on a turn, the tires skid while the grandfather tries to slow down, desperate for control over the car. Fear and sweat trickle down their backs while tears fill their eyes and screams burrow into their throats. Terrified, they pray to God, but it’s too late. The car smashes into a tree, wrapping around it like a sickening metal ring, sealing one of their fates. The young  boy, Jack, dies at the scene while his elder grandfather lives in critical condition. Richard receives the news at school on CRCN, walks outside and let the few tears shed for his best friend who, the very day he died, wanted to go biking but Richard had been too busy. He blames himself and God for killing his best friend.

********

October, 2007:

He stands, slouched in front of the dropped background of grey bricks. His arms crossed and folded just so as instructed. He glances at the camera, itching to move.
“Smile!” chants the camera woman, tired of taking pictures of cranky teenagers. No smile fleets across his face as the woman snaps the camera too many times, taking his picture. He stares blandly bored at the annoyingly chipper photographer waiting until she gives him the okay to leave. The basketball giant and trouble-maker of the school already tired of life and pining for death…and love. If only one person would care…just once. Just once did he want to be loved, he thought, strolling away, his massive hands clenched in his pockets.

********

September, 2005:

A doll-sized girl sits next to him, new to Trajan and the class. He wonders what her name is. She’s so cute, he thinks, glancing over at her with his sky-blue eyes rimmed in cobalt. The girl, so shy and scared, stares at her paper and writes her name. He peeks at her paper to see her name; Callie. It fits her, he says to himself, a cute name for a cute girl. He started to like her having no idea how she would haunt him over the next few years of his life.

********

August, 2009:

Nearly a foot over everyone he leans against the brick wall, seeming calm but jittery and scared on the inside. His followers, his friends, surround him in an almost cult-like circle chatting about the new game just released and what classes they have that year. His eyes scan the crowd, looking for her; Callie. Her memory, her image had been seared into his mind since the fifth grade. He tried talking to her in seventh grade at Carnegie but she just always blushed and skittered away, then she moved to another school in eighth grade and he never had the chance. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he sees her scurrying by, automatically his eyes lock on her small figure, following her until she disappears around a corner. She was even more beautiful now and she would be his. He was determined that it would be true.

********

October, 2011:

Next Wednesday is their one year anniversary, and he can’t believe it. She’s his, and he’s hers. Joy engulfs his towering body as he snakes his arms around her body, so much tinier than his. He smiles, kissing her head and squeezing her close. His precious little angel. She’s forever mine, he thinks, as he lifts her off her tiny toes and swings her around making her fly.

CNF: Earphones come to life

My earphones come to life:

Okay seriously? Why do you always just toss me around? I’m just as important as that d*amn iPod you tote around with you everywhere. I am the only way you can even hear your music in public without disturbin’ the peace and irritating the strangers around you so how come you just chomp down on me but you don’t nibble on that stupid gadget?

HUH?

I may cost less and be replaceable but I give you privacy and peace of mind by blasting your ridiculous heavy metal and vicious screamo. Plus when you drop me I don’t shatter like some fragile piece of sh*t iPod, NO, know why? Because I am gooey and flexible. And you don’t have to go out and spend hundreds on the new “upgraded” me. AND I am just simply prettier. I come in every single f*cking color and design you can conjure up in that pitiful, idiotic, pea-sized brain of yours. I’m like a chameleon in the mother-f*cking Amazon b*tch, I’m made this way unlike the iPod you so coddle and cherish who of which you would have to go out and buy plastic, cheaply made, UGLY covers to disguise their hideous asses.

OH! And even BETTER I don’t just have ONE purpose. Nope, you can use me in more ways than a slutty prom queen behind the dumpsters. THAT’S RIGHT. You can use me to choke your enemies. Just wrap me around tight and squeeze the little bastard and presto! I’m even more fantastic as a weapon. I could work for the f*cking mob boss and be an assassin if I wanted to but nooooooooooooooooo I have to stay here and keep you entertained with your unintelligible, moronic music. No, you know what?

F*CK THIS.

I’m going to go throttle the nasty-ass country-hick breath from Hannah Montana. See ya lata suckaaaa~!