GLOW.

LIFE is smattering of beats and tunes and bass notes. Contentment plays violins, and bettering yourself means drums and a bass that goes to encourage. Care about no one and your heart turns to ashes and dust and it's beautiful in the dying sun as it explodes in the pocket of our universe, and we can feel it in our brittle bones, shattering at the impact of the beats of disappointment and regret. But I won't shatter. Never shatter. Your illness is yours. Not mine. I'm infected. Radioactive. But I've overcome it, and your zombies are rotting as the world burns. ONE white, one black, and they devour you and your attempts to be human. You will never be human, petty little thing. Welcome to the new age, of fire, anger, contented peace, smooth waters, rustic winds, and sparkling tears. This is it. It's over. You've lost. And you drink yourself into oblivion. Are you lost? That's where you'll find that pathetic you and cry sand. Tears come from the soul--sand is all you can offer. LET the acid rain soothe your painted flesh and you'll see beauty in pain. Loss for words, sympathy, compassion--you've met your mirror, so drown in yourself. Full of alcohol, sex, and sin. Sink deeper. Deeper and deeper, and let blood run. AS the sun burns, I'm radioactive. No one else can be me. No one else can offer anything to you. What a crying shame. GLOW with strength and understanding, not shrouded in a cloud of marijuana to dull your senses. Pathetic. Feel the pain. Stop hiding. Stop lying to yourself. Become one with that passive little hate inside of you that you try so hard to kill. Silly woman. You're threatened, and you try so hard. So hard. But it'll never happen to you. Open your mind to bigger things. Hide in your drugs and self-chosen ignorance, quoting Buddha and God and Allah, thinking yourself spiritual, free-thinking, when your mind's dead. Your superiority is temporary. Welcome to the new age. Sad, silly woman. When will you ever learn? I, Ustanak, cower to no one, and I devour all souls which quiver in insecurity, in lies; souls unable to escape from their rotten-fleshy prisons. If you take a closer look, you'll see our destiny--lying in the mounds of dead ground. THE earth is finally dead. You will be too. And you'll be free from that sad, sorrowful self. YOU'RE welcome.

To Be a Writer.

1. Write 50 words. That's a paragraph.

2. Write 400 words. That's a page.

3. Write 300 pages. That's a manuscript.

4. Write every day. That's a habit.

5. Edit and rewrite. That's how you get better.

6. Spread your writing for people to comment. That's called feedback.

7. Don't worry about rejection or publication. That's a writer.

8. When not writing, read. Read from writers better than you. Read and Perceive.

-Ajay Ohri

Slam.

A slam of a door speaks trebles and basses. The louder, the more effective. The more they roll their eyes at you and allow those vibrations to unlock rage. Silent, shimmering rage and irritation. Gets funny after a while, they think. It's just her hormonal imbalance due to the monthly-thing-that-must-not-be-named, they snicker. It's become a long, running joke. They ignored everything else. (Psh, men.)

You can't take your aggression out on people. You were taught better (?) than that. You were refused martial arts classes. On the basis that you were girl, but still. Violence wasn't the answer. So I chose to take it out on doors. I don't ever slam them too hard. The glass on that damn door didn't shatter, (so be grateful, damn it).

Temper tantrums, they called them. I don't know who 'they' are, really. Snooty intellectuals who think they can understand the human psyche and attempt to cure it from whatever ailments happen deep down in those dark abysses of circuits and connections and something that no one could quite explain. Slamming doors were for kids to unleash some sort of rebellion during those tumultuous teenage years.

(Old habits die hard.)

If I didn't have door-slamming, I'd be an alcoholic. Or a druggie. Or a pothead. It's more economical too. And more friendly on my sparse wallet. I could be a serial killer. A psychopath. Sociopath. Think of how therapeutic slamming a door is. You hear that (SLAM!) and the anger dissipates. You stew a little longer, but the anger's gone.

Not trying to justify or rationalize anything.

Okay, okay, fine. I'm sorry for slamming the door onto your hand. I'll try not to do it when your hand is near the door next time.

(You be careful next time.)

Take It All

For Grant


ed




Cry

     screeeeeeeeeeeeeeech

the works



Take It All

For Grant

ed




Sink yourself

in denial

self-righteousness

superiority






Feel

           better




Condescend




She'll

                           let


          you                            with

a                                                         smile

but you



will

never

                                                                                                                  know




Take It All

For Grant



ed



and screaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam




your                                           experienced                               l                             i

f               e


Pretend





deny

deny

deny

until

you
start
living
this











lie.






she'll





let

you

Rose Lens (Paper Darts submission, May 2013 - rejected)

Two roses. Pink. I would describe them as salmon-pink, but one, it’s too cliché, and two, I don’t think salmon is that shade of pink. Actually, I don’t think salmon is that pink at all. That is, unless you cut it up for sushi, but then, what sort of fish isn’t pink when it’s cut up and stuffed between rice and dried seaweed? I’ll just take a minute here to Google this. One minute. I take that back. The sockeye species is a bright pink, like a flamingo. But wouldn’t that shade of pink be considered “flamingo pink” instead?

Roses smell like fresh rain and a good red wine. At least, I think so. It’s got bitterness, mixed in with freshness, and depending on who gives them to you, a tang of sweetness. Who says romance isn’t a mixture of all of those things?

He held them as if they were going to die on him, and he didn’t know whether or not to clutch it tighter or looser. If he clutched it tighter in his hands, he might squeeze the life out of them. If he held them loosely, what if they slipped away and wilted in his hands?

This was three years ago. Around this time of year, where snow is packed hard on the sidewalks and the passengers silently curse every person who got on and off the bus for letting in the winter wind. Three years ago, in late January—maybe early February, on the Coralville bus. The blue one. I don’t feel like describing the type of blue. Use your imagination. I’ve seen him around the city before. I can’t quite recall where, perhaps Java House, reading a newspaper as he’s waiting for a coffee, or perhaps walking around the Old Capitol Mall with a woman at his side. He had Leo DiCaprio’s 90’s hairstyle, rusty brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. He walked like a young man, confident and with ease, but with age etched into his face in the form of wrinkles that should not be there at his age. Or perhaps he is not young at all, but an older man with vigor and youth in his blood?

Three years have passed, and I can still remember the scent of the bus—warm, doughy smells of bread; winter wind mixed with the beginning droplets of sweat, resting on the brow and neck of the passengers who were squeezed up at the front of the bus; and the suffocating aroma of cheap cologne or perfume worn by the college student, still too self-conscious and eager to be considered an adult. I felt heat prickle at my skin; heat that would retract as the blue doors opened and closed. I was sitting across from him, casually eyeing the Flamingo roses, the romanticist part of me hoping that this was for some true love, and the cynical side making snide side comments about how this plan was a failure from the start.

If I had to wager a guess, he’d be 32, impoverished, and madly in love with Donna, who was a waitress at the local diner with a pleasant smile, who also took offense when he told her that she was as beautifully plump as a peach. Which would be why he was on the Sky-Blue Bus with two Salmon-Pink Roses in his hands. It’s the type of situation you would see in a romantic comedy, where Jennifer Aniston falls in love with so-and-so man; he offends her in some way, but then makes up for it later with a huge bouquet of flowers and a declaration of everlasting love. As if that wasn't cliché enough. But this story would be different.

Donna wouldn't forgive him. She's sick of his lackluster, empty, and shallow apologies. He learned it all from romance movies. He would apologize, and then return to being lazy, thoughtless, and a breathing lump on her equally lumpy couch, stained with her baby's vomit. Just thinking about him made her nauseous. Even more than sickly-pink shrimp made her sick. He'd arrive at her house with the flowers, and she'd take one look at him through the peephole, roll her eyes, open the door, grab the flowers, throw the flowers and curse words his way, and then slam the door in his face. He'd try several times afterwards. She'd stop answering the door.

Lens shattered. This story is different. It’s not a fairytale romance.

I can’t decide which one I like better.

Muse Musing 2

It's not like they hang around often. I hardly ever see them when I expect to.

I cried the other day. No reason. Not that I was aware of. Just an achy, broken-hearted kind of cry, except I wasn't heart-broken. But I was achy. Very achy. From my fingers to my chest to my head.

They were there. I know they were. Watching me from the mirrors, the dark corners of the bedroom where my weak nightlight couldn't reach. They probably thought it was funny to see me writhe and sob in midst of my paranoia. Or maybe it was just in their nature to want to be in places of comfort. Mirrors. Dark corners. Under the bed. The Boogieman. The Slenderman. The Silence. The Angels. All encompassed into two beings.

The Woman in White is not who she started out to be.

The Woman in Black is worse than who she started out to be.

But I am no longer afraid of them.

I am afraid of me.

Muse Musing 1

She's tall, long-limbed, black. Blacker than words can describe. So black, she shines in the darkness of a terrorist's heart. Eyes of a lazy-eyed feline, with flecks of gold. She's untouchable, invisible, but I can see her. She lurks, long fingers curled in my direction, beckoning, encouraging. It's better here, she says, her gold teeth shimmering under her shining blackness. You'll like it here better. Her long, black tongue, licks her lips and she releases its length to the floor. It bounces, unrolls until it reaches my feet. Come here, she says. No one will miss you. I could not disagree.






She likes despair. Mine, especially. It keeps me writing, she says. It keeps you from forgetting me, she muses. Selfish, beautiful, frightening, charming creature, she is. I want to keep her close, have her whisper words of dark things, dark, dark things. She talks of knives, and guns, and tall buildings, and heavy, fast cars. And it sticks. Stays there. I can't go back to that place, I argue. Ohhh, she smiled, but yes you can. And you will. And it'll be glorious.







She knew of my addiction to sharp things, running across my wrists in desperate attempt to punish myself with pain, and she encouraged it. She bought me knives. Beautiful ones. Made with stainless steel, embroidered with regret, disappointment, and despair. Not enough. Too clean. Must paint in shades of red or else it won't do. She killed the man,

and now she'll kill the girl.

Drops.

f









                  a
                                                  l










                                     l








i


                         n





                                                                                                                               g




























a                                                                    a                                                                                 t                                                                               
                                    p                                                                                 r

Without Beauty.

I couldn't tell her that I slept with him because I wanted to be closer to her. I wanted to break a barrier between what I thought I was, and what I could be. It was her and her openness and her willingness to share with me that had changed me. It changed the way I thought, the way I saw the world, and the way I saw myself. I felt empowered when I talked to her, and I wanted to see the world the way she did.

It was my biggest mistake, thinking that she was such a free spirit nothing could bound her, nothing could hurt her, and that I couldn't possibly lose what I cherished of her. And this desire to become someone I wasn't, to become someone else I thought I could love because then I could be with her, was a poison.

I couldn't tell her though. She never asked why either. A feeling like that would be cheapened when I had to try to explain myself against her accusations, against her quiet understanding, mixed in with rage and hurt feelings of betrayal. I couldn't cheapen her feelings by explaining myself in a way that I couldn't, and in a way, wouldn't, understand. I haven't reached it yet. Not to that point when I could openly admit to myself that I was willing to try to be someone I wasn't. That I was curious about a world that was taboo to everything that I believed and knew.

It's a complicated feeling. Trying to find a balance between who you are and who you think you could be. But what if who you think you could be isn't really the person you're meant to be? How do you rationalize? How do you accept yourself afterwards? It takes a certain kind of person to break through those barriers to admit to themselves that it was just a part of the road to self-discovery. Others, who were stupid and brave enough to try something so taxing on self-understanding, end up living in self-destruction in pathetic attempt to forget regrets, to convince themselves that nothing ever happened.

She said not to regret anything. Not to become one of those people who self-destructed, who stopped exploring their sexuality, who saw sexuality as a curse rather than a gift. She was a free spirit, and she would hate herself, knowing that she's bound anyone's wings.

She forgave me (though not without proper consequences) only due to my naivety, on my absolute stupidity and blindness. After all, he was charming in a way that men never were: he gave a sense of respect and sincerity and security, where your insecurities fly out the window, despite not having any emotional attachments to him. He was the almost-perfect lover: detached, respectful, passionate, and giving. There was never a moment I felt used for my body. I felt empowered, a woman, and it was a freeing experience, to know that there was a possibility that sex didn't feel dirty afterwards. And I was one step closer to her. To someone I loved in a way I couldn't understand, loved and respected enough to venture deeper into an enigmatic world I'd been fighting.

I loved to tease her--it was something I didn't realize I enjoyed doing until I met her. A small tease built into something that hurt, that broke such preciously delicate trust. But it's too late now, to know that my family was right. Jokes and teasing never end well because feelings are hurt when the line is crossed. You can never uncross it.

She said she saw something beautiful in the situation. Free spirits always do. They see everything as an opportunity, of Fates realigning to bring something different. Good or bad didn't matter. It was something to experience, to learn from, to take in and become a part of. Victims can say that and they're benevolent souls of forgiveness and kindness. But when the perpetrator says it, regardless of how guilty they feel, they are unfeeling monsters. I feel like one. An unfeeling monster that chose hoes before bros, without even meaning to, without affection for the hoe. But doesn't that just make everything worse?

He was the step closer to her. And in all of my selfish self-discovery, thinking I could be closer, that I could possibly accept sexuality the way it was meant to be taken--without dirtiness; evil, sinful implications; or discrimination--I lost sight of the beauty of the things I cherished. I lost it all, thinking I could gain something else.

I wish I could say that I still felt like a woman, empowered, sexual, and proud. Instead, she's retracted back into her shell because upon discovering her, getting to know her, I hurt and distanced the very person that I wanted to be closer to.

It wasn't worth it.

ALL there is

IN ALL THE care
AND honesty
AND love
nothing beautiful ever comes of it
and when the time comes
the whirlpool becomes strong
and whirls and whirls and whirls
and the light starts to fade
and die
and the stars start to pulse of energies of the massive cosmos and
you start to wonder why anything was ever anything and the light shines and shines and then it


bursts


and as light shakes the foundation of the building you're standing atop of waiting for the sun to explode along with it
you feel the earth quake and sink and cry
and the building begins to fall
but you didn't want to die
you hadn't planned on dying
you were just trying to imagine what it would be like to fly

everything is crumbling as you fall
plummeting straight into the dark abyss of unknown
all because no one cared that you were suffering
and wondering what it would be like to fly
and now you would
but you really didn't want to
you really didn't
BUT there's no choice now
AND you close your eyes and flap your wings and click your beak
AND the wind swallows you whole

AND YOU BECOME a beautiful butterfly