Nobody's Somebody

Ah, to be Nobody's Somebody
How delicious can it be?

To go here, there and everywhere-
With no arms to keep me still.

No kisses to touch my cheek.
No hands to hold my waist.

Just me with my thoughts
And my hair untouched

How glorious to be Nobody's Somebody it is!

I feel for the Somebody's Somebody
I really really do.

I'm sure if they had a moment to think
Well, they'd rather be a Nobody's Somebody too.

My Dearest Friend: 5 am

My Dearest Friend,

Do you recall my night time routine? Please forgive my getting straight to the point on this letter. I have barely noticed my surroundings lately, nor have I encountered anything to make mention of. My daily routine is the same as always. Work. Children. Meals. Prayers. Listening to this one and that one. So, there's really nothing new to discuss there. It is the night time that holds my attention.

Or, rather, the hours right before dawn when the house rests under the weight of its occupants. This is when I can breathe. When I feel myself relax and let go of the turmoil that has begun to engulf my life.

It used to be that 3 am my eyes would pop open. Some unseen force, rather it's my subconscious telling me there are things to analyze, or it be Insomnia, Himself, bringing out my demons march in front of my line of sight, but something would always wake me up at this un-godly hour. I used to tell you that 3 am was my witching hour and it was then, and only then, that my imagination really came to life. The shadows that lived in the lived in the corners of my bedroom woke up alongside me, and together, we would travel down some fantastic roads.

Do you remember? Can you recall the odd hours we'd stay up to? And how I'd explain my dreams to you? There were times you were so silent that I'd wonder if you were still with me on my journey. But, you were. You always were. You never strayed. No matter where I took you, you trusted me enough to bring you back to yourself safe and sound. 

Man, I miss that. I miss you.

That no longer occurs. I have chosen a painless night over my imagination. Each night, I take a tiny white pill that promises long hours of sleep with no pain. In return, I give up my journeys, my dancing shadows, the demons that frighten me and fuel my hellish stories of Insomnia. I feel like I've made a pact with the Devil. I would much rather be able to bare the lightning strikes that run from my abdomen down to my toes and call forth my imagination.

I want my 3 am and my long talks with God. My 3 am prayers.  I just want my 3 am back.

Instead, I set my alarm clock for 5 am every morning. Monday thru Sunday, the morning hour of 5 sees me starting a pot coffee and cracking open the bible. At 5 am, I am studious, inquisitive, and intent. Most mornings, I am writing down a bible verse here and there that speaks to me or my situation. I write my thoughts on the verse. And, finally, I write my prayers.

I started this 5 am routine around the start of summer when I was told that I had fibromyalgia. While I had long suspected it, what I didn't anticipate were the medications and their hellish side effects and what they would do to my 3 am self.

When I tell people what I do at 5 am, they seem to look at me with much respect. What they don't realize is what I am doing. I'm trying to find my way back to my 3 am imagination. Strange. I know. But as strange as it sounds, I also know if I had tried to explain it to you, you would have nodded and immediately known what I was trying to say.

My imagination is where I see Him. Where I speak to Him. It's where He comforts me and He answers my questions. Without my 3 am connection, I have become lost.

Now, I read and pray like everyone else and try to establish a connection that I don't think I was ever meant to have.

This has all left me wishing and praying for one important thing. God, please give me a higher pain tolerance so that I may get off these little white pills. So that I may awaken at 3 am and go on these wonderful journeys. Or, better yet, so maybe, I can talk to you like I used to. Five am holds no magic for me. The house holds no mystery, no malice as it rests beneath its occupants. Shadows do not move in its corners. Night lights are not needed. Five am is nothing more than a morning like every other that I wake up at. I do not come alive like I did at 3 am.

My sweet friend, it's times like this that I miss you the most. I miss your understanding, not just of the situation, but of me as well. Perhaps, deep down, that is what I miss about you the most. Your understanding of me and all my quirks. I never realized it til now. How much I lack that in my life. Since you've left, I haven't had another you. While you, yourself, will never be replaced, I do hope to have another friend to understand me as you did.

I miss you, my Dear Friend, more than you can see from your spot in Heaven.

I must go now. Now that I sleep past my witching hour, my alarm is set for 5 am. And it comes awfully early.

Love You So Much,

Wes

Restore Me

Restore Me oh Lord
To my future Self
Pass by my times of trials
And have Mercy on my wounded soul

Restore Me oh Lord
To what You will mold me into
I am nothing but clay in Your hands
But the process is so long and my skin oh so bruised

Restore Me oh Lord
Back to what I once was
Innocent of the world
Unknowing of You and the sins of my nature

Restore Me oh Lord
For I do not wish to see tomorrow
But it is the day after that most intrigues me
I have grown Weary on this journey

Restore Me oh Lord
I pray on fallen knees
Lift me and Carry me into the Future
And away from the trials of today

Restore Me oh Lord

This Ramen Noodle Life

So, there you stand, caught in a decision that many overstressed, overworked, and underpaid have faced before. It's been one of those days where you were ready to commit murder with the business end of a water bottle just so you could go to prison and get some rest. That's right. You're actually viewing the big house as a place of solace. After all, you quietly surmise to yourself, there aren't any children demanding that their tiny needs are met there. Bill collectors, ever so persistent in their attempts to squeeze blood from your precious turnip, wouldn't dare call you why you're inhabiting a 10x10 cell.

Yes, prison, even with the ugly orange jumpsuits and the rank smells of some unknown odor, is starting to look more appealing than the day-to-day struggle of the life you're living now.

And it's ok that you briefly wanted to trade it all in for a cot and three squares a day. Don't judge yourself too harshly. We've all been there.

 So, just stand there for a little bit. Bask in the cool air and inhale the different smells of the grocery store you're standing in. It's ok, really. Take your time Sweetheart. Pay no-nevermind to the little old lady as she pushes her buggy past you for the third time. Don't worry about the stock boy who keeps reaching around you to restock the shelves. There's no rush. Take all the time you need. And while you're busy taking what you need, feel free to take advantage of the precious moments you're getting to spend away from the kiddos.

Shhhh. It's ok. Don't feel guilty that a trip to the grocery store is like your own personal vacation. No one needs to know that you take a few extra  minutes picking out the right kind of cereal for your precious cherubs. We all know, that by now, you've memorized their favorite foods. You could go shopping for them with your eyes closed. I know that extra time you spend debating between Captain Crunch and whatever other cardboard tasting sugary concoction someone has created is really extra time you relish in not hearing your name being called.

Really. I get it.

But, now here you stand making the biggest decision of your week. This could determine whether you have that nervous breakdown and start screaming at the ankle biters because you stepped on a lego, or if you simply melt into the sofa and let them destroy the rest of the house. I know you feel guilty. I can tell as you finger the last remaining ten dollars you have in your pocket. The rest of the items, the crap the kids wanted and you wouldn't touch if you were starving, can be bought with your foodstamp card. But, you still feel guilty.

Ahh, yes. Good o'le Uncle Sam and his judgemental cohorts at the Department of Social Services. If it weren't for these proud folks, you and your demon spawn would be living the high life eating ramen noodles and drinking kool aide. Generic kool aide for that matter. But, since you are considered to be the 'working poor', the government has thrown you a bone.

God bless America.

So, swallow back that guilt forming in your throat. Don't worry about the looks you're gonna get from the other shoppers or the cashiers.  They don't understand your life and how stressful it is. You need this. You really don't want to lose it over a misplaced lego.

So, go ahead. Be that person. That foodstamp person that uses her foodstamps for food and her last remaining ten dollars on that delicious bottle of red wine you're reaching for now. Don't worry about judgement.

However, wait until the kids go to bed before you open it. And, for godsakes, use a glass.

My Dearest Friend: Starting Over

My Dearest Friend,

The seasons are changing and ushering in the start of a new school year. The kids are excited for this school year they start in a new home with friends they've known all their lives. These friends they now look upon as brothers and sisters. My children are happy with the turn their lives have taken.

I am a little less than thrilled. But, I am thankful.

The house that I was renting got sold. Frustrated and unable to find anything else affordable, I moved in with a childhood friend of mine. There are now seven of us sharing a three bedroom house. four children and three adults. Once again I am faced with starting over. Once again I am looking at a road stretched out in front of me and I wondering if I am strong enough to walk it alone with the two little ones that I must support.

Once again I am damning my poor life choices.

My thoughts I keep going back to writing. The more stressed I get, the more I want to bury my head in my imagination. After all, that is where you live. Where I hear your laughter. Where your touch still caresses my hair. In my imagination I face impossible odds everyday, and I defeat monsters more hideous than anyone could ever imagine. I write because I feel that it is all I have in this world. I hold on to my writing because in this world full of heartbreak and nonsense, it is the one thing that does make sense to me.

God, in all His mystery, demands that I rely on Him through faith. My writing demands nothing more than for me to take its hand and let it lead me on a wondrous journey.

My sweet, long, missed friend, how I wish you were by my side. I do not miss your council. I do not long for our talks into the early dark hours of morning. No, it is none of that. I simply wish to be able to lay my head on your chest. In the night, when the pain rips through my body and I can not roll over, I pray out that you can hear my cry. I pray that you are in Heaven and you can send a sweet kiss down to me to soften my fears here on Earth. Your mere presence is all I long for now. My body aches for yours in the same way that a child yearns for the safety of his favorite blanket.

I am lucky though. Lucky that I am so loved that people have allowed me to live with them. Lucky that others were willing to help me move my belongings at a moments notice. I am loved. I have often said that for all the wrong I have done in my life, I must have done something right.

For I am loved.

I must go now. Dinner is cooking and the children are getting restless. Their laughter is a different kind of medicine that my soul feeds on. When I close my eyes tonight, I pray that I see your smile in my dreams.

As always,

Me

His Perfect Tattoo

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The Darkness

I have to write fast, you see. Time, never one to stand still, or obey the desires of the needy and hubris, races on against my will. I feel raped of goodness and want nothing more than to wrap myself up in blankets and the clothing that has been stripped off of me.

But, none of that matters. I don't have to analyze any of it. I have to write. I have something to say. A last testament, if you will. I sit at the hard wooden desk with my back dripping beads of perspiration. My hair stuck to my shoulders, neck and back, with a plaster made of my own sweat mixed with blood.

The blood is foreign to me. My naked body, shivering in the heat, and long stripped of of its protected clothing, is void of any gashes that would allow blood to seep from it. The dark red body fluid that I wear is of the two dead bodies that call the dirty hotel room floor home. The blood has hardened on my light brown skin and provide a protective shell against the heat of the night. The sweat that slithers along this covering could not even penetrate it.

"Write faster," he tells me; nudging the back of my skull with the barrel of his gun.

"I am." I tell him. My adversary is shaking.

My quick response to his, and his cohorts, planned attack was not what he had expected. All thee men; tall, muscular, and heavy handed as they proved when they grabbed me, figured they could have their way with me. I'm sure they had anticipated some sort of resistance on my part. I think, deep down where secrets are buried and inner voices are heard, they looked forward to it. What they didn't bargain for

                                                           what they had no way of knowing

   was that inside my petite frame resided a darkness, that when unleashed, reviled Hell's deepest pit.

They never got the chance to rape me. Pinning me down, one man keeping my arms held in under his weight, while the other two busied themselves removing my clothes.

There were tears of course. As I write these words I find them to be useless. They don't convey the horror of the moment. The terror that he is experiencing right now as I feel the gun tremble against my bloody head.

"What the fuck are you writing?" He whispers. Spittle forms around his mouth. His eyes, once blackened by the sheer harm he intended me are now a light brown and bulging from their sockets.

The sight of the gun, held intently in his hand, was such a surprise moments earlier, that I had paused in my retaliation. The pause

                             that split second of humanity that had shown through the blackness

was enough to cause something within me to be still once more. That stillness was what gave him his edge.

I have to bring back that darkness in me. The evil that lurks down below. I have to capture it all so I can finish what I started.

My failure to answer his question does not cause my enemy to pull the trigger. He is in too much shock to end my life. He stands behind my blood drenched body

                             with his sweat soaked striped shirt and piss stained brown pants

with a morbid curiosity that I'm betting he's never experienced.

As his weight began to cut the circulation in my arms, the other two monsters were preparing their decent into my world. The darker one, with numerous prison tattoos and long blond hair, pushed my legs open. He laughed, even high fiving the blond, pale skinned man that sat at my rib cage. He wore only his socks and shirt. His small erection told me he was ready to meet me next.

Poor foolish bastards. Men, with their straight spines, large hands, and alpha thoughts, they always think they are stronger than their opposite gender. How wrong these imbeciles are.

How deadly wrong.

I felt his heat before he entered me. I know this now. I am also sure of the knowledge that it is this heat

                          the fire if you will

that diminished the light within me. That brought about my darkness.

"This isn't going to happen." I told him. And before he could laugh and mock my stupidity, I began to eat him.

Quickly.

I targeted the jugular. As my mouth quickly filled up with the bitterness of his life, I reached over with my left hand and tore his partner's jaw completely off.

I can not tell when the man with the gun leaped off of my arms.

Blood. It is an unusual substance. I have found in my past adventures that the taste has often reflected the owner's soul. These men

                                        monsters

were rabid at heart. Their darkness contained demons that seemed to have escaped from the darkest corners of Hell.

The second monster's body began to seize as I ripped open his throat. His blood was rancid. It burned as my saliva mixed with it and carried the fluid to the acidic home of my stomach. I could feel it churn as it made its way through my digestive system. I almost vomited back up.

Almost.

"Stop," the man had screamed. My head, snapping to look in his direction so quickly that my neck bones cracked, held a smile that appeared to frighten him more than the carnage that lay out before his eyes.

"Uh....stop." He whispered.

I stood up slowly, all the while swallowing back the rest of the life I had drained.

"So," I said. "Are you next?"

"Fuck you. You're going to fucking die, you fucking whatever-the-fuck-you-are."

"I have to write first," I told him. "I have to tell my story. When I'm done, then you can put a bullet through my head if you still want to."

He eyeballed me suspiciously as I reached behind me into the desk, that I'm now sitting at, to pull out a pen and stationary. Forever the wanna-be monster, his eyes took in my small breasts. He looked hungrily at my sex, and then snapped back to the reality of the present.

"Hurry up."

I smiled and began to write.

I was normal once. As I sit here, bathed in someone else's blood  and angry over the events that brought me to this moment, I have to remember that I was once normal. Of course it wasn't these men that caused the darkness to form initially. No, they just turned off the light. Not, it had happened a long time ago.

One day I walked this world normal. Then one night I broke. Simple. In a moment's time, I fell apart. And I was never the same.

He's telling me to write faster. He is in a hurry to end my life. I do not know the time. There are no windows in this room. How did I find myself in an old roach ridden hotel room with three strangers? Easy. I was searching for pills. Pills that would forever keep me walking in darkness.

I know they planned this. There is no guessing to it. As I write these words, retracing my steps of placing the phone call that lead to the dealer, who gave me the directions to this run down hotel room, I see that they've done this to countless women before. Of course, admittedly, none of that crossed my mind as I returned the brutality. Now, though, I can even hear their past victims screams. They echo off my skin, having been released from the monsters spilled blood that I wear. I hope my words calm them like a lullaby soothes a disgruntled infant.

The man's

                my wanna-be monster

curiosity has turned to impatience. He has yet to say it, but I know he will soon inform me that my time is up and he will expect me to make good on my promise. What he has yet to realize

                          and what I can not figure out

is that I rarely speak the truth. I am not sure what's inside of him that has caused him to believe that I would ever allow anyone to shoot me. Or cause me any harm for that matter. This statement is simply to inform those who happen upon it of the facts behind the carnage that will be found after I've left the room.

He is starting to shift his weight again. I don't have much time left at all. My window of opportunity is closing and the darkness has returned. I will lower my pen now. His neck is exposed.

The darkness is hungry.