ColourCoated

The sunlight hits me in the face harshly. It had been a while since I had seen any, skipping towns by night had become my thing lately.  People can't see as well at night, or maybe that's just what I've convinced myself. Sweat is beading on my forehead and I wipe it on my sleeve. I can hear her call my name, languidly and with a hint of sarcasm. Like she doesn't want me to respond, like she wants me to fuck off. I've come too far to leave her be now, she should know this.  I grunt and walk over to her, her eyes unaffected by my sudden presence. "The sun is hot today," My voice is rough over her ears and she blinks at me.

The little toy soldier stands at attention, waiting for command. The young boy watches his room. It is torn apart in imaginary battle. His mind can call all the shots, victory or defeat. In his right hand he holds the General, and his left, the Lieutenant. They mash together violently in his palms. The clash of plastic mimics the tear of flesh. Blood red walls surround him. No one but the boy can hear the frightful cries of war, so alive in the little room. Every wall another stretch of a thousand soldiers, every explosion drowned out by the screams of passion. But this battle is cut short. Dinner is ready.

I'm begging you for change on the street corner, mourning my own death with a handful of nickles. Starving for attention when I'm the center of it all, dancing in and out of forced skeptical views. Take it back - I can't hold on to it for you.

I do not feel betrayal no longer, but remember what it felt like. A weight of heavy surprising guilt, for letting you get that close to me and them. And you, my mother, ever so careful to always hurt my feelings, chipped at my self worth and insecurities- until I was nothing more than a questioning, defensive fool. I begin to build back up. Roadblocks scarce but present, trouble mounting the acceptance. But getting closer. So I forgive, but never forget. And still hold you at arms distance. My fair heart letting you stay, my vengeful thoughts causing me to bite my tongue. This time I'll be careful.

I've tasted sewage, Dripping out of my mouth, these words, like garbage. I see the photos you so kindly cut me out of. Decades will pass, and you will miss those old reminders. Yes, we were friends, yes, we are enemies. But the good times still are concrete sidewalks of former streets on which we strolled. You once were the most important thing to me, But do I miss you? No. I miss the old you, the you that was sweet and understanding. Caterpillars change, I into a butterfly, you into a moth. A sunny storm is still a storm no less. I'll drink to metamorphosis, but it's too bubbly for my liking. Bad choices and silken handkerchiefs

Silence, it is the wind tapping his nearby window. I feel the rustle of the sheets, warm body heat dancing on my thighs. The alarm won't sound for another hour. Risen sun, late starts are our sunday ritual. Roll back over, enveloped in your scent. Would be my favourite moment, if not for the ones made before we fell asleep. Gentle breathing, we don't need to speak in raspy morning tones. Naked, comfortable, skin to skin never felt so routine. If pillows could talk, I know they'd say the dirtiest things. Love is this and this is love. Late starts are our sunday ritual.

Salty words drip from those thinly painted lips, a letterhead of flaws written for this poet. I saw you coming and I let you dance through my door, making me feel like expired dairy products left in the sun. Immaturity seems to be your strong suit, as I have left my heart too many times on the ground, fallen, broken, crushed by sasquatch's big feet. I won't beg, I don't regret, and seemingly you don't perspire over me. Nothing I am to some old friends, to others I am a calming whisper. Some will never leave my side, and new aqaintances flutter forward. Time will pass and you will realize your stupidity, like the old tick tock of y

Sometimes to feel is all together a terrible thing. To cry at the mere notion of sobreity in a world so full of mercy, yet so full of crime and poverty. Should I write your name on the dotted line? Gluttony is fashionable and we are on the runway, teetering over the edge into sin, simmering and hot on the burner. Democracy seems lost in today's catergorization of human kind. Or have we forgotton what once was? What may be? Addicted to power and saturated in commoner's blood, we shall rise up and commit the mistakes so many before us have. Just give us your name and we'll be on our way.

I was never scared of Nolan Thomas. I knew why other children ran away, crying for their parents, but when I first really met him all I could see was the shiny new toy car he played with. He was all alone and next to him lay several more cars. "Bess!" my mother shouted across the playground. I just slumped down in the grass. Right next to Nolan. "I'm Elizabeth," I said in a childishly high voice. "I know," he answered without looking up from the car accident he just caused. His pitch black hair hung in front of his face and made it impossible to see more than a stern set mouth. "Can I play with you?" I asked and opened my hand for him

At the Appointed Time I awaken with a start, experiencing déjà vu. My mind  is  flooded with questions. "What day is it? What day? Are they here? Are they safe?" Slowly, as my mind starts swimming  to consciousness, I realize, it's November 1st. I recall now with resigned horror what I can never remember on October 31st. They're gone. Always gone, until, that is, our one day together, bittersweetly, cursed as it has been every Halloween. Five years have passed since the terror happened. I'd spent the day putting the finishing touches on the twins' and Emmy's costumes. I've  always loved the holiday, fraught with memories  as it