Her fingers had fused to the keys on her laptop,
melting skin into plastic
so when they tried to move her,
the keys came of with little pops on her fingertips.

All color had been leached out of her
and instead of all her unique details
scars, freckles, and wrinkles
there were lines scribbled in Sans Serif.
They outlined her unblinking eyes and gently frowning lips.

With her features now overtaken by pieces of prose and verse,
she can't really speak anymore.
But when you're near her
occasionally you'll hear a desperate gasp from her unmoving lips:
"What happens next?"

In the summer,
when the sun goes down
the heat doesn't die.

It sits at the base of your closed window
breathing in the night air.
It gleefully dances across asphalt parking lots,
bragging about the hands it singed.

It lingers
as you decide if sleeping under a blanket is worth
waking up in a puddle,
and when you stare longingly at your jackets
that would kill you if you wore them
but still call to your from their hangers.

In the summer
the heat rules
with a glaring intensity,
and ushers in a new age
of water bottle guzzling.

There's little more to do
​when the sun is out to get you.

Sometimes my anxiety
is sitting down to plan out my day
and feeling my heart beating

Thumping against my ribs
shaking my bones
pounding inside me

I look down at my chest
and watch it thrum
through muscle and skin

it jerks
and twitches
accelerating
until my veins tingle with the pressure

but it doesn't slow
it doesn't stop
I realize I stopped breathing

can I breathe?
or will my heart slow down
if I hold my breath a little longer?
how long would it take?

still it's pounding
my ribs don't hurt
but they will soon
it'll come bursting through
I have to do something-

No-

I part my lips
and air rushes in.
Then rushes out.

Slow, controlled, breaths.
Until my veins no longer vibrate.
Until my fingers and toes aren't numb.
Until the room comes into focus again
and I see the sun is shining.

My heart isn't so frantic now.
But still beating.
So I pick up my pen and start writing
today's to-do list.

One day Billy woke up
and everything felt just a little off.

When he looked in the mirror
there was nothing at all different about him.
His hair was still black
he still had a couple zits
and his scars hadn't moved.
Well... maybe one new one on his cheek-
but still
nothing felt quite right.

When he walked
his feet felt lopsided
like they'd switched sides
or were too flat.

And when he spoke
his voice sounded wrong.
He had a British accent
which made no sense.

But when he called his mom
she couldn't hear anything wrong.
She said he'd just come back from a semester abroad
so it made sense.
But he'd never left the country.
He was terrified of planes.
It was all wrong.

So learn from this story, everyone.
Billy was forever trapped in the body of his other-dimensional self
all because he dabbled in things he shouldn't have
and refused to obey the rules.

Don't be like Billy.
Never play around with wormholes.

The ghost of rain drips
onto lonely desert sands.
No moisture remains.

She cuts through the threads of time with golden shears
reaching past the insignificant
the dull and monotonous
to pluck out her favorite moments.

Around her, you see she's framed them.
Each hung upon her wall
with care to preserve the memories.

All are glimmering or thrumming with darkness
according to their subject matter.
Each with its own significance.
And when it's an immortal judging a moment's worth
you know it must carry weight to deserve such preservation.

On the wall you find quite a variety of scenes.
Some that you expect to see
such as the creations of worlds
and a couple destructions thereof.
But there are others too.
Smaller, focused clips
of fingers intertwined,
smiles and laughter,
single blooms from dry soil,
a furry paw upon a cheek.

If you could ask her about them,
she'd tell you story upon story
as there are countless frames upon her walls.
But this is only a glimpse.
You can only marvel
from your own frame,
and wonder at your significance
in the mind of this all-powerful being.

Like the trees
I'm reaching ever higher.

I look towards the brilliant sun
and the sky beyond,
and know that even trapped within this gravity
I can become more than I am now.
I can transcend any boundary that's placed in my way.

Though barkless and rootless,
I still grow
and expand my understanding.
​
Through knowledge and action
I become more than I am.

The forest has always been a more forgiving friend,
had a kinder ear
a gentler touch than any of my own people.

Except her, of course.
The dancing, laughing figure at the edge of my dreams.
The girl whose eyes captured mine from the very first moment
who stole my heart when I mistakenly let her disappear.
Now I can only hear snippets of her voice when I close my eyes and remember,
or when ravens chatter in the branches nearby.
But memories cannot be the same
as sitting next to her in the canopy
and watching the stars flicker to life in the sunset sky.

I try to convince myself
that the trees and vines are enough companionship.
Entities willing to respond and twine to my will
the perfect friends.
But nothing can ever truly replace
the girl with the spidersilk hair.

Images drawn by Naomi Blackwell of The Mad Crafter's Corner

There's a skittering, chittering, screaming chorus
floating behind my eyes.

I don't know what it wants
or why me.
But every day it's louder
and fills another part of me.

It makes me wonder
how long until I'm fully gone
​and only the denizens remain.

When that adrenalin pump inside
your chest has run its marathon,
the aftermath is sluggish.
Your eyes dim and limbs drag.
And amidst all
the hype you
just want
​sleep.