The Musings of My Mind

Category: Fiction


A box filled with anguish landed in my palms today.

Suppressed feelings of dreariness emerged and down the black hole I went,

Spiraling down into obscurity.

This cocoon of gloom never strays because it knows I never will.

I may flirt with tranquility, fluttering my wings into communities of others who don’t feel like me,

My doubt is pushed past, my fear ignored,

But the many masks of a dancing fool can never truly disguise

The numbness.


On the outside, I am holding onto a fantasy with bleeding fingers.

All the while, Emptiness cheers.

She twists and shouts along to the music of Hopelessness.

Somberness grabs Rejection, leads her into a dip

And my nausea sets in.

The spotlight shines on Burden and Grief as they

Seemingly float across my heart,

And the crowd goes wild.

I take deep breaths and try again to ignore

The boom and bass of Brokenness’ drum as it

Creates an entrance for the shrill cymbal of Numbness.

But the whole gang erupts in celebration, and I become small.


I melt into the box and allow myself to find comfort

In the most consistent emotion I try so hard to conceal.

The numbness breathes life into me and I oblige.

It reminds me I am nothing, and I harbor it in my head.

Deeper and deeper, down into the emptiness,

Tumbling past my corpse of what was

And falling into a pit of what currently is.




I lie at your feet like a begging child.

Hoping and praying that you’ll love me back.

I scratch at your back door like a stray cat,

Waiting for a morsel of affection.

I unapologetically give my all…

Imprudent and weak,

Feeble like a branch

And continuously in amazement of

What you have the power to do to me.

Sorrowfully disappointed with what I

Allow and ceaselessly accept.

I lie under your arm and

Listen to the sound of you existing…

Taking you in each time I inhale,

Exhaling expectations and things I deserve

Because I unapologetically love you

More than I.


I lie next to you, watching your chest rise and fall with every shallow breath you take. You sleep soundly and peacefully, but I am paralyzed. My courage is rendered useless against my aching heart, beating only for you. I want the courage to walk, to run, to flee into the wind and taste the freedom of breathing without it hurting. I lie next to you, fighting the urge to cover your mouth with mine…line your lips with my tongue.

Hate him. Hate him.

I can’t. I can’t do anything but taste the resentment in my tears as they fall, fall, fall…building a wall between us that sooner or later, I will tear down. I lie next to you, broken and weak, surrendering the best parts of me to you and giving myself the remnants I don’t dare share with your light.


And then what, I ponder. If I do, I’ll continue to be trapped within the bounds of my deep emotions, all of them spelling out your name. My thoughts imprisoning me with images of your smile…your beauty. I am defining insanity by continuing to give you peace while I run myself ragged, but I am stuck. I am frozen. I am awed at my fear of taking a single breath without you by my side. I watch you breathe deeply, wondering what tales are unfolding in the four corners of your curious little mind. A scream is caught in the back of my throat, a blow is trapped inside of fists, a better version of me lies within…but all I want to do is love you. I want to wrap your arms around me and feel your heart beating against my back. I want you more than I want me.

You’re crazy.

I know, I know. I’m weak, soft and foolish, defining insanity by lying here breathing while you torture me unknowingly. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do so I lie here. Paralyzed. Crazed. Afraid.


In love.


They sat on her front steps consumed by a loud quieting of emotions as the streets that lied before and beyond buzzed and roared with an excitement that escaped them. Neither of them had uttered a word since leaving the restaurant, but their silence spoke the truth they’d long been afraid to face. Lina always thought this moment would be filled with tears and hugs, along with the inability to let go, but all she felt was peace. It wasn’t unwelcomed, but it also wasn’t expected. She looked over at Dixon to find him gazing at her thoughtfully. Smirking, Lina grabbed his hand and turned away. They both sighed. Her mind travelled back to the start of their relationship and how they met. Closing her eyes, Lina imagined the way his hands used to feel on her back; always warm and always inviting the most vulnerable parts of her to come alive. She remembered how the sound of his laughter made her want to repeat the same joke ten times over again just so he’d make that same lovely sound. So she’d feel his body trembling, his eyes twinkling and ultimate contentment shining through his cracks and edges. Even in that moment, broken and filled with a promised life that would never come to fruition, she still felt an ease and comfortability she feared wouldn’t be found in another person. Right then, Lina desired the taste of his lips. She looked back over at him and squeezed his hand, beckoning his attention. When their eyes met, Lina’s mouth formed a small smile that she hoped would be reciprocated. Instead, Dixon sighed and said, “This is depressing.”

As if containing a mind of their own, Lina’s shoulders slumped and her hands slowly released their hold on Dixon’s. He protested and tried to revive the intimacy in that moment, but with three small words, it had disappeared.


On the outside, I’m functioning. I walk, talk, breathe and speak like the rest of the people in this world, but on the inside, I’m curled up in a dark corner. I haven’t moved an inch from my rusting, dingy post since last fall, and every time I think I might’ve slayed the dragon within, it finds a way to pull me back in. It speaks to me in a low, coarse tone, expanding the shrill fear that is embedded in my blood. It furthers my sick belief in the validity of my insecurities, and then, I am stuck. I am left rocking back and forth in the corner of my mind while I smile and wave politely at the onlookers from here to those beyond. But on the inside, I’m drowning and sinking in an ocean of doubt and self-hatred, and it feels so…good here. I’ve cried sordid tears of blood for years, and over time, those tears have formed a batch of their own, forging the self-destruction that was created at the hand of my own knife. So really, this is all I know. I might even call it home. I often wonder what life was like before I allowed my brain and my innocence to crumble under the tyranny of my weaknesses. When did I stop fighting the good fight, only to go to war against myself? I’ve called to the gods of the world begging for a life other than mine. Perhaps a bird who is unrestricted by all other than the limits of the sky. Or maybe, a shoe, or a pair of eyes to see the beauty in all things dreary, ears to hear the music in all that has been silenced. If just for a moment, I could not be me, perhaps I’d understand how I allowed the demise of my soul. Everywhere you look, there are magical words of wisdom and encouragement that are supposed to raise you up from the ashes of a hypothetical death, make you shiny and pretty, and then send you off into the world to be brand new. A “new you!” they say. What they fail to understand is that when you’ve squelched your own light by choking it with the darkness residing within, there aren’t any amount of adjectives and verbs that will make you love yourself. There isn’t a step-by-step guide on how to wake up every day and not want to die. Just once, I want to look at myself and be grateful for my existence. I want to relish the accolades that I’ve redeemed rather than be misunderstanding of how a person so emotionally and mentally distraught could be worthy of such things. Ah, and there it is. The truth has spilled out. I am completely unworthy and undeserving of life and breath, but for some reason, I am still here. There is a war going on at the top of my staircase, and a small child looks on with glassy, hopeless eyes. She gazes at the filth before her and understands that life will never be the same. And right in front of the gun-toting, blood-stained monster, she kills herself before it killed her. Knowing she’d never win was more than she could bear.

Letters II

I still send letters to the dead. I can either blame it on my inability to let go and move forward, or I can say that it’s a form of therapeutic expression and it allows me to cope with my grief. Either way, I write letters to the dead. I inform my loved one of the goings on of our family; who’s getting in trouble, who still cries, who doesn’t, or what the weathers like. I tell them of the brief moments I see them. How during last years Thanksgiving, I saw them picking through their food, sitting in their usual seat right across from mine. Although cousin Henry occupied our beloved’s old seat, I still felt and saw their presence, glowing in my midst as if it were of the norm. And I told them that. I told them about the new begonias I just planted for the upcoming spring season, how my husband forgot my birthday again, but I don’t mention that Jackie got another DUI. I don’t want them to think I can’t control my marriage. I don’t mention the fact that last week, I fell asleep on the wheel twice. Old age, and all that. Nor did I include that I want to take the kids away from Riley for awhile because I suspect the drinking has started up again. I can smell it on her breath whenever she comes over to help me with the cleaning. Those Clorox products just have such a strong scent. Everyone keeps telling me to switch, but it just happens to be the best.

But these are little things on the grand scheme of life, the big picture. They’re just little stars on a giant sheet of black sky filled, filled, filled with much bigger, happier, and brighter stars. I do envy them, though. Sometimes, not all the time. I envy the fact that they get to disappear like that. They can drop in whenever they’d like, but they don’t have to stick around for life’s idiosyncrasies. I envy the silence. I can’t seem to find any around here, but that’s okay. Life is a giant sheet of black sky filled, filled, filled with stars.


The emptiness is screaming.
It was once a shy whisper
That evolved to a dull sound..
Penetrating my mind
Every waking second.
It fears my naïveté is overtaking
My control..
But did I have any to begin with?
I ached to feel something.
I yearned for the evolution of my
To be taken from fantasy to reality.
But then, the emptiness.
It loomed.
It rested on my shoulder…
Creeped into my thoughts
&told me to run.
“There’s nothing for you here,”
It said.
Making itself crystal clear
That I should replace my wants
With a deep, red fear.
Because as was warned..
There is only brokenness
Behind the doors I so wish to open.


After she fell asleep, I stared at the knife for what seemed like a really long time, though I’m sure it was just a few minutes. It called out to me in a low, cool whisper and I pretended to ignore it. I got up to wash the dishes, I took a shower, I watched the baby sleep, but through all of those things, I could hear the knife calling my name. It wanted to feel my insides and watch my blood and guts ooze out in a conglomerate of expression. Somehow, it knew that my mind was an amalgamation of hate and curiosity, so it called to me. For weeks, I didn’t adhere to it’s beckoning call. For weeks, I allowed myself to slump through my daily life of pretending to love my kid who seemed to cry even when he was happy, my mediocre job, and the frigid woman I’ve been with for the last 27 years. How tiring it is to wake up and live the same day over and over again. You never realize it’s actually happening until you notice that people begin to know your every move, every next step and the one after that. I was on the train some time ago and a poor excuse of a woman said to me, “I like your tie today. It’s always that same blue one with the white stripes, but today it’s yellow. Very nice.” I’d never seen her a day in my life, but apparently, she had seen me. She’d seen me enough to know when one little thing about my appearance changed. What’s worse is that the only reason my tie was different that morning is because I was lathering jelly on some toast and somehow, it got all over my tie. So, I changed. That was the morning, though. Once the sloppy, purple glob flew vigorously onto my tie, I rolled my eyes, and muttered to myself that I hated my life. It’s just jelly, I know, but you’d have to be me to understand. Then, the sight of the knife caught my eye. In a way, it reminded me of myself; wasted potential. Here I am with this powerful tool, this object capable of literally taking someone’s life, and I’m reducing it’s grandeur, it’s overwhelming capabilities just to put jelly on my fucking toast. That whole day, I thought about allowing it to roam freely through me in order for it to do exactly what it was designed to do. I danced around the idea relentlessly, doing menial house chores and work duties all while imagining the pain that would course through my being upon the insertion of that knife. Now, as I stare at the gleaming silver, edges sharp to a fault, I’ve decided to answer it’s call.

I picked up the knife and licked it. I licked a bit too close to the edge and nicked my tongue, but it felt sweet. It tasted like relief, and instantly, I knew I wanted more. I needed to feel more. I cut my tongue again, but deeper, and within seconds, blood pooled on my tongue, spilling out of my mouth with fury, and I let it. I looked into the mirror and smiled back at my blood-stained, toothy reflection. Heavy droplets of blood fell into the sink and just looking at it made my knees feeble. My heart curled at the sight of the slick, white porcelain become tainted by my sin. My grievances were all over the place, but it made me feel alive. I tingled all over my body, goosebumps rose on my arms, and then I cut my wrist. At first, not too deep. Admittedly, I was afraid. Although the pain was elaborate in it’s pleasure, I wasn’t prepared to end my little tirade and I wasn’t sure which direction to cut safely, so precautions were taken. But before I could restrain my excitement, I got carried away. Before I knew it, the knife had seduced my will and readiness. My right arm was slashed extensively, giving way to raw skin, and of course, a plethora of blood. It was eagerly pouring out of me as if it had felt trapped and imprisoned within the confines of my skin. If so, we were both breaking free.

Looking into the mirror, I felt like a masterpiece. I was quite pleased with what I’d done so far, but the knife still seemed to thirst for more. My hand held it steadily and tightly as I put it to my abdomen. It wanted to dig deeper, further its’ prodding of my body, but I hesitated. I questioned what the next step would be because surely, this could be it.

“Don’t be a pussy. Put it to your heart.”

Having been startled, I dropped the attempted murder weapon and swiveled around quickly to see my wife standing in the doorway with an unamused facial expression. I watched as her eyes roamed the entirety of my body, as well as the the blood spatter that had accumulated in various places. I tried to read her, but I couldn’t. In all honesty, she looked a bit bored. Almost as if this was a movie she had seen one too many times. I expected her to turn on her heel and remind me to shut the bathroom light off when I was finished, but instead, she bent down to pick up the knife. In a slow motion brimming with confidence and familiarity, she brought the knife directly to my heart and little by little, she pushed it in. At that moment, I stopped breathing. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I began to imagine what dying would feel like, I tried to make peace with it, but I was afraid. Her serenity was daunting.

“Are you scared?”

“No.” I lied.


Finally, she removed the knife from my chest and stared at me intently. It dangled from her finger tips effortlessly, making me wonder which of the two was more dangerous; her or the knife? I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me. Stepping closer to me, my wife put her lips to mine, the knife to her throat, and when I pulled away, she collapsed. Blood spurted out of her throat in a way that made my excursion seem childish. I ogled her lifeless body, eyes wide open, mind wide shut, and I envied her. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, but I avoided my eyes. I couldn’t face the embarrassment I felt in failing at suicide. I sighed deeply and turned on the shower to clean myself off as my wife lied on the floor soaked in a puddle of her own blood. Right then, the baby let out a piercing cry as if he knew that his entire life just plummeted into a heaping pit of flames before it could even begin. At least one of us got away.


With each step bringing him closer to the door that held his secrets between the hinges and on the other side of it, hesitance jumped out of the shadows and attacked him. Fear inserted itself into his body, and he turned back to his car to contemplate a swift return to the city in hopes of forgetting the whole thing, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t if he tried because the dark thoughts that’ve trampled him since the incident would barely even let him sleep. Perhaps if he’d been the only person to witness his accident, the paranoia wouldn’t be so malicious in it’s intent to absolve him of clear and concise thoughts. Surely, he wouldn’t be forced to grovel and weep his way out of something that would stay within him until it was he who was a lifeless corpse and not an innocent bystander. But in fact, someone had seen. Images of her eyes, wide and glossy with tears pooling from disbelief and disgust, flashed before his eyes. They screamed loudly, making him squirm and gag for even he couldn’t believe that he was capable of such carelessness. Such disregard for life itself. He took one last glance at the door, shimmering in it’s olive green glory with a wiry brown wreath celebrating the joy of Thanksgiving. He gazed at the happy turkey and the little pilgrims that seemed to be dancing around it, all their faces clad with frozen smiles and black stitched eyes that held not a single emotion or thought. He envied them. He envied the fact that they weren’t burdened with the responsibility of existing. As he turned his back to the house and began to walk away from it, suddenly, the door opened. A bright light cast itself out from the inside and a shadowy figure stood in the doorway.

“I’ve been watching you this whole time.”

Her was voice scratchy and small. She sounded afraid, yet determined to hold her ground. He turned to face her and walked closer. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, and lips slightly chapped. She fiddled with the red scarf that was bound tightly around her neck. She seemed nervous. He studied her posture, her frame, build, and height. He took a quick look around the area and noticed that they were the only two people out. He could kill her at this very instant by choking and strangling her to death. He imagined his dry hands wrapped her neck, pushing her back into the house and up against the wall as he stared deeply into her eyes while she took her lasts breaths. Except he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Someone was always watching. He knew that now.

“Listen, I just…” He sighed. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” She seemed angry.

“Jules, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry it happened and I’m sorry you had to see it. It was all…really fucked up. It was an accident and I hate myself for it. You have to believe that. I don’t know how I’m going to live the rest of my life with this.”

“At least you’ll have a life to live. Did you ever think about that?”

He lowered his head and said, “everyday since the accident.”

They stood in silence feeling their lives exploding around them. Everything seemed to be at a standstill. Simply waiting for one of them to take their next breath, speak their next word. One, drunk night had taken a wrong turn and there was no going back. He could see the fear in her eyes and hear her heart beating too fast. He attempted to reach his hand out to her but she took a step back and scowled.

“You’re a…you…” Tears began to fall freely, but she wiped them away. “You killed him!”

“I know what I did. I’ll never be able to forget it.”

“You asshole! You killed him and you left him!”

“Shhhh! Don’t…you can’t shout things like that. Maybe we can just go inside and talk about this?”

All of a sudden, her face fell. Laughter trickled out of her little by little and then all at once. Her face still wet with tears, she laughed so hard she had to hold on to the doorway to balance herself. Finally, she looked up at him and shook her head slowly.

“I can’t believe you thought I would actually let you get away with this. The police are on their way.”

And with that, she kissed him on the cheek, walked into her home and closed the door. She left him on her stoop, banging on the door violently and awaited the sound of piercing sirens that’s should’ve been heard that night.



“My parents enrolled me into a school for special kids, but I don’t like it. They all act like victims.”

“Well aren’t they? They weren’t asked to be born that way.”

Sighs deeply. “None of us ask for anything. No offense, but your ears are pretty big and you have terrible skin. I’m almost positive you didn’t beg for that and I’m sure you received your fair share of sandbox name-calling. But you live and breathe. Our culture has a weird obsession with victimizing people and I don’t get it. I actually like to think that I’m lucky. Sure, my eyes are funny but they work in a way that was said to be impossible by five doctors. I can walk and talk and breathe and my brain functions the way yours does. I want to go to a regular school with regular people, I’m not disabled. I don’t need people to read and write things for me, I don’t need people pitying me. You want to pity someone? Go pity that poor fool on Bleeker St. who thinks the angels give him handwritten notes from God. My parents are afraid that I’ll be teased, but my grandpa told me that almost anything can be solved with my fists. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

Laughs. “What makes you sad about your eyes?”

“Well…all the pretty ladies on TV and all the Disney princesses are so shiny and perfect-looking. They don’t ever show what different people look like.” She casts her eyes down and frowns.

“Why does that make you sad?”

“Because!” Eyes wide with enthusiasm and disbelief, she says, “I’m only 10 and I’m already self-conscious. How am I supposed to be happy when the world just keeps telling me there’s something wrong with me?”

“Who else do you think feels this way?”

“Minorities.” Shrugs. “I watch the news.”

“You seem to be well informed for a 10 year old.”

She speaks softly. “When people treat you like you’re stupid, you tend to spend your time trying to prove them wrong.”