Aaron Heaton and His Many Words

Go fuck yourself.

I know who you are.

You think I don’t?

The only thing I was wrong about

was thinking

I’d be any different from them.

I tried to pull your mask off

and there was nothing underneath,

not even a black hole,

not a damaged human,

not anything I could touch.

You were everything that pressured you

but nothing of your own.

Do you expect me to sit here

and think you treated me any differently?

Maybe once

but I was wrong.

Talk your shit about me.

Let your boy know how awful I was.

Tell him about my abuse.

Don’t forget anything,

don’t you dare forget a single detail.

I know who you are

Donut County isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions. What does someone mean when they want a donut delivered? Why is there so much trash everywhere in the city? What, exactly, is a donut? This is a game that’s not afraid to ask the hard questions, and make sure people get the donuts they want too.

Well, sort of.

The game is not about delivering donuts, not really. It’s about controlling a tiny little hole in order to collect objects, grow larger, and collect even more objects. It’s part itch.io, part Katamari Damacy and part millennial comfort food, featuring quirky anthropomorphic animals that talk like they text and text like they talk. The dialogue is snappy and light-hearted, even in heated moments, filled with puns and LOLs and intentional typos and an almost stubborn refusal to acknowledge the more serious problems that arise in the story. The world, the characters, the speech and delivery all feel like they came from a group of characters who grew up with the internet. It feels like a game made about my generation by my generation.

The mechanics of the game are limited to using the left stick to move the hole and your eyeballs to see what can fit into the hole. Each object expands the hole a little bit with a satisfying bouncy animation. Crumpled paper laying around and bits of grass give way to chairs and tables, household appliances, people and then eventually entire rocks and whole houses. The objects shimmy and bounce around the hole as you try to stubbornly jimmy them in despite knowing that grabbing a few more stepping stones would make your job easier, but finally getting them in the damn hole is a satisfying feeling. Even though the game doesn’t ask much of the player, despite layering on a few fun tricks in the late-game, scooting around the hole and eating things up is almost therapeutic.

So almost therapeutic, in fact, that you don’t stop to question what you’re doing until the game calls you out on it fairly early on. The driver of the hole is BK, a raccoon who’s using the hole app to get enough points for a quadcopter that he can pilot around, like a typical millennial. His best friend Mira who, along with the residents of the town, put him to task for hole-ing up their property in the form of flashbacks. Each vignette from the inhabitants of the town takes you on a little visual ride, which alone are worth the price of admission. You get to explore a slice of someone’s life as you slowly engulf and disrupt their goings-on, which can range from exploring the campground of a lonely vegetable salesman in the desert or prodding at the questionably-legal fireworks shop that’s opened up near the beach. The hole can explore a restaurant whose reputation has somehow escaped causing it to close, or even visit a raccoon theme park. Most levels have you manipulate the environment in order to remove obstacles or get faraway objects closer to the ground so you can, y’know, do the hole thing to them. The art style, which is full of pastel and contrast, give a personality to the game which makes just looking at it soothing, even as you’re really inconveniencing these poor townspeople.

The game isn’t very long, which is both a compliment and a complaint. The levels move at a fairly quick clip, never overstaying their welcome or presenting any sort of roadblock to progression. Being able to see such a wide variety of situations and art is a treat, plus the game is extremely low-commitment is you just want to jump in and play a level and get a bit of a chuckle. With that being said, the short levels make it hard for any additional tools the game gives you to feel very meaningful, and it loses the ability to teach the player meaningfully new ways to solve puzzles, which tend to be contained to single levels. Most levels can be done in a handful of minutes, with the longest one running me about ten.

I don't think she's a bad person but

One small white pill

At the same time every day

A physical fix

For my mental imbalance

“Here, take this,”

And all of your worries will go away

“Just a half at first,”

But if you don’t feel like killing yourself,

“Increase the dose.”

So much science and well-meaning

Compacted into a tiny thing

Like someone crawled inside my skull

And saw the hurt

Saw the fear

And concocted the answer

What I feared all along was true:

I never had anything

To justify this.

If this is a fix, why did my brain

Act against me?

Why was I cursed with

Bad chemicals?

Why did my sadness

Consume me?

My life, my work, my love

God dammit

The woman I loved

All because

I was too proud to accept

That maybe my life

Wasn’t quite as

Bad as I

Thought

Because I was too proud

To ask for help

It’s true what they say,

That you can never know happiness without sadness

And this little pill

Drowns my sadness like

I always wished a bottle could do.

I don’t know sadness anymore.

Waiting for the next one

because you are not moving.

“You” has lost meaning;

Three letters and a bitter taste;

Faded memories and empty promises

kept by the ghost that lives in my mind.

Another person to remind me of the dull ache

that my resignation into obscurity invites.

Without a wall to lean on and against myself,

my thoughts struggle against a tidal wave

of pressure cooked by my own sealed lips

which refuse to open to anyone

(if there were anyone who cared to try).

My hands are ten useless digits that used to feel useful

by using you-

For pleasure, for comfort, for a simple connection;

But now they are used to being unused,

regarded unamusingly by souls passing through.

My heart longs to be used again, even if for the

beautiful lie that we were meant to be together.

My heart ached then, pounding and screaming

to be good to you.

Now my heart simply is; a still muscle without

motivation beyond finding the right place to curl up.

To wrap my hands around my lips,

Just because you’re hurt,

Dead flowers are just as beautiful

As the living;

To see how the wilt and decay courses

through the petals

tells as much as how the sun

feeds the flower.

There is no shame in a wilting plant

except for what

you’ve been told to be ashamed of.

Like a flower preserved,

blooming healthily,

one falling down

is a biologically woven story.

My knuckles are smooth and fresh again;

my bones hidden by layers of

healthy fat and plump skin,

no longer dried hide stretched

for use to survive,

but a modern, living citizen.

And yet, it’s missed.

The bloody knuckles are in my memory.

The painful squeak of swollen joints

was calming, somehow,

And the sharp edges of bone

jutting out into the world bestowed

a kind of confidence

That doesn’t make sense to describe.

I was a skeleton, leaking its last millilitres

of blood.

A canvas pulled taut over an easel,

paintless.

My poems are forced words

just like the hurt

I try to feel.

The words slip away into

a place that isn’t,

calling me

to feel, to write, to live.

But happiness is too real

Too present

Too heavy

To go back to how it was.

Drowning the happiness in drink

is a headache.

And to ignore my friends feels

a complete waste.

A poor employee brings a

shame to myself.

Anger hurts the soul more

than you.

And ignoring sleep only seems

to kill tomorrow.

So I will be happy,

I wish I could have it back:

That year

full of lies;

what i thought was passion,

reduced to pleasantries;

words said just to please.

Sweet denial and

friendship.

Too afraid to let go,

to face life,

to face yourself.

Someone new fills the void,

an escape in the shape

of a cute

band boy.

Another new experience

set to make

your heart race

until reality

reels you back in.

There is no escape,

no solution

in other people.

Darkness doesn’t take pity

on those wanting reprieve.

Loneliness can be with

anyone,

and sometimes

the loneliest people

Look at me, what a catch:

A quivering ball of fat suffering from depression,

dragging my feet from day to day hoping

that maybe someone

will be the one to finally save me.

My emotions are suppressed and my

need for constant attention is in overdrive.

I’ll ignore you until I feel desperate,

And then I won’t ever stop.

And god help you if you show

me affection first.

Can’t talk, can’t write, can’t create.

A waterfall of words drowning themselves

in a basin of stupidity, too damn

mushy and real to leave on the page.

Grab the soggy paper and tear it up

like it deserves

Anxious and insecure and unsure

and guilty and controlling and

always too responsible

too harsh

too critical

too unloving

to be loved

Antisocial? Borderline?

Or just insane?

It’s hard to tell when your own brain

is fighting against its judgement.

Locked in with another person

(or are they locked in

with me?)

I grab a bottle and get to work

(booze, cough syrup, whatever’s in reach)

on removing myself from me.

A body without a mind or a mind

so out of it’s mind that it leaves

the body to mind itself,

and in most ways the body doesn’t mind.

Hundreds of long conversations

that

just beat around the bush

ramblings and false truths falling

out

of two mouths that are just struggling

to

make a connection with someone

Paranoia and suicidal thoughts;

Are they fucking right now?

Is he bigger than me?

What did I do to deserve this?

But the biggest thing?

I’m just not really enjoying myself.

If only it could be not so

With clenched jaw and closed fist,

and eyes that are afraid

to meet;

With unsteady gait, weakness

in the legs,

with brain that struggles to focus

or find meaning;

Minutes tick to hours.

“Are you okay?”

Water is fine, I say.

I watch the walls intently

and my phone absently.

If you never look at the time,

it doesn’t pass,

right?

What did people do before

Reddit, or Instagram?

Aside from engage with

other humans.

“Are you okay?”

Another pint, I say.

How long has that chip in the paint

been there?

How do I have to angle

just right

to see the door in the mirror?

How many dollars am I wasting

just by being here?

I’d like to order please,

with a smile,

as if I’m not choking back.

I’d like…

…

The…

…

“Sweet potato fries?”

Yes please,

with a laugh

as it’s written down.

As if my absent mind can be blamed

on anything other than this.

I get them in a container.

To sweethearts and wives,

to selfish lovers.

To those in our lives

who take and take and take

without return:

May you forever regret

what you’ve done.

May your memory never fail

even in old age.

May your mind be as spry

and as sharp

as now, for as long as you are.

As the world freezes over,

as inclemency

roars

because of foolhardiness,

remember;

To sweethearts and wives,

I cry.

“It's okay, you're just upset on the inside.”

Dad's wisdom.

He says it as if it's any different than being upset on the outside,

but he means well, and he loves me (obligatory).

But something about the lack of beauty in those words is beautiful;

A recognition of pain after a childhood of facades and miscommunication

(or communication a little too direct to know affection),

the feeling that maybe he's known this feeling:

the hurt of insecurity and loss and the pure terror

of never being quite enough

and compensating by being too damn much

for anyone.

But then he rewinds the movie, prodding me with his eyes

still glued to the screen-

“Look at the rack on that broad!”

Her body obscured by steam

and the million miles between her and him

and me and Her

and him and I

Pen-stealing inconsiderate fucks

Rifling through what’s mine

Only one day absent

Taskbar moved, chair tilted back

Do you see your name on here?

Outward politeness begets ignorance

Old white women who think

“Please” and “excuse me”

Are catch-alls for condescension

Manager in title only sits behind a desk

Away from his office

The 12x8 room where responsibility

Impatiently taps its foot

Waiting behind a two year old mantle

To finally be filled

And the countless other air-brained bees

Buzzing along to a dance

From a different hive

Teetering

Asking where each foot should be planted

You taught me a few things:

the importance of family;

always keep a tissue in your pocket;

and never trust anyone

Promise me this:

If I ever stop being special,

please leave me

If my company becomes

Comfort

or dissatisfactory,

please leave me.

When my jokes fall flat

and my smile no longer

warms you,

please leave me

When you know

you’ve already moved on,

Please leave me.

I would rather be thrown aside

selfishly,

But knowingly.

I’d rather the truth,

no matter the pain.

To keep me locked up

and to feed off of

my support,

to use my kindness as fuel

to escape me

is more painful than the truth.

Look in your heart.

Ask yourself the questions

you don’t want to ask.

Promise me this:

If you’ve ever loved me,