I think, therefore Iamb.

Sweaty palms wring the slightly damp cloth. Trembling fingers twirl the fabric's fraying edges, worrying the threads away from the whole, making a mess that falls to the floor, bit by stringy bit. There would never be enough fabric to calm her nerves. She sits there, head down, stocking feet swinging slightly as they hang inches from the floor, hands folded in her lap and furiously working the once fine silk. She will never be good enough. The slump of her shoulders outlines her dejection. Another failure, another meeting, another almost that will never lead anywhere. Her eyes focus on the shoes in front of her, poking out from well tailored black trousers. Nice shoes, shiny. Filled with normal, unscary feet. Shoes were safe. They don't look at you with looming disappointment. They just shine. Her eyes never traveled farther upward than the shoes, and, as the deep baritone of disappointment droned over her head, she imagined that there was, somewhere, a world made only of shoes. Shoes that shone brightly in the sun, with wagging tongues and happy soles frolicking in the grass. She would like that world, full of shiny shoes. No one is ever disappointing to a shoe. She rises from the chair, half-hearted promises to try harder not quite leaving her well chewed, wind chapped lips. Dark shadows call to her, reprimanding her slouch, threatening to take away the well worn reminder of her mother clutched between her fingers. She runs. She will fight past the numbness. She will find a place where there are shoes. As she settles in the snowbank, feeling cozy and warm in her stocking feet, she rubs the sweaty silk cloth against her cheek. She may never find shoes, but, for once, she felt happy. And that, she thought as she closed her eyes, is enough.  

Except, of course, goodbye, because I really now must go— I need to take the trash out-- It looks like rain, you know?

We could sit and paint the words, Let them run across our hearts like Water colors. Black and blue, the fading hues Compose the lines of I love you’s Like water colors. We could pretend it’s not the end, Sit back and let the world blend in Our water colors. And in the end we’ll be defined by All the lines we left behind, blended Cracked, but still sublime, Our water colors. So is this the end of me and you; But our painting isn’t through, Come sit and paint a verse or two In water color.

“Oh God, thank you so much!” She clutches desperately at my hands, hands that had pulled her from the path of a speeding car only moments before. “Don't mention it.” I said shortly. She shook her head adamantly, still clutching my hands. “No really, I have to do something to thank y--” “Pride runs in my family.” Five simple words and she immediately drops my hands and backs away, her expression shifting into knowing sympathy. “Ah, well, you were great, but...ah, the 43 puppies that you didn't save this morning and all that, you know?” She babbles, but the thanks still shone from her eyes. She turns to make a hasty retreat, waving nervously over her shoulder, not wanting to be the cause of my Fall. It was always like that with Pride. It was one of the worst of the Seven to Fall to, one of the easiest to creep in from just about anywhere. Some argue that Sloth is worse, turning afternoon naps into the Great Slumber, but for me, Pride will always win hands down. I idly track her form until it disappears around the corner, then I physically shake off the doldrums from the impromptu encounter, straighten my weather-worn but much beloved hat, shove my hands in the pockets of my trench coat, and continue somewhat dubiously into the rundown building in front of me, eyeing the peeling paint and the partially lit open sign with trepidation. I got the tip anonymously, which is not unusual, but the roach motel that I was directed to was less that what I expected, given my usual clientele. I'm not being Prideful, just honest. I have been a Confessor a long time, far longer than most last. The elite favor me, and their fingers suffering from the stiffness signaling the onset of Greed means that they pay well, so in turn I favor them. Its a dangerous job, but I'm good at what I do. It's not easy to help people out of a Sin, but I have a knack for keeping volatile situations from going straight to Deadly. I am one of the only Confessors in the business that has a nearly spotless track record and I intend to keep it that way. I open the door to the downtrodden little motel room and study the gentleman in front of me in order to avoid looking at the dismal state of the rented room. He has come to me for help, the light green tinge of Envy already present on his skin making it clear why I'm here. Upon closer inspection, I notice his skin had slipped and was sagging off him like an ill fitting coat underneath what was once no doubt a well tailored suit. Oh God. Envy and Lust. You almost never see two Sins in one person, but when you do, it isn't pretty. He didn't have long. He knew it and I knew it. “Have you thought about the convents?” He shook his head adamantly, skin swaying sickeningly with every movement, “I've got kids you know, I can't provide for them if I go in there.” “You can't provide for them if you're dead either,” I stated bluntly. “You don't understand! I should be good enough! I should be able! I can best this!” The man dissolves into somewhat inarticulate murmurs after that and I feel my stomache drop straight to my shoes. Wrath. My inner voices shriek in terror. He's also got Wrath. More than enough to Explode. And Pride. He's filled with it, plenty enough to Fall. I've been set up--sweet merciful Heavens, how? This isn't someone that needs help, this is a trap. He's a time bomb, full of so many Sins that its only a matter of when he'll become Deadly and who he'll take with him. I pray to God its not me. I have to think quickly. He is between me and the door—stupidity and overconfidence on my part—and a glance out the window reveals why I'd been sent to this particular room in the seedy motel—no fire escape. With a calm I did not feel I reach for the room's phone. “Want a beer?” I posed the question casually, as if I did not realize how close he was to Deadly. He paused in his ramblings and I saw it, there in his eyes. “Food too” he demanded, licking his lips. “Food too then.” I agreed amicably, forcing the triumph in my gut down, willing myself to remain visibly impassive. Gluttony and Wrath are rather similar. Sometimes, if a fellow is particularly lucky, he can redirect Wrath into its gentler cousin, forcing one to Pop rather than Explode. It was more messy, but less dangerous. Within moments a knock sounds at the door followed by a soft call of “room service.” I cross in front of where he had settled on the bed with a mutter of “Its on me, of course.” I can see the Envy in his eyes, jealous of my means, war with the Gluttony spurred by the promise of food. I open the door before he can make up his mind and quickly grab the food tray. “Smells delicious,” I lie, setting the food down on the rickety bedside table and removing the top with flourish, waving my hands over the plate like it was a magic trick. He is on it before I have even fully moved away, devouring the tray with both hands. I back towards the door slowly, stepping out of the room. My hands shake as I look down at the empty paper wrapping for the sleeping powder I'd slipped into the food. With so many Sins in him already, he would be more vulnerable to one more. My hope is that the Great Slumber will take him before he finishes eating. At this point it would be the most painless death I can offer him. I hurry down the hall and out of the building, one thought echoing on repeat. Someone had set me up, and I won't rest easy until I know who.

This is it. It's all down to me. Some may say that I'm cold, hard, and unfeeling, but I care what happens to my people and I will do everything I can to protect them. I feel her fingers, sweaty and shaking, wrapped around me. I will keep her safe. She has caressed me through long nights. She cared for me before herself. On particularly hard days, when the enemy crafts fly low and the fear is almost too much to bear, she has put me in her mouth and dares me to go off on her, but I never will. We have a bond, she and I, one forged somewhere in between my rescue and her stowing away on Alpha IX's starship and crash-landing into the Hel-forsaken place in the middle of the third Yarmouth Conflict. Well, the Reunion calls to them as conflicts. The resistance simply refers to it as a slaughter. And it is. Pure, unadulterated genocide. I should know. I was there for the first one. I made more than my fair share bodies out of unresistant citizens. But then I was retired. Too old for battle, they said, takes too long to get me going. So they scrapped me. I would probably still be on that scrap heap too, if not for a curious, toddling little thing with a dirty face and a dress made of resistance banners. She scooped me out of the trash and brought me home to her Minders, who were appropriately aghast. But she kept me, nevertheless. There star can that was safe from her aim, she was proud and I was proud. We were a team; I was useful again--and when the recruiters came and her Minders told her she was too young for this war she would have none of it. She snuck aboard the Alpha. Her Minders were right. She is far too young for this war. She jumps at noises, she cries in the dark, and she clutches too tightly to me in the heat of battle. I have felt the touch of many hands, but hers are the first I want to linger, to live beyond the soot filled mornings and the sounds of the Reunion's star fleet firing on nearby camps. She saved me once, and I want nothing more than to save her. I fear she has joined the wrong side. Despite the connection I feel to her and my admitted joy at being useful to her, I wish she would abandon me and run. Run far away from this conflict, back to her Minders on Thrax, back to that scrap heap and leave me there. But it is not to be. A voice startles her and she turns, thrusting me outwards. I shake in her hands, my target moving. I can feel the power building, but it is too late. Her fingers are too slow. No. It is I that is too slow. They were right to retire me after all—the newer models the Reunion carry are much faster than I. The world tilts as we hit the ground hard. I have failed. I tumble from her hands, my charge finally ready, never to be fired by her delicate fingers. As I lay in the cooling red pool beside her, her gasps of air sounding shallow and wet, I have never wished more that I could fire on my own.

Child fingers make mocking motions of Adult games played to early-- Tap for the last drops and hold out your tongue The brandy bottle was empty. Adult games played too early-- Vacant eyes staring, full of nothing, The brandy bottle was empty. The whiskey priest mourns, his time is coming. Vacant eyes staring, full of nothing, The shot rings out, the blood is flowing-- The whiskey priest mourns, his time is coming. Partake of the body without anyone knowing. The shot rings out, the blood is flowing From the treasonous priest, there are worse things than dying Partake of the body without anyone knowing They eliminate God without even trying.

Slip away. There is no need for rage. The night lingers on but we need not fear the dawn-- the new age comes for us, the pattern that concusses into our still beating hearts, reminds us that despite false hope and failed starts we are here. And we are broken. They made rules but they're misspoken-- the rules were made so we can't play, We love to break them anyway. And we are broken. Pots of glue and brushes, hushed words barely spoken, whispers of a time we felt we could pull ourselves together. And we are Broken. We feel the fire and burn the tokens of time gone by-- we will not cry, we do not to sigh, we are the ashes of memories gone awry. And we are broken. veins and limbs and bones and eyes that woke in pain; they don't have to do that again. We are broken. But don't let them fix us, because sometimes the cracks make us who we are-- every tear, every tear, every scar, tells a story of the glory that we could still strive for-- our lives could be more. We are convinced we might be more than a passing thought, a fleeting moment in the sun. the sun sets we stare down our looming shadows, and scream life hasn't won. We are beautiful. And we are broken. But that doesn't mean we're done. We pick up our scattered pieces-- we slip into the dawn. This chapter may be over, but the book has just begun.

I hear them crying— their voices blend like the blood that falls from their beaten bodies on the doorsteps of the forgotten. I see them— Ten thousand faces and a million different stories, Each face’s story told over and over again. I reach out my fingers— Cold glass separates, reality and fiction run together to create a hate that no one understands. I hear them crying— their voices long for justice. I hear them crying. I am afraid.

R  The moment that you discover that hatred is more than just a word-- it's a feeling that festers in the gut, puss filled and nauseous. O  The moment you burn the pages and say your starting over-- light up the past so it can't hurt you, let the flames flicker in every darkened corner. Y The moment in the sun-- you bask, you linger, you revel in your freedom. G The moment you notice you are alone. There is only you, no hand to hold, no tears to dry but your own. B The moment the tears fall. You had love and you lost it all-- it burned and you are nothing but hollowness and ashes. I The moment you grovel. The chains of your past locking firmly around wrists you thought were free. V The moment your breath stops. The hues of your bruises match the fingers of the lover that you once thought was tender. Your life was a rainbow, the colors bleeding into every decision until you bled onto the concrete-- start the colors again.

I tried to catch it as it fluttered-- innocent and frail, breathing, beating-- but then it spoke and I emptied. Thoughts drifted as ideas asphyxiated. Smothered by the sound of its voice. It leaves me empty-- I chase the barren dreams, scour the landscape for one last glimpse of a fleeting inspiration. I plant the fallow fields, hope to hear the flutter of innocent wings. Nothing. There is no harvest-- the spoken words have shattered the stalks, the fresh buds crushed by unthinking feet. Empty.

We are the generation that wears a tshirt with holes in it because it is our favorite--and we are too poor to replace it. We are the generation that takes Xanax before test days, because school has new sick and twisted ways to make us doubt our worth. We are the generation that wears our preferences on our purses, our backpacks, and our cellphone covers so someone else will start a conversation about a mutual interest. We are the generation that can access information with the click of a finger, finding more in a minute than our grandparents ever knew. We are the generation that embrace tattoos and changes, that want different to be challenged as another point of view. We are the generation that performs self mutilation, that feels pain and frustration with the world's narrow view. We are the generation that will one day rule the nation--remember the sensation--the gap is filling up with new ideas, pull away from the stale yesterday's and remember we are the future. Those that made the past our history, we hold the colors now--how will we paint our picture? We are one generation--what will time say when we're through?

It echoes off the windows, The sound sneaks through the hedgerows, There is no point. No point to this at all.   Watch me shudder, watch me fall— Meaningless existence, Persistent in its certainty. You will live. You will die. That is all that’s left for me.

A convex presser, for pressing stuff on the wrong side. But There is no right side with you, and every little pressure bruises the skin. I want to embroider a new smile, change your dull hues with good intentions and thread, But you are broken and thread won’t fix you. Maybe paste— With enough glue the world will be pieced together— But when pieces are missing, do you sever the sides that remain, and with glitter and smiles, call them a refrain? The second verse, a little louder, a little worse for wear, but alls well that ends—well, it ends. It ends. There are no more pretends. I am a convex presser, It seems I’m wrong again.

He simply fell.

The slope is slippery; Fingers clench and dig in-- Feel the pressure— Fall. Slide down with the dirty remnants of the peeks to which you've been. Smear the paper with the muddy pieces, climb the slope again, Sisyphus-- maybe this time you will crest your mountain-- Or maybe the rock will run you over-- But Nothing gets better in the valley. Take a deep breath. Climb again.

You (almost) squeezed my hand. You (almost) took a breath. I laughed and cried, You (almost) died, I have (almost) nothing left.