Any time,

Written by me in 2013.

i have this idea and it's epic.

my head feels like lead and mom's feet are on my back but i have this idea and it's everything i've ever wanted to write about but never did.

i try to picture the faces―the eyes―the dialogue―the commas between the heartbeats, and it feels real. nothing feels contrived. Times New Roman font and punctuated heart-lines are running down and out and it's real.

it's not throwing up purple prose and witty sentences for the heck of it.

it's not leaving my characters in paper cuts or folding them down the margin.

this is not about the grammar it's about my veins.

i want to leave the bed and write it down but it's 5:40am and i have to make breakfast at 6. There are boxes i still need to unpack; Mom needs her mattress out of the garage by 7. Then I have to help her set up her room and scrub the floors. The kitchen needs cleaning; the clothes need folding; I need money for groceries―does Dad have any? But I can't go without Mom because I don't like facing people's faces by myself; everyone's eyes end with periods and they never talk outside the brackets.

Maybe Mom will just let me push the basket. After that―....

crap.

I had this idea and it was epic but the semicolons broke up the heartbeats and i think i just broke the plot. i try to think back to the images. The faces have lost clarity [lens focus] and I can't make out the words. The edges of the font are blurry, and so are the character's chins.

Look at it―it's far out there now. Like the whole screen just boated out to the Atlantic Ocean and now all i've got left between my commas is sand and space.

Look―it's far up here now. it's not on my heart anymore it's on my eyelids.

i keep trying to pull it back down but it's making my eyeballs water. that must have something to do with the sunrise; whenever the sun comes up, i can't see my ideas anymore, because the heat always burns my thoughts and all i can think about is the sting.

i close my eyes. easier to see them in the dark. i wish i could put the pen to my brain and write them on the pinkest part before they're gone...

"Honey?"

There's an acid bubble in my throat; it's that feeling i get when i can't get the story up. or down.

"Honey, is everything okay?" The sun is peeking through Mom's hair, making the strands look gold.

"Yeah, Mom...just felt a little sick."

"Sick?" The wrinkles under her eyes have no stories or plot lines.

"Yeah, trying to figure out if I'm nauseated or hungry."

"Do you need tea?"

"No, thanks. I'll try to go back to sleep."

"If you say so...just don't throw up on the sheets."

i turn on my side and press my mouth against my wrist veins. i wish i could draw the story out of my blood with my teeth.

because i had this idea and it was epic...

...

...

...

When I looked in the mirror and I knew

I was alive.

That part of my life feels like it’s been 

submerged underwater

but sometimes, the sun hits the wave just right 

and I can almost see through enough to

remember the feeling 

of my feet against the seafloor.

Now I’m bobbing on the water face up 

up and down 

but never backwards. 

I can never go backwards.

The water tastes sweet when it fills my lungs 

my time has come too to sink. 

It will all be over soon, and she’ll be back 

face up on the water

unsure of how she got there 

and yearning 

to look back at me 

lifeless on the seafloor.

If I ever even learned how to swim 

could I ever remember how 

to stand