Lucifer

Lucifer,
I wish I had spent my moments
when I was younger
praying for your pain
to dissipate into the fiery sea
that you know rule over
instead of praying
that my family would be alright.
Because I knew that eventually they would be
but you would suffer
for the rest of eternity.
I wonder if you cry
at night when people are dreaming
of their heaven
and I wonder if you
ever feel lonely in the
pit you were exiled to
and I wonder if the angels
who sided by you
ever felt like they weren't
the ones who were evil
but the ones who wanted
a change of their faith.
I wonder if you pray to
your father
trying to get him to speak to you
to tell him what you meant
and what you wanted
and how you love him
even though he threw you into his greatest creation;
Hell.
I wonder about all the people who pray to God
but never once decided to pray to the one being
who needs to be saved the most.
Not saved as in religion,
but saved from your emotions
and pain
and suffering that you go through
every moment
your lungs expand.
I wonder if you ever think about how your name means
Star.
How it's supposed to guide people through the night
and how it's a reflection of how someone sees them self.
I wonder if you ever say Star slowly
and let it linger on your tongue
because you were guiding
the angels
who wanted
change.
You were
standing up
for what
you believed
in
and
you
got
punched
for
thinking
so
differently.
I prayed to you last night.
I hope that you heard me.
For I said how strong you were
for pushing through
against your father's anger.
How you've held your own.
How you tried to do something taboo,
but when we revolt against the kings down here
they're called revolutions
and what you did was sin.
I prayed that you took a breath in
and felt pride that you went with your heart
passion
goals.
You went with who you were.
Are.
You're a Star, Lucifer.
You're a Star.

The Little Mud in Life

When she was young, she tied her hair up away from her face.
His hair was trimmed but messy as he ran through the field with his friends.
She carried a colouring book to the swings, laughing with her older sister.
As she tried matching the blue sky to her picture, her sister pushed her gently.
He was slipping in the mud and yelling at his mates, screaming with joy.
But he slipped too close to the swings, and kicked up some mud onto her.
Her white stocking were wrecked, and the picture she worked on wasn't able to be seen.
Her sister started yelling,
He tried to apologize,
She didn't say anything,
and then the bell rang.
All the students scurried inside, trying not to be late.
But the boy stayed behind to try to wipe the mud off the swing.
The girl wasn't angry, just embarrassed that she was so dirty.
She was sent to the washroom to clean up, but on her way she saw through the window that the boy was using his water bottle to clear the mud from the swings.
She blinked a few times before walking into the bathroom.  She opened the closet full of cleaning supplies and grabbed the bucket and sponge.
She filled it up with soap and some water, but when she got to the swings there was no sight of him.
When she was about to turn away, she heard a slapping noise behind her.  To her feet were a pair of mucky black running shoes.  Her confusion was short, because after she saw them, she looked up.  At the top of the swing set was the boy, and in his hand was one of his socks as he was scrubbing the post.
She called for him to come down, but he resisted.
Finally, she soaked the sponge and threw it at him.  A squishy splat echoed in the air, and a large, oval, damp shape cloaked his navy t-shirt.
He was stunned for a moment, and both the boy and girl watched the sponge squish back onto the gravel.
He hopped down, and asked her what she was doing out of class.
She didn't speak, but pulled falling strands away from her eyes.  She reached down for the sponge and began cleaning his runners.
They didn't speak for a while, but cleaned the mess around them.
He put on his shoes bare-footed as she tried getting the mud out of her stockings.
And when they walked into the school again, they went into their own classrooms.
They didn't see each other again, for he played soccer when he was older while she drew.
But when they passed each other, he thought of her ruined stockings while she thought of his shoes.
And they went their ways.

As Gravity Pulled Me Under

The steps grew heavier with each push against the cool concrete. Gravity dragging me like a magnet to the Earth. But my eyes stayed focused on the point on the horizon where my goal was.
And then I rose my foot again. I looked up at the startling blue above me, and as I grew nearer to the lamppost, my steps lightened.  My hands locked onto the freezing metal post, and I felt my legs slowly raising upward, into the sea above.
My light hair danced around my face, licking the air down into blue.
Or was it up?
Pain staggered through my arms as I held onto the post. The sky below seemed endlessly clear.
And I saw a dot.
Just a small dot.
Laughter evaded my mouth.
A dot?
My fingers loosened, my heart lept into my throat.
Air sung across my face, kissing me with teeth.
But I began falling upward.
Gravity tugged me up, and I was flipped.
Suddenly the dot was growing the larger, and I saw a glimpse of the pale hair.
Wind surged around, and I was shocked by the sudden shattering of the mirror I was in.
The waves were smooth around me, and I looked up at the thick metal grates above.
And I looked down as gravity pulled me under.
As gravity pulled me under.

James

The morning where the rain wasn't falling.
The air that didn't hold a tinge of guilt.
All came whirling when I looked at my reflection.
The splotchy skin.
The red eyes.
The way that hiccups still escaped my sobbing mouth.
But I looked into the mirror and saw my large forehead. How the thin, oily strands of hair clung around my ears. But in the cold green eyes, I saw something someone told me about.
I think the word was, adventitious.
I hadn't heard that word before he had said it. That's why it stuck.
He was holding me. We were arguing before he grabbed my wrist. The wrist that was attached to the hand I was going to slap him with. Because he told me I was 'Too damn adventitious.'
And I thought that was a bad thing. In his context, it was.
But to be a person to go with the flow of things...
That's a good character.
And as I was huffing, and he was fuming, his grip released and I started laughing.
It wasn't the tiny giggles that bubble out from a child's' throat when they find something cute. Oh no. It was the laughter that was so obnoxiously loud that startled both of us.
It sounds like an odd memory. And you may ask why I like it so much.
Because after I stopped laughing, his face froze.
And my breathing stopped.
I wasn't scared.
I was...
Adventitious.
Because I let him kiss me.
And then I let him kiss me again.
And again.
He held me then. His hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer as I laced my shaken hands through his silky brown hair.
I never felt so light until it happened.
We practically fell down the beach steps, crashing into the sand in a fit of the childish giggles.
James.

Seven months ago.
And here I stand in front of my mirror. Greasy brown hair and puffy eyes.

I dreamt of him.
Again.
It was the memory of us fighting again.
But this time I truly did slap him.
And he never spoke to me again.
But as he was rushing off in a fit of rage, he turned onto the road. Screaming at me.
"It's okay for control, Abbi. But don't always follow the way of life. Do something to manipulate it."
Because then he stands there with tears in his eyes.
He's trying to help.
And I see the way the light of the setting sun falls onto his side. How it reflects into his eyes and bloody Hell, he catches me out of breath.
And he steps forward.
Five steps from the sidewalk.
Four.
Three.

But the light on his side isn't from the deep reds of the sun.
It's his blood. Seeping through his shirt.
And he knew.

I woke up then. Before he could fall to the road.
That's how I woke up sobbing.
I think I was crying during the dream too.
I think I knew.

Seven months ago, my James died.
The James who taught me control, freedom and love.
My James. Who woke up at four in the morning, would jog all the way to my front yard (which was well over 10 miles) and bring me coffee so we could drink it and go for another run.
My James. Who showed me how to surf.
Who I punched in the eye because he was such a jack ass.
Who I kissed one thousand times because he was so sincere.

My James. Who was hit by a car while we were walking home after the best surf of the year.
Who never ran with me again.
Who never cried with me when my father passed away.
Or screamed with utter joy when my sister walked across her Ballet performance for the Black Swan.

My James. Who I loved so heartachingly. So wholefully.

So I stand in front of my mirror without his lips caressing my shoulder.
With my dirty hair and sullen eyes.

And I bring the cold water onto my face.

My body burning from the sadness revolting within me.

And I breathe.

Because James isn't breathing right now.

And I want to breathe for him.

Dreamer

Dreams that I have, always seem to confuse me.
Either they terrify so much that I feel paralyzed, or that I want to lock my door,
or they feel right in the dream, but I have little to no clue what it could have meant when I wake up.
Now, I know the second one most people feel.
That in the dream it makes complete sense, but in the awoken world, it doesn't.
Or the dream is simply forgotten.
But I'm a dreamer.
A dreamer who remembers most of my dreams. And some of them... well to be blunt, they bloody terrified me.
But then I'll have a dream, so heartbreakingly lovely, that I wake up so incredibly sad.
I've only had two dreams I remember like that.
One was about love, the other of death.
But the dreams that catch me off guard, ha, well, suddenly I'll dream of a person I haven't thought of in a long time. Just to give a whirlwind of emotions come tumbling through me as I awake.

But how can a person know what they're feeling when they wake up is honest and true, in comparison to the effects of what emotion was manifested in the dream. The dream that felt so real that you could touch items. Feel the grit, or the breath coming from your throat.
Because I can't.
And that, is why I am so, completely, utterly confused with my emotions.

Last night I dreamt of a person I haven't spoken to in about a year. And they were playing hockey. (Not their favourite sport may I add) But they were playing hockey on a large team in a soccer arena. The area looked like grass, but they were obviously skating on it.  And I stood at the entrance in the dim lighting, between six large square cement posts.  And after, he came out and I hid. But he found me.
And he almost kissed me. But that was when I woke up.

This boy, whom I haven't spoken with in a year, I have never had romantic feelings towards. And it's dreams like this where I can't tell if I made a mistake. Because I can't force a part a reality to a thought.

But one thing that brings me back to the realization that it was a dream and not real is the fact that I was in love with the idea of it.
Whether it be about a boy, or a family member, or even an island of some sort, it is the idea that enticed me as I woke up. Not the actual thought of ,"If I had stayed with him, that is how I would have felt."
No. The way I have found to separate the confusing feelings of reality to dreams is the idea of it. To pull a part what I loved or hated about it, so I could explain I. Do. Not. Feel. That.


But believe me, I know the feelings.
And it's hard to tell your mind that when it feels enticed or fearful.
But it helps. Even the slightest bit, it helps.

-Em.