A Pillar of Salt

Remember Me Kindly

little boy smile live RUN

little boy





down those

gravel hills




tears run


your brown




you always had

such long beautiful/handsome?



your eyes

lit up




for you


for your smile


I’d kill


I’d die


for you


be safe


we forgot



your happy




your awkward



your soul


so perfect


to me







and I


I am

at fault



My words

have helped/hindered


created this


this sad/scared



You who have no need

of me

of anyone

of the world


often I think


if I go


when I am gone


perhaps you will smile


and learn/remember

how to live



Notes on: 1

People don’t exist in a vacuum… perhaps, this is why I conceptualize my characters in conjunction with other characters of mine? Vesper cannot exist without Cael and Veran, nor can the latter pair exist without the other.

Dawn cannot exist without Dusk, which led to the creation of Geminus.

Sevanne “Sex” cannot exist without him. Nor can he make sense without the former.

Enz exists in relation to her roommates and friends etc. As they do in relation to her.

The only character that has seemed to exist without being tied down to any other character is Nox “Sami”, but even she eventually became intertwined with the other characters, Gaia especially.

her name was

Her name was Skye.

In your dreams in your mind.

you imagine sometimes that maybe life could have turned out differently for you

but you always feel strange and try to stop the unwanted thoughts from returning

to you it will always be odd to want that want something different than what you have

something you cannot really understand having cannot really understand even wanting.


The Black Ribbon.

It is a symbol of remembrance and/or mourning.

I feel like I should wear one, find one… instead i settle for simply wearing black. All black. maybe there is some color to off-set all the darkness but even then… one could hardly argue all the black i wear. i am monochrome. i am monotone.

i think of my mother. mom. mommy. my dearest brightest person. gone. i want a take-back. even though i know that is not possible not gonna happen. not this time. there is no way to go back to start over not this way not in that way.

it will be like this now forever or as long as forever is for me. it is a life sentence a rest of life sentence.

i think of me and my life. the past. i think of little me. treacherous little me. i should have listened to mother more or at least even a little. i would not have been so broken then. i try to tell myself these things but even then i do not cannot understand.

How? That’s not true… that’s not how it works how it ever worked.

life was not fair to me but it was not fair to any of us. life screwed us all.

and all the unspoken secrets the words that drop from your mouth silently but travel from your eyes. the accusations the sadness uncontrollable grief the why did i never asks why couldn’t i have at least tried for closure? but you know that was never you never what you were there for. even if sometimes you wish it was.

To the Man who Named Me

To the Man who named me Bastard

Why did you never love me?

Why did you never try to even speak or see me let alone know me?


Why was I never good enough?

Not even for you?


I am named sacrifice


you didn’t want me

Daddy didn’t want me

Nor did Mommy


You couldn’t give two shits about me

Daddy thought I was an annoying pretentious bitch


Mommy hated me


I wrote this for you


Yeah you were right. I was going to write John before I was called out and ridiculed for it… so instead I wrote Joe in 2005.

Not that you ever cared


Is it weird that I wish you had?


That your indifference makes me feel especially worthless?


I guess I am what people call ‘unloveable’.


To the Man who called me Bastard.


To the Man who made me Bastard.

The Dark Letter

I wanted to be Professor X when I was a child… I also had aspirations for world domination as a toddler tends to have… as I aged I began to see how insufficient the x-men were. I wanted to be Cognitio, a character I created when I was around the age of 8. He was a genius. My friends when I was 15 said they found him freaky and that he was the one to watch. I was offended. Maybe that’s why I wrote all those emails to Joe Samaritan and then to Joe American. I took on the name of my mother father. It was 2003. It took you about 9 years… sometimes I wonder about that most times I don’t. Christ in all… that is holy… I never understood the notion… but that’s not to say I never wished to. If I had to pick a letter it still would be X. But games are for children aren’t they?

The Church 

The church. Flowers. Spit. Bibles. Gold crosses. Dirt. Dead bugs.

A boy kneels and prays for our souls.

We danced twirled laughed.

Plucked flowers and threw them.
The Italian boy sat on the altar with Sev/Sex and another (was it Dimitri?)
Sissi stands at the pedestal next to the flowers.

You present her with a flower a single pink rose.

You almost steal the cross at the altar but are guilted into returning it.
You are mad. You have the flu. Your English professor keeps following you with his eyes. You took medication you shouldn’t have and you drank a shit ton of alcohol.
You’re not drunk nor buzzed but you might as well be.
Someday you’ll write about this without reservation.
Maybe this is the moment your mother gave up on your bastard bitch self?
It certainly has not/never helped.

She hated you.
And not in the way you would have liked.

No rage or disappointment accompanied the confession.

No. It was cold. Indifferent. You a stranger.

It wasn’t even hate. Mother couldn’t/wasn’t even invested enough/willing to give you that.


A bastard. A copy. The second daughter. But someone else’s first. The middle child. But also the unwanted eldest.
Take my blood. And then leave. Only show up at odd moments. Years apart. No apparent reason. Just cause.
In Haileybury: you insisted on a DNA test as if I was the one chasing you. Bastard that I was then, still am.

15: heroine but let’s not. Don’t think. It’s okay to chase the dragon just run don’t let it find you keep running don’t stop. Siddartha escaped. Why can’t I?

Snuff. Alcohol. Old man.

History professor with red hair and glasses. Engaged but chases you. He roofies takes hurts kills red hands. The way he looks. Those eyes. Shark. Predator.

You always fancied yourself a tiger.

But here you are. Bloody bruised broken drunk knifed fallen to the ground.
Laughing crying

Am I hysterical?

He pulled a knife out.

The scars never healed even if the wounds did.


You took

The odds and evens
Kneeling down
Speaking softly
Cruel words
To a child
A bastard?
What does

That mean?

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