Some of My Writing

Please excuse spelling and grammar errors, a great many of these are recovered drafts or were written to be performed, not to be read in print.

A Writer’s Suicide

 

A professor once told me

there are two kinds of writers

pukers and bleeders

now if you don’t understand what that means turn to the English major that brought you hear and ask them to explain

now when this professor asked me which type I thought I was

I responded without hesitation

“I puke blood”

Words do not flow from my fingertips

They are wrenched from my gut

I consume the world and regurgitate it mixed and mashed

with my emotions opinions and mental disorders

with each stroke of the pen

I stain the page

with that hot sticky life that flows through me

each letter a piece of my mind that combine

to form the sentences tattooed on my soul

or whatever that thing is that makes me human

I sit

throat burning

eyes watering

blood dripping off my chin

with a piece of myself

convulsing on the page before me

Those around me look on with praise and compliments

eager on their lips

ogling at the eviscerated section of my heart

struggling to pump life into the world around it

my friends marvel at the life I have managed to breathe into

formelery inanimate ink and paper

but

I can’t help but frown

What is a piece when compared to the whole?

A hand itself does not create

a mouth alone speaks no truth

so I try again

ripping and tearing ever greater chunks of myself

blood soaking into the paper until it is almost black

with line breaks commas and metaphors I stitch together

my own Frankensteinian monster

bringing further praise from my peers and professors

but the thread holding together the limbs

and the botls in the neck

make a mockery of the whole

I grit my teeth

pick up my pen

and gouge out larger and larger chunks

desperately striving for the seemless

beauty I know exists in me

I know it is there

I just have to cut a little deeper

if I just lose a little more blood

I slit my wrists onto this keyboard

I blow my brains out on this page

and the world applauds

 

 

Thunderstorms in Summertime

 

I love the world before a

Thunderstorm in summertime

One amorphous unending

Unbroken ceiling of clouds

Bathing the quiet world below

In a surreal radiance

The first meteoric raindrops

Occasionally stain the

Spider-webbed pavement but

In this moment

The earth remains dry

 

The Write-A-Thon

 

All these prompts and

I have yet to write a word.

Does the fault lie in the prompts

or the prompty?

Is there a fault at all

or is that just writing?

Now I’ve written 35 words.

Maybe that’ll do.

 

Snails

 

A couple of nights ago

I sat down at the dinning room table

at my girlfriend’s house

and for reason’s I’m still not totally sure about

I declared

“I am going to write a poem about snails!”

This confused her for obvious reasons

and she asked the first question

anyone asks of any

snail related announcement

“Why…?”

After a moment I responded

“Because no one writes poems about snails.”

I still don’t know why

but I find that

I am passionate about the prejudice

against snails in

the literary world

Now you may not feel as strongly as I do

and if you do

I am a little worried about you

but before you pass judgment

I’m gonna learn you a thing or two

about the marvelously ridiculous snail

A snail is in essence

a prehenstile foot

with a few short tentacles

slathered in goop

and encased in a curly-cue shell

now before I get any farther

let me make something clear

I am talking about the majestic land snail

not the pretentious see nail

those guys are assholes

and don’t even get me started on the

slithery boogers

known as slugs

but I digress

The land snail has many natural predators

birds, rodents, the French, and catterpillars

yes snails are so defenseless that

not only caterpillars

but the French prey on them

The land snail’s shell

is a natural example of the golden spiral

which is a visual representation of the relationship

between the numbers of a Fibonacci sequence

Fibonacci published his findings in the year 1202 CE

snails figured that shit out 600 million years ago

Now if you think the land snails proficiency in math is impressive

wait until you hear about their sex life

Snails do not know the meaning

of the word heteronormativity

all snails have both a penis and a vagina

making them hermaphrodites

a word derived from the latin word

hermaphrodites meaning

“Holy God that thing has a penis and a vagina”

snail courtship involves up to 12 hours

of intricate dance

and sensual slithering

after deeming each other worthy of procreation

the partners then impale each other

with a love dart

which is the actual scientific term

for these tiny spears that inhibit further

sperm production in the impaled snail

they then insert their penises into each others vaginas

swap semen

and go on their way to bury the fertilized eggs and repeat the process

I’m gonna go ahead and assume

that none of you knew just how exciting

the land snail is

if a fucking snail is that exciting

what else do you gloss over everyday

and write off as simple, boring, or uninspiring?

write more poems about snails.

 

Untitled

 

Light. It is too bright. The three fluorescent bulbs encased in a frosted-glass pie plate shine harshly white against your faculties.

I am awake.

You curl your reluctant fingers into a fist. Soft cotton fills your hands. You bury your face into your pillow trying to immerse yourself in its reassuring warmth.

I am in my bed.

You realize you are still dressed. The red uncomfortable lines on your face take shape into your glasses. Your too hot legs are suddenly encased in denim.

I am still dressed.

You slowly rise out of the depths. Focusing on the inoffensive washed-out gray of your sheets you lift yourself up on your elbows.

Nope.

Nausea. Falling. Warmth.

The bridge of your glasses digs into your nose but you don’t care. The world is so much better this way. The reassuring darkness envelops you.

Deep breaths.

You relax your breathing and fight the promise of the darkness. You realize something is pressing against your thigh. It’s your phone.

My pockets are still full.

You roll onto your back with your eyes clenched shut. You can feel the darkness on the edge of your consciousness. A constant pressing force promising warmth and comfort. But you push it away.

Not now.

You slowly walk your hand up your leg and worm your fingertips into your pocket.

Keys, phone, wallet, zippo.

You smile when you pull out your pack of Camels, miraculously uncrushed. You squeeze the somewhat less stiff cardboard gently.

Time to wake up.

You relax your eyelids, allowing your eyes to adjust to the soft yellow glow of your skin. Delicately you open your eyes. Pausing after each infinitesimal raise in your eyelids to let yourself adjust before you open them anymore.

My head hurts.

You saved yourself most of the headache by waking up slowly but you can never stop it all. You don’t focus your vision. Instead you stare vacantly at the tan-white smudge that is the ceiling.

Back to reality.

You roll onto your side, the darkness pushes in again; you shrug it off. You feel your heartbeat in your right ear where it presses into the pillow. You take a deep breath and focus your eyes. The fuzzy swatch of colors that is the world takes shape.

How long have I been out?

You look at the clock.

Not bad.

You absentmindedly watch the lava lamp on top of the stereo as you piece yourself back together. The doorknob clicks. Your roommate and some of your friends come in.

No I just woke up its fine. Oh, was it good? Do you have a fourth? Yeah I’m sure. It’s just a cold.

You roll over onto your other side. Isolating yourself in the off-white, pull down window shade. They talk and laugh but it reaches you only as noise. Too much noise.

Time to get up.

You take a deep breath and force yourself up. The darkness surges in; you consider giving in. But you grit your teeth and fight it back.

I am the master of my body.

You feel your pulse in your head and your stomach is firmly tied into a knot. But you crawl to the end of the bed and climb down.

They were pretty good. No, I don’t have much actually.

You reach for the Tylenol bottle on your desk but stop. You grab your bedpost and a wave of darkness rolls over you. Your head bobs up to the surface after the wave has passed and you slowly let go of the bedpost.

I can’t afford anymore.

You have taken to much Vicodin already; anymore acetaminophen wouldn’t be a great idea. Instead you push your reluctant feet into a pair of Nikes and wrestle a sweatshirt out of a pile of maybe-laundry.

I am going out for a smoke.

Walking is too much. You realize this after you’ve taken four steps and are barely around the corner from your door. You rush to the bathroom down the hall, throw open the door and stumble into the first stall.

What if there are other people in here?

It doesn’t matter; your stomach doesn’t care if it has an audience or not. Liquid fills your mouth and nose as you double over.

Fuck this.

Your stomach is empty before it realizes it, so you stand propped against the wall dry heaving. Satisfied that you are finished you shuffle to the sink.

At least no one was in here.

You rinse out your mouth and wash your hands. When you look at yourself in the mirror you smile. You aren’t sure why, there isn’t much to smile about. The water dripping off of your freshly rinsed face, the too pronounced cheekbones, the almost five o’clock shadow. You smile again.

I want a cigarette.

You shake your hands then dry them on the back of your jeans. As you walk down the two flights of stairs you dig in your pocket for your zippo. You fish a cigarette out and try to do the snap trick with your zippo. Your hands are shaking too much and you can’t get the snap to work.

It’s just low blood sugar.

You settle for striking it with your thumb as you cup a hand over the now cherry cigarette. You relax as the smoke fills your lungs. You always love the feeling of inhaling cold air mixed with warm smoke.

What do I have to do?

You take inventory of your work. Accounting for having to take time to teach yourself the material from missing classes. You realize it’s going to take you longer than you thought.

Figures.

You stamp out your cigarette, pick up the butt, walk over to the dumpster, and throw it in. You always avoid leaving cigarette butts on the ground if you can.

People should think before they do things.

You sit on the bottom step of the stairs up to your dorm. You look around to make sure no one is watching.

It’s the back entrance; no one comes this way.

You take off your right shoe and fish around inside. You pull out a plastic bag with an assortment of different pills inside.

Concerta 57.

You immediately spot two of the orange pills and pull them out. You replace the bag in your shoe and hold the two pills up, examining them more closely.

The crash is going to be bad.

You hesitate, thinking about how much you are going to get done, how long it will take you, what the recovery is going to be like, and if your body can even handle it right now.

I am the master of my body.

You swallow the pills. You get caught in a coughing fit that you fight down and end by spitting a healthy amount of phlegm onto the ground.

Let’s go boys. I’m not a patient man.

You light up another cigarette, stimulants always kick in faster and harder when you smoke cigarettes. You sit and smoke, throwing the butt into the dumpster again and lighting another.

There we go.

Halfway through the second cigarette you smile. Your head feels like it is being compresses by an invisible pillow. You take a long drag on the cigarette and do some math in your head.

10, 12 hours max, then we are back here.

You exhale slowly through your mouth and nose, watching the smoke curl and twist away. You smile again but don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the irony.

 

How to Drink.

 

Drink slowly at first.

Drink for the enjoyment.

Drink a few beers.

Drink because someone raised their glass.

Drink because Cartman called Kyle a Jew.

Drink because it’s the weekend.

Drink because you are a college student.

Drink because it makes you smile.

Drink because you lost beer-pong.

Drink some shots.

Drink because it’s a game.

Drink because you want the high score.

Drink because you are laughing harder than you have since last Friday.

Drink because its not even midnight yet.

Drink because they are chanting your name.

Drink because the cute girl with the green eyes and short blonde hair is watching.

Drink because she left.

Drink because the girl you love is five hundred miles away

Drink because both of you have yet to find those three words

Drink because you can.

Drink because you are young and strong and stupid.

Drink because you think you can handle it.

Drink because there is a cup in your hand and there is alcohol in it.

Drink because it’s reflex.

Drink because it’s muscle memory.

Drink because it’s what you do.

Drink because you have an essay due on Monday.

Drink because you got a 47% on a test today.

Drink because you should’ve gotten 100%.

Drink because you haven’t handed in half the homework for your classes.

Drink because you spent the entire day chain-smoking and writing instead of going to class.

Drink because you need something to write about.

Drink because you are afraid of losing your scholarship.

Drink because you are scared.

Drink because you are weak.

Drink because you are proud.

Drink because you can’t forgive yourself.

Drink because your heart has cracked.

Drink to keep the pieces together.

Drink because you can’t afford what you really want.

Drink straight from the bottle.

Drink like you mean it.

Drink with purpose.

Drink with authority.

Drink with passion.

Drink because you love it.

Drink because you hate it.

Drink because you need it.

Drink because it’s killing you.

Drink because you can still think.

Drink because you can’t stop thinking.

Drink because you can still feel something.

Drink because you can still feel everything.

Drink because you know who you are.

Drink because the anger and pain that sits at the center of your chest just refuses to go away.

Drink because you won’t stop.

Drink because you can’t stop.

Drink because this is who you are.

Drink because this is all you will ever be.

Drink because you know this.

Drink vodka like it’s water.

Drink until you puke.

Drink more.

Drink until you puke.

Drink more.

Drink until you puke.

Drink more.

Drink until you can’t walk.

Drink until you can’t stand.

Drink until you can’t sit up.

Drink until you can’t crawl.

Drink until you fucking blackout.

Drink until the floor rises up to meet you

Drink until everyone around you is speaking a foreign language

Drink until you can understand this language

Drink until you speak the language fluently

Drink until you don’t know where you are

Drink until you don’t know who your friends are.

Drink until you don’t know your own name.

Drink until you are nothing more than a crumpled heap of babbling humanity on your dorm room’s scuffed tiles.

Drink until all you know is blanket equals soft

Drink until you can’t feel the floor pressed into your face.

Drink until you are a child.

Drink until you are an infant.

Drink until you are a single cell waiting to divide and grow into what will one day be an honor roll student, a varsity athlete, a friend, a brother, a son, a lover, an artist, a human being.

Drink until you cease to exist.

Drink until you no longer are.

 

 

 

Pass out on the floor,

Wake up in your bed,

Satisfy your body’s craving for nicotine.

See the world in more detail than you ever thought possible.

 

A Brother’s Lament

 

Before you could talk

I would translate what you said so adults could understand you.

From the day you came into my life we operated together on a frequency

that others simply could not understand.

We shared bedrooms.

We played the same sports.

We had the same haircut for years.

I don’t remember how it came about but you once tried to drink an entire two-liter bottle of ginger ale

then proceeded to puke all over the basement floor

and we both ended up in tears from laughing so hard.

I once convinced you that if you ate a hardboiled egg without salt it was poison

and I still don’t remember it

but you swear I told you that you were allergic to cockroaches.

When we reached the age

where you started to catch up to me

the outcome of the games started to change

but the way we played never did.

I showed you how to use private browsing

and we talked about what our favorite sites were.

I tried to talk to you about girls

but I didn’t know one percent of what I thought I did.

We scraped silly string and replaced ceiling tiles together.

We built foam weapons and fought each other until they fell to pieces.

We drifted apart

and it’s all my fault.

I forgot about my brother.

I selfishly chose to do whatever would get me the substance I wanted over my life long best friend.

Things are getting better

but I can never forgive myself for what I did.

As I sit by your side

squeezing your hand

watching the tears silently roll down your face

these are the things I think about.

Because if I think about you when I’m not in that room of tubes and lights with you

I start to cry.

You are my little brother.

Even if you are bigger than me.

I will always be here for you.

You will always be my best friend.

I would do anything to stop the pain you are in and put things back the way they were

but all I can offer is a brother’s lament.

 

Fuck

 

I am afflicted with a condition known as

Young Poet’s Syndrome.

Thank you for coming to our support group tonight.

For those of you who are unfamiliar

with Young Poet’s Syndrome

it is a mental illness which causes the

poet, writer, musician, artist, et cetera

to believe that every piece of work they create must be

The Work.

It must be their crowning achievement

the piece that redefines the human condition

for a generation.

A work that demands your attention

and solely occupies your thoughts like

a someone yelled Fuck over a suburban supermarket pa system.

This is not

The Poem.

This is a poem about the word

fuck.

Every poem I write ends with me yelling the word fuck.

Now that may be a slight exaggeration

but it seems like every fucking time I get on stage

I am yelling fuck

or inducing the aura of a yelled fuck.

I don’t know why my poetry has to be so fucking serious all the time.

I mean

I’m a fun guy.

I say fuck a lot

probably more than is necessary

and when I think about it fuck may just be my favorite word.

It’s just so

fucking

satisfying.

But despite my proficient use of the word fuck

I’m not nearly as serious as I pretend to be

when I’m performing

I love Louis C.K. and Bo Burham

I obsessively watch Parks and Rec

and when the season finale happened

I thought it was the series finale

and Leslie has three kids

and I was and am freaking the fuck out

What was I talking about?

Fuck

that’s right.

I think my love affair with fuck

has something to do with

the confessional nature of poetry.

I pick up the pen with the same mindset

as when I sit down in my therapist’s office.

I open the floodgates on the

tumultuous mess in my head

let it spill forth

and try to make sense of it.

When you are trying to explain exactly

how neurotic being an addict on a college campus

on the last day of classes makes you

no word is quite as appropriate as fuck.

Therapy helps me understand and manage the darkness.

Poetry lets me take the darkness and bring it into the light

to create beauty from an ugly place

But wether

life imitates art or

art imitates life

my poetry paints a bleak fucking state of my existence.

Fuck

you see I was doing it again.

Here I am trying to write a nice

innocent poem about the word fuck

and I start going off about confessional poetry

and the parallels between writing and therapy.

Fuck that.

This is not

The Poem.

I’m sorry folks the nature of

Young Poet’s Syndrome is

it sneaks up on you when you least expect it

Fuck is just a great fucking word.

It’s the only word I am aware of that can replace or modify

essentially any word in the English language.

There are so many wonderful variations

the classic

Fuck You

motherfucker

or simply

fucker

the underused

Fuckwad

Fuckstick

Fuckboy.

It flows so nicely when calling someone a

motherfucking cocksucker

or when asking

are you fucking shitting me?

Here’s a little something I have discovered about fuck

it has been scientifically proven as an effective painkiller

next time you stub a toe

twist an ankle

or bite your tongue

let out a nice loud

Fuck

and tell me you don’t feel better.

It seems like I’m just about out of time for my share tonight

thank you again for coming to our Young Poets Sydrome support group.

Remember the disease has no cure

so when we pass the basket please give generously

so we can but more American Spirit cigarettes

Arctic Monkey’s records

and coffee

we always need more coffee.

 

10 Thoughts of a Recovering Addict at College

 

1.

No I do not want a beer

I don’t want just one puff

I will not loosen up

I will not just relax

 

2.

I do not want a beer

I want 15

an ounce of weed

500mg of Concerta

a gram of coke

3 hits of ecstasy

and a pint of whiskey

moderation is not in my vocabulary

for me one is too much and 1000 is not enough

 

3.

If I were to drink

it would not be with an amateur like you

I am a professional drinker

Mixed drinks and chaser are unknown to me

I do not shotgun, chug, or funnel

Beer is children

Whiskey and grain alcohol burn the way liquor should

You drink to unwind, to impress your friends, to let loose

I drink because I love liquor the way you loved your mother’s breast milk

When you are cracking your second beer I am six shots in

When your friends are laughing at you for throwing up in the trashcan

I puked fifteen minutes ago and half this bottle of jack is about to go into my conveniently emptied stomach

When you are nodding off in your chair struggling to remain focused on the tube top clad freshman kissing your neck

I am draining every half-finished drink I can get my hands on

When you are drooling on your pillow

I am chainsmoking sipping my own whiskey

having exhausted everything you had to offer me

waiting for sweet unconsciousness to lull me to sleep

 

4.

You would not like me when I drink

I will drink all your liquor

Steal anything of value I can get my hands on

Fuck your girlfriend

and knock out anyone who tries to stop me

 

5.

I do not like me when I drink

I was on the track to go to an ivy league college

Family legacy, academic achievement, varsity letters, and community service

had paved the way for a full ride, an alumni network and a degree

that would have me earning six figures within a few years of graduation

alcohol flooded my life

washing away the road my parents had pushed me to pave stone by stone

2 months into my first attempt at college I took a year off to get sober

I went to detox, did my psych evaluations, and sat in the circle sharing my feelings and learning coping skills

I got my life together

and for the first time I felt like I could really do something

I was worth it

I was going to change the world for the better instead of just burning out

in one terrible flash of existential angst and self loathing

I convinced my self that I was cured

a beer here or there wouldn’t hurt

a joint on the weekends was fine

everyone else can do it why couldn’t I?

I came back to school

I kept drinking

and was nearly kicked out for it

The beautiful tragedy that was my mind

enticed and entranced incredible girls

so sure that they could provide me the lifeline I needed to realize my full potential

so sure I really was the soft kisses, apologies, and false promises

Broken bottles, caved in drywall, tear soaked cheeks, and bloody knuckles

were signs of a passion that could only stem from love

and love would carry us through

love would save us

but as they all came to see

I could never love them the way I loved liquor

I betrayed the trust of everyone that cared for me

Forgetting to pick my mom at work because the guy who didn’t card’s shift was ending in ten minutes

Stealing my dad’s emergency fund cash

waiting for him to fill it up again

finding the new hiding spot and stealing it again

Crashing my grandmothers brand new car and forcing her to replace it with a used model that already had 100,000 miles on it because she couldn’t afford anything else

My little brother

who has never broken a rule or lied to our parents in his life

would volunteer to take out the trash every Sunday

so he could sneak out the bottles he found in the basement

so my parents wouldn’t find them

He told me that when I was three weeks sober

I cried like a fucking baby

I have been forgiven for the things I’ve done

But I can never forgive myself

 

6.

I can not take back the things I’ve done

but I can make amends everyday

I go to class

I do my homework

I call my mother once every other week or so and tell her about my life

and I can hear the pride in her voice

and feel it when my father hugs me in a way

I hadn’t felt in so long that I forgot how good it was

I see my therapist

I take my meds

I go to AA

I live my life sober

 

7.

AA is not a cult

 

8.

AA is kind of a cult

 

9.

I do not care if AA is kind of a cult

I go 4 to 5 times a week

to sit in a dreary church basement

on an uncomfortable folding chair

drinking truly terrible coffee

and I am smiling

People greet me with handshakes and hugs

telling me it was good to hear me speak lastnight

It gets better

here’s my number if you ever want to talk

keep coming

it works if you work it

Old timers with 30 years of sobriety

newcomers with 30 days

and the guy sitting in the back with his hood up, head down, hands shaking

with 30 minutes

share their different stories

that strike the same notes

reverberating with that piece of me

that every person in that room shares

coming from back alleys, prep-schools, projects, and suburbs

we help each other do what none of us could do on our own

we get sober

and none of us are perfect

but together we are successful

at the end of every meeting we hold hands and recite the only prayer I will ever know

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change

the courage to change the things I can

and the wisdom to know the difference

 

10.

I do not want a beer

I want my life

 

Untitled

He rushes into the room, face flushed, gasping for breath, and his shirt drenched in his own sweat and his friends’ blood. I couldn’t decide on a name for him so he doesn’t have one. This upset him at first, but he’s gotten over it. He has bigger things to worry about. He fumbles with the lock on the doorknob as he tries to close the door as quickly and quietly as possible. He doesn’t seem nervous enough so with a few strokes of my pen his hands begin to shake. “Christ,” he mutters to himself as he turns his back on the door. He hastily scans the room, eyes frantically darting over the sparse furnishings searching for some semblance of hope where I left none.

“Fucking Christ,” he sighs to himself, sliding his back down the door until he is hugging his knees to his chest. He clasps his hands in front of his closed eyes and begins to pray; asking for forgiveness, pleading for help, begging for mercy. There is no God to hear him, only me. In case he has forgotten this the bare light bulb hanging from a chain in the cracked plaster ceiling goes dark for a second. When it flickers back on he is staring at the ceiling, out of the page, into my eyes. His hands ball into fists, his features a mask of rage welded to his face.

“You,” he says hatred dripping from his tongue, falling to burn holes into the dilapidated floorboards. “Who gave you to fucking right?” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You put us in this death-trap of a house, you created this storm to trap us here-“ lighting flashes and thunder crashes through the barred window across from the door cutting him off. “HA! FUCKING! HA!” he screams jumping to his feet with both middle fingers raised to the ceiling. “You are sick!” he yells, spitting on the floor to punctuate his statement. “I don’t know which is worse you, or that godforsaken… thing you’ve created.

The light bulb surges with power, filling the room with a hair raising electrical hum. I do not appreciate him calling my creation a thing. The door handle begins to shake and rattle violently while the light bulb pulses with too much power. His time has come. He frantically crawls across the floor, flipping over the bare mattress he searches desperately for something to defend himself with. The light bulb surges brighter and the doorknob begins to glow, first orange, then yellow, then white hot. He scrabbles backwards across the floor, eyes locked on the door as white hot metal drips to the floor leaving small smoldering fires on the floor.

“No,” he whispers, his back pressed to the wall, fingernails digging into the floorboards. The light bulb surges painfully bright, sparks snap along the chain. The doorknob falls to the floor, the light bulb bursts, and my perfect child enters the room.

The flickering blue glow that surrounds him illuminates the room. He walks across the room towards his victim, flawless, stark-white legs moving in perfect rhythm. Everywhere his bare feet touch the floor he leaves behind a charred, smoking footprint. His victim, my victim, stares into my child’s perfect, mannequin-esque face. The tubes that snake through his ivory skin from his feet, up his legs and spine, down his arms and across his hairless head course and hum with power. Ripples of electricity flow out from his soulless, white-hot eyes, dancing across his blemish-free body.

The cowering man in the corner turns his head slowly to the ceiling. The marble arm of my son rises, hand outstretched, index finger inevitably approaching the doomed mans forehead. With concrete composure, he says, “How could you do th-“ The blemish-less finger makes contact with his head, lighting flashes inside the room drowning everything in a wash of white light. The light fades. The room is covered in blood, it hisses and bubbles against my perfect child’s skin, I finish my sentence and it is over.