Quicksand.

I am falling through quicksand and
it is too late
to save myself.
I keep looking for something to cling on to but there is nothing
nothing.
I scream at myself because this is my fault.
All
my
fault.
I willingly stepped into it because I thought I could fight it.
I thought it would be fun to test its limits and
I had so much belief in my own power and
I thought I'd be able to walk right past it because I'm strong
but I'm not.
Dear lord
I
am
not.
But it's too late.
I'm sinking and
the harder I fight it
the deeper I fall.
I know the only way to get out of it is to stop struggling
but the panic won't stop overwhelming me and I can't keep a clear head and
I
am
absurdly
enjoying
losing
myself
in this mess
and I also just want to let the quicksand swallow me whole because of my foolish
foolish mistake.
I have gained nothing from this but scars.
Scars and
overwhelming
humiliation.
I just want to let the abyss envelope me
for ever thinking I could win this pointless battle and
come out
unscathed.

Trainwreck

(c) Berenice Griffeth

She stared at her hands, all wrinkled and unattractive. The faucet was still on and it took her a full minute before realizing she had to close it. Was this really happening? Was it all over? She grabbed a paper towel and dried her hands slowly while pacing the living room floor. All signs of their terrible fight earlier were evident. The vase they had bought together on their first anniversary, in pieces on the floor. Pieces of a relationship she knew she could never really fix. The coffee stains blemishing the rug with bruises, from the mug she had thrown at him hysterically. And the letters, oh the letters. Handwritten letters from ever since they started dating. They were both old-fashioned, hopeless romantics that way. The letters were lying all torn up and crumpled over the foyer. Letters he had destroyed right before walking out the door. That was the real slap on her face. And she knew that he knew it was a low blow. He hadn't even bothered to get his keys. It was as though he never planned on coming back. 

But he would. 

She knew he would. 

That had always been their weakness. 

After all the constant fighting and yelling and threats of leaving each other, they never did. No. She didn't know if it was because they loved each other too much or if it was because they were both cowards. Either way, she was miserable. Who was this man that had just walked out her front door? She couldn't recognize him at all.

As she sank to her knees, heaving with dry sobs that threatened to turn into rain, she caught a glimpse of one of their old photographs. It had been taken that day he surprised her with a bouquet of daffodils he had picked on a whim. They had gone to the carnival right after. Oh god, they looked so vibrant and happy. It was like looking at two different people. Her hair had been shorter, blonder and her smile had been brighter. As she fingered her now lank and untended hair, she desperately tried to remember what it felt like to smile. Looking at the photo, she couldn't help but sigh. Rob. Oh Rob. Looking as ruggedly handsome as he always had. His eyes just sparkling full of life and his strong arm looped casually around her waist. Her Rob. Now when she thought of him, all she could picture was how his eyes had changed. The calm blue that once begged to know her had now turned into a soulless and empty storm that was alive with resentment.

What on earth had happened?

She punched the floor. Once, twice, thrice. And let out her loudest scream. A scream of frustration, anger and longing. Yes, longing. Longing for the Rob she had always felt so strongly for. For the feel of his warm, gentle hands cupping her face. And the sight of his startling turquoise eyes as they gazed at her full of love.  

Then she sat there, tears streaming down her face. 

Waiting. 

Waiting for that knock on the door. 

The knock which would signal the start of another ride in their trainwreck of a relationship.

The train that ultimately led nowhere.

She remembered.

(c) Michael Vigliotti

I am standing straight and proud, smiling like a happy girl would; yet I might as well be drowning. The brown eyes which used to regard me so warmly now look at me quite impassively. I wonder, do mine convey the same amount of indifference? Or am I failing at this miserably and are my emotions seen quite plainly on my face? I look away and take a deep breath, telling myself to fight this.

I glance back at my companions and silently breathe a sigh of relief. No one seems to have noticed that one minute of weakness I displayed. No one knows, but me. This is good. This shows that I can do this, that I have enough strength to get through this alone, no matter how lonesome that sounds. This is a solitary journey after all. I see those light brown eyes looking at me again and I grin, though everything else inside is hurting.