Dont Let Me Remember This

I play a sick game with my Unconscious
I hand it my woes—
The ones that prevent me from functioning—
And plead, “Don’t let me remember this.”
But the bastard always reminds me
When it senses it did its job too well.

Eros’ Game

“Sir, please,” the Prey begged
At the Hunter’s feet.
“I’m still in pain from our last encounter.”

And yet Eros
Nocked another arrow.


Eros is the Greek god of Love. He’s also known as Cupid in Roman mythology.

Sweet Words Dipped in Poison

Already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.

Dracula, Bram Stoker

She possessed a smile that could pierce light into the deepest parts of a man’s soul. A light he’d swear to worship for all his days until he discovered it false. But, by then, it was usually too late.

Sweet pomegranate lips
Promised love on a platter
Words dipped in poison

“Because…the Neighborhood”

“Sorry, but we don’t deliver out there,” the woman on the other end said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” she stammered. “The neighborhood.”

Our call crackled with silence.

The neighborhood.

I stared out the tattered screen mesh that shielded my doorway from the neighborhood. My eyes met an abandoned home, probably housing squatters, across the way. An old air conditioning unit oozed black goop and white spray paint adorned the sunbaked fence out front.

Why would anyone want to come here? Not even the neighborhood’s inhabitants wanted to be here.

“I see,” I said and ended the call.

Credits

Picture: Abstract Surface by Anna Guerrero via Pexels

I Am Legion (a personal essay)

I’m unshakable when it comes to my dreams of being an author. I’m not sure why I haven’t grown out of it or if I ever will. I suppose naysayers are the reason why it has so much staying power.

When I’m told “You can’t [insert reason why authorship is preposterous]” a sudden and passionate emotion wells up. I can’t pinpoint what that emotion is, because it’s a cacophony of feelings combined to make one entity.

“I am Legion,” would be its response if asked to name itself.

Legion, however, is my cheerleader. My only believer. My pilot light. My muse. My best quality. It is reliant, unshakable and stubborn.

Legion floods me with so much energy and emotion that its difficult to communicate its grievances in the real world. It’s akin to standing in the center of a packed football stadium where everyone is simultaneously giving you their opinion on a subject and expect you to repeat it on the spot.

It’s impossible. In fact, I usually babble or seem incoherent.

“You cant [reason].”
“Yes. Maybe. Watch me! Someday. I dont know…”

Legion, however, is my cheerleader. My only believer. My pilot light. My muse. My best quality. It is reliant, unshakable and stubborn. Birthed the day I first created. The day I first put pen to paper. Tongue in cheek. The day I first felt worth existing.


A few months back, I was in a nasty rut and needed a change of pace. That’s when I found Yoga Girl Daily podcast on Spotify. The episode I listened to inspired this journal prompt.

Prompt: One of my greatest qualities is _______. How did this quality come about?

Credits

Prompt / Inspiration: Yoga Girl Daily Podcast (17 Sep 2019)

Picture: Woman Holding Her Head by by David Garrison via Pexels

Twenty

The sun boiled his sweat. Air was like a thick mass in his lungs and if it weren’t for its necessity, he would’ve expelled it like a lump of mucus. Tendrils of heat wafted from the ground and tickled his exposed, cut legs. Everything around him was alight except for a distinct shadow.

He focused on the clank of his pickaxe as he drove it into stone.

The shadow shifted as if aware that he’d taken notice. “Have you thought of my preposition? I can give you whatever you desire,” it said as it had for the last twenty years.

Has it really been twenty years?

The pickaxe droned on–clank clank clank–pieces of sediments tumbling to the ground.

“Warm bed, not the rock,” it continued. “Your enemies to take your place. All you need do is say you’re mine and I’ll free you from here.”

The pickaxe stopped mid swing. Twenty years toiling. Twenty listening to the shadow’s promises.

Twenty

And it was all beginning to sound more promising.

Credits

Picture: Pickaxe by Samer Daboul via Pexels