She turned her water into wine. Slipped into the vintage vomit stains that added color to her starboard side. Her hair dangled dripping in my hands like lifeless seaweed strands as she fell sick into the sea. The gastrin in her stomach churned its waves to break down the balanced meals she never ate. She traced a map with the stars to show where she couldn't go, instead of where she had been. She lost herself in a homemade Bermuda Triangle. Her sails bent and broke over her shaking hands, emptying the contents of her load onto her landing. Her home sweet home. Her lonely Gilligan's Island. She was my sister. She was my volunteer work. She was twenty three. She was an alcoholic by age twelve.
…and she sang
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound…
He parted the Red Sea with his last breath. He lost his words. He lost his mind. And he crumbled the earth beneath my feet the day he jumped off of it. It sat stagnant and still, complete with the calloused white chalk outline of his body across cold pavement. Pictures plastered themselves up along all four walls of my mind, creating a maze that he had also found himself trapped in. Putting myself behind the yokes of his eyes, I saw the emptiness. The nothing that he thought was left of his life. I saw only the negative as if there was positively no other option. The abandonment of caring. Of leaving everything behind. Of letting everything go. Of saying goodbye as I stand strong over his captivating closed casket cape. He was my hero. He was my best friend. He was troubled. He is now ten feet under.
…and he sang
That saved a wretch like me…
She walked on water before she fell. She was presentable in the Kodak sort of way as she walked into a room full of another reoccurring white motif. She walked somber and low and quiet. She saw her charts being lit up and read aloud. Her eyes dimmed and fabricated a different fate. She stopped listening and started holding her head. It was a constant stationary sore. A tumor. That would kill her. The doctor tried to prettily paint up his words with things like "radiation," and "surgery," and "trial options." Instead she blocked out hope with things like medication, and getting out, and running away. I saw her lock all her doors that night. Sense was something I could no longer feed to her. I saw her spread out a rainbow assortment of pills. She counted. One. Two. Twenty. Thirty-seven. She ate them one at a time. Then five at a time. My eyes swelled. Showed their first hint of emotion in years. But my feet were still touching the ground. She would not be another loss in my life. So I pounded on the window. I screamed sentences that cut into the cancer of her mind.
I watched her look out the window. With me on the other side. She dialed 911. To save herself.
She was my life long enemy. She was someone I couldn't watch die. She was not my family. She was just my aunt.
…and she sang
I once was lost, but now I'm found…
She carried a fully loaded cross that she hung from her neck. Tolerance, acceptance, unity dripped from her lips and hung off her collection of broken bruised blood stained tattoos. Her friends became her Anti-Christ. Driving a nail into her holy hand. She walked home only to be kicked out of it. Mama beat her with the Bible, conjuring an unconscious revelation. Mama burned 666 into her skin. Drilling another nail into her hands. So she packed her bags. Selling herself to the highest bidder, digging her final nail into her own fatal feet. She was herself. She was happy. She was disowned.
The girl that turned water into wine.
My volunteer work, my sister…
Joined AA.
The boy that parted the Red Sea.
My best friend…
Gave his life for his beliefs.
The woman that walked on water.
My worst enemy, my aunt…
Is now a cancer survivor.
The girl hanging from the fully loaded cross.
Me… you…
Married for love.
…And I’m screamin’
I was blind, but now I see…

The Terrific Transformations Contest
Modcloth's New Look

You'll never read this because when I'm next to you there's no need.  I should be telling you all these things that I write.  But I don't.  It's considered "bitching" and it only leaks out once a month.  The others times I have it arrested and under strong hold.  There's an anchor at my feet weighing me down, chaining my wrists, arching my breaking back, and craining my head away.  Far away from this body.  I would cry, but that's all you ever see.  And you're tired of seeing it.  I feel to much. I bitch to much.  I cry too much.  And you're tired of seeing it just because you don't feel anything.  Not in the numb way.  But in the heartless way.  Or at least in the way that makes me feel like you have no heart for me.  But there I go again...

Feeling too much...

Believe me, I wish I could not feel enough.

When night drips down to dark
and darkness gives way to winking fire
Frustration fills and flourishes
Throwing fits at my fists.
So nagging is it's beauty, as it dies just to rise
Once again,
But how many times will my jealousies be jested at by the night?
When will it cease and shake me bodily,
breathlessly,
biologically break me down,
and I realize
It's not one sultry star that steals my envy
It's anything that burns and banishes with the wake of day
Just to thrive
Next night
Will it be easier
or is it inevitability,

kissing me
Harder and harder
with the stars starring me down.