Stray Bird

Stray Bird

I was never one to fit in,

I was always meant to stand out

And never in a good way.

People do things for clout

And I don’t even know what I want

I don’t know what I seek

I have no ambition

I’m often powerless, often weak.

My parents told me I was a fluke

That I was a mistake

They taught me so much

But funnily, it didn’t take.

I try to fly with the other guys

And that never happens right

I fall back and I die on the inside

Every time I fall from a height

I don’t have a purpose

No goal that I want to achieve

So far I’ve been a lonely parasite

Only taking, with nothing to give

I don’t know when my life ends

But I hope it does soon

It’s lonely to be a stray

Nursing at your own meaningless wounds.

Pie.

Pie.

They met by accident.

He was taken, she wasn’t.

He had a tattoo of his pregnant girlfriend’s name. He was at the bar one Saturday night after a long day at work and the bartender was cute.

Numbers were exchanged.

The bartender was a rich heiress who liked to go incognito and pick up guys on Friday nights. The longer the commitment, the better. She had a fetish for men that had been claimed by other women. She loved to chew them up and spit them out. She loved to build them up, and then tear them down. She had a theory: you needed to know their story before you got into their pants.

Sexual freedom was something she was obsessed with.

She’d set sights on him the minute he walked up to the bar and downed his first tequila.

He loosened up after a couple drinks and said he needed to get away from his girlfriend of seven months. She said she wanted him. All seven inches of him. He was taken aback. He’d never met anyone who had such accurate assessment of the human anatomical calculations, before. She said she was a pro at it and they left the club, together, his drunken arm around her waist.

She took him home.

He was aroused and wanted to do it. She said she was hungry and needed to get some dinner. He suddenly remembered he was famished too, and asked her what was for dinner.

The last thing he remembered was a butcher’s knife and her saying, “You”, before he passed out.

Two hours later, she added some garnish to the human meat pie and drove down to the suburban home he shared with his girlfriend. She left a box on the porch with a note that read:

“I did you a favor: your loyal ass deserves better. He was a cheater.”

Beard.

Beard.

Silvio hated life. It was the same old routine, every single day.

Eat, sleep, hustle, die, repeat.

He’d been on his own since he was sixteen, when his parents divorced. His mum died while he was still in college and his dad was beyond just absent.

His very first job at the pizza joint around the corner taught him that being an immigrant wasn’t ever going to work in his favor. His boss was rude and Silvio managed to graduate school and joined a law firm. It wasn’t fun, being a criminal lawyer. None of his relationships lasted and he kept going into a dark place.

One night, on his way home after a quick briefing with a client, Silvio got stuck in a God-awful thunderstorm.

The traffic was insane and he checked his watch: twelve forty five AM. He’d been stuck for almost two hours. He scratched his beard and turned on the music. It was going to be a long night. Most days he would get first grade a-holes, but his newest client, Tom, seemed harmless. If only he knew if Tom was actually innocent! The guy had such an open face, and to be accused of murder at twenty was too much.

Silvio was sharply awakened by a loud tapping on his window. The clock showed three AM and he must have dozed off. It was Tom. Pleasantly surprised, Silvio rolled down the window – only to be horrified as Tom, with livid eyes and a suddenly evil face, pointed a gun at Silvio’s head.

“You better keep me out of jail, you stupid old man. I killed my ex because she deserved it, and I will kill anyone that tries to have me arrested.”

Silvio put his hands up, trying to stay calm.

“Tom, put the gun away. We can talk about this.”

Silvio looked around out of the corner of his eye: the streets were deserted and the storm had cleared and there was no way anyone would come help. Heck, his phone was out of arm’s reach too. Calling 911 wasn’t an option, either. And his beard was really scratchy. He was both annoyed and scared. Tom was still pointing the damn gun at his head.

“Are we clear? I don’t wanna go to jail!”

The kid’s hand was steady and Silvio wondered how he’d ever been convinced that he’d finally gotten an innocent client. He was doomed to deal with criminals. For the rest of his life.

“I can’t promise that. I still have to look through your files, Tom. Manslaughter is a pretty serious offence. It’s a crime!”

“Then I have to kill you too. What kinda lawyer doesn’t defend his own clients?”

Tom pressed the cold muzzle of his gun right between Silvio’s bushy eyebrows. The metal felt cold and menacing, and Silvio closed his eyes, preparing to die, wondering how badly his blood would stain the customized interiors of the brand new BMW. And he didn’t want to die at forty-three.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, he felt a sharp tug on his beard and something whipped the gun out of Tom’s hand, knocking it to the ground. Something salt-and-pepper looking, something keratinous, wrapped itself around Tom’s neck and Silvio watched, horrified, as something choked Tom to death. Silvio felt his face and his beard purred. He looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror: his tough, scratchy beard was no longer close-shaven and tame-looking. It now resembled a ravenous snake.

That was the first time the Beard saved Silvio’s life.

(Inspired by Rohan’s Beard .)

A Different Kinda Love

A Different Kinda Love

My hands won’t stop shaking.

My anxiety is flaring up like crazy today.

It’s become a thing.

It started back in the day when I was dating this amazing man, almost a decade my senior, and he loved me. But he also hated a part of me. He hated it when I had mood swings or couldn’t function. He hated it when I couldn’t hold my pen to get a story out for the papers. We were struggling.

I called it off.

He called me a gold-digger and he trashed me all over social media. He dragged my community and he called my family names. He loved to hate me. And I didn’t retaliate because somewhere I knew, I deserved to be killed and yet, here I was, alive, breathing.

Epileptic.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it – not when I had those random falls in the bathroom during my shower. I’d hide things. I would lie and say my bruises were from rigorous gym sessions. Only because I didn’t want pity, all I wanted was a little pampering. A whole lotta love, maybe. But then you can see the feelings shift in a person’s eyes – specially when you’ve been with them for five whole years. And we weren’t getting any younger.

I was twenty-five when I left him. He’s now thirty seven and still very available. I’m on medication and his bank balance stays healthy because he doesn’t have to spend on my diseased body. The only availability I hope for myself is bioavailability.

It’s been two years since I married my doctor. He gives me everything: comfort, cuddles and my regular dose of carbamazepine.

Meanwhile my ex is out there, hating, but blissfully unaware of what happened to me. I’m glad. Someday he will move on. I hope it happens soon. I hope he meets a nice, healthy woman, someone that doesn’t give him seizures to deal with, but gives good morning kisses instead. I hope. And I pray.

He’s a good man. He deserves it.

Oh, Jaclyn

Oh, Jaclyn

Oh Jaclyn, why are you slackin’

Making lipsticks full of holes?

Tacky silver packaging with that rhinestone

With the actual product covered in mold!

Oh Jaclyn, why are you lying

Selling contaminated lipsticks from twenty fifteen

Your company name doesn’t match the logo

Are you sure you didn’t go thrifting?

Oh Jaclyn, you’re so problematic

All your launches and collabs always have some issues

Then you go on Snapchat, crying

Crying fake tears, reaching for overpriced tissues

Oh Jaclyn, I’m so sorry

There are drama channels talking about you

People are speculating, formulating theories

Why don’t you come out with it, just say what’s true?

Oh Jaclyn, you need divine intervention

And a break from trying to make a quick buck

Maybe go on Kasamba because you need it

Since you’re running out of luck.

Oh Jaclyn, I wish at this point

An actual microbiologist would come through

With photos of what’s going on with those lipsticks

A logical explanation, with concrete proof

Oh Jaclyn, please recall your products

Do some damage control as soon as you can

Your lipsticks are a health hazard,

You might be losing followers: you need to go save those Stans.

Backstory.

The beauty community can’t catch a break. There’s a new scandal each week. Jaclyn is a twenty eight year old YouTuber that’s recently come out with her own makeup line, and she’s been teasing about it since 2015.

Four years later, we have her brand, Jaclyn Cosmetics.

What’s the issue? Um, her first ever product, a cream lipstick, So Rich, that has twenty shades to pick from, also comes with hair, holes, bits of plastic and mold. Actual mold. The logo on the lipstick doesn’t match the logo on the unit carton. This led YouTuber Raw Beauty Kristi to theorize that the JH (for Jaclyn Hill) on the product must have been PRE-Jaclyn’s divorce from husband Jon Hill. The brand is called Jaclyn Cosmetics but the tube says JH:

Jaclyn Cosmetics is the shadiest new brand on the Internet:

• People that paid for expedited shipping never received their products early.

• Jaclyn never sent out PR packages ahead of time – to push sales because there were no negative reviews to begin with.

• Negative comments have magically disappeared from every Instagram post of theirs.

• As if all of that wasn’t enough, there’s been no damage or quality control and Jaclyn has been caught lying about gloves used in her lab. She’s also neglected coming out with an offices statement to clear all the air. Shady, hella shady. The lipsticks also keep balling up in places. Solid balls. And they have holes like I mentioned, plus filaments that look suspiciously moldy. Of course, a normal lipstick never does that.

There’s a very important lesson to be learned from here: don’t put anything out into the market till it’s perfect and don’t announce it to the planet when you’re not even ready.

Are you following the drama? Ooh, and did you like my poetry?

Blast From The Past

Blast From The Past

Oh boy. Why does crap happen to me all the time? Now, I’m one of those people that mostly ignores the situation, hoping it will go away – and mostly it does go away. But the rare exceptions? Oooh, they suck.

When I was almost 18 I dated this person who claimed he was only four years older to me (I’m sure that was a lie) and not going into details now, but we had a nasty break up. Of course. I can never have a clean break up. Ever. And it’s been seven years now, and this person randomly left comments on my blog.

Talk about blast from the past.

Obviously I wasn’t dumb enough to approve of those comments, but can you imagine the shock? It took me a long time to recover from this horrible relationship, and it traumatized me real bad, but I did get over it. And I never heard from the dude in seven years – this guy incidentally was the reason I don’t have a Facebook account and the reason why I always have my walls up – and then BAM he leaves me comments as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

You can’t be friends with the ex, specially if the ex damaged your head to death, without wishing to strangle the dude with a piece of rope. Right?

And now I’m back to living in misery that one day this guy will bother me again. And that blocking is not enough. What unnerved me the most was how he found my blog! I don’t have my real name on here even. Lord help me.

Have you ever had this kind of blast from the past? Do you think I need to carry Taser and Pepper Spray with me at all times? Help, bloggerfam, help!

Train Wreck

Train Wreck

Is this what living with regrets feels like?
Emotional battles keeping you up at night
Everything that was ever said eating into your head
Looking in the mirror, wishing you were dead?

What is this insanity
That’s eating into the way of your happiness
Looming over you like a gloomy cloud
When does this sob story end?

Why do you have to put on a brave face
Why won’t they accept you for who you are
Must you wander around in a daze
What’s wrong with being yourself, and showing your scars?

They think you’re okay and you’re doing great
When you are far from it, really
When all you are is a train wreck
Trying to function, chasing dreams that won’t ever turn to reality.

Soulless

Soulless

Is it wrong of me to expect
Five minutes of your undivided attention
You say we’re together
Why don’t we ever talk
Why do we always want to kill each other
You say I’ve got no soul
You say I pick fights on purpose
You say you don’t want me anymore
I’m sick of this blame game
Sick of the vicious cycle
If we’re not meant to be
Why won’t you let you
Why can’t I let go
What you’ll never understand is
I’ve got a lot of love to give
But there are no takers. 

Every Teardrop On My Shirt

Every Teardrop On My Shirt

Disclaimer: Work of fiction. Do NOT freak out. No need to kill people, let’s all be adults here. I needed to rant about something, and here I go again.

Dear (Imaginary?) Boyfriend,

I remember the time when happiness came to me naturally. How old was I back then, two? The only thing that made me cry was too much red chili in my bag of chips. And those were happy tears too, since I wanted more. And all I cared about was that ONE stuffed duck that I insisted on dragging everywhere. And I remember having one favorite shirt that I used to wear. It had cat on it, the appliquéd ears nearly falling off. Mum showed me pictures of a baby me at the airport, shorts on and hair in bunches, ratty favorite shirt in place. Toothiest smile ever and little teeth and sparkly eyes.

God, I was one happy baby.

And then I grew up and I met you. You had me hooked when you said you loved how funny I was, and that I was super cute. And we were together. Just like that, together. We were happy, we’d talk for hours. We’d make time. I’d never understand what changed. You said it was me. I am pretty sure I agree. I’m whiney, I’m hard to be with, I make it remotely far from easy. But you loved it. You loved that I was so different, you said I was perfect.

I’ll never KNOW what changed.

We fight all the time because all I want is your attention. Like one of those kittens that need their bellies rubbed. I know you’re busy and you have a life and stuff to do, but where do I figure? I’ve seen other guys console their girlfriends when they’re sad. I wanted the same – was it too much to ask for? I guess. I know I’m a grown arse woman that doesn’t need to be MOTHERED, and I know you’re not a mind reader, but sometimes when I ask you to leave me alone because I can take care of myself, I mean, “Just hold me.” Sometimes I wish I didn’t cry a million tears every night into my pillow, that every teardrop on my tee shirt didn’t have a story.

Yours,

I-don’t-know-anymore.

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