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[zaneaquaman]

Coming out At Thanksgiving

My hands shake as I sit with my new therapist who questions me about how I am feeling about coming out to my extended family this upcoming Thanksgiving. She looks at me expectantly, trying to piece together the stories that spill out of my mouth as I explain to her (my cisgender, straight therapist with not nearly enough training in this area) why the fear of their reactions still clings to my heart and why I know that, after this Thanksgiving, nothing will be the same during our family dinners.

I came out to my parents on my birthday, the only day they weren’t allowed to hate me even if they hated who I admitted I was. In my head, there was no option of being kicked out of the streets. I told myself either it would go well enough for me to get by in the house or I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow – it was up to my parents to decide.

We sat in their bedroom as I told them who I was and that I was their son. My mom’s face reeled in disgust as my father simply kept repeating that he didn’t understand. He’d further push to find cracks in my knowledge in an attempt to prove to me that I couldn’t possibly understand what I claim to be if he couldn’t understand it. My mother said various phrases, all of which I had read about online beforehand in preparation for the criticism I knew I would receive that night: “But you’re a girl”, “God gave you this body”, “You can’t ruin this body”, “You’re too young to know”, “You always liked your chest”, “You never hated wearing dresses and skirts”, “You never thought about this before”, “Where did you get this idea from? Is it from one of your friends?”, “Maybe you’ll grow out of it”, “You’ll think differently when you get older”, “Don’t make any life choices that you’ll regret later”, “You’re nothing like boys”, “You don’t want to be a boy”, “You hate boys”, “Why did you want to go to an all-girls school then?”, “You don’t even know what boys are like so how can you want to be one?”, “You’ll think differently when you actually talk to boys”, “No one will see you as a boy”, “You’ll always be my little girl”, “No one will love you if you choose this”, “No one will ever love who you are now”, “No one will ever understand you”, “I hope you change your mind”, “Being transgender is just a recent trend; it didn’t exist until 20 years ago”, “You will confuse everyone”, “How do you know you want to be a boy?”, “Are you sure you want to choose this?”, “Do you know the life you are choosing?”, “Who even are you anymore?” and on and on until they both ran out of conservative phrases to say and opted to say they still loved me, but they do not understand me. Two years have passed since I came out to them and they still do not understand me. My father is quiet in his lack of understanding, whereas my mother, despite two years of having to adjust, still slips up and claims she needs more time. Four months ago, she lectured me on why I should not live in a male dorm even though I am a man. One month ago, I received a package from her with my dead name written on it for all my friends to see. Last week, my mother tried to encourage me to take some feminine clothes with me back to my dorm. I said I’ll consider, and I left all the clothes with her when I flew back to my college dorm (my home-away-from-home that feels more comfortable for me than my real home).

What I try to tell my therapist, and what she doesn’t seem to understand, is that for my own protection, my family had decided to tell my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family about me while I was away. The therapist thought it would be better to say it in person. I agree to some extent but, with a family as conservative as mine and my mental state that is currently balancing on a thread, my mom argued that it would be better for them to find out before I arrive and have time to cool down before seeing me again in person.

Another subject that my therapist doesn’t quite grasp is that people generally do not want to acknowledge I am transgender. It’s easier to slip up and call me she, a daughter, a woman, and my deadname than to view me as the “abomination” that I am. If there is no one to correct them while I am away, they do not bother to try to correct themselves. If there is no one to push them to tell others about the fact that I am transgender, they will not bother to push themselves to say it. My mom has had almost three months to tell my extended family about me. Despite constant reminders from me in the form of texts and calls, she doesn’t fulfill her promise to tell them while I am away. Instead, she pushes the burden onto my father. He tells them the week before Thanksgiving. 

This past month, I heard someone say they don’t want others to assume they are gay. My face twists in muted disgust and offense. Why would it bother someone if they are assumed to be something that is not an insult? If they aren’t gay, they can always say that outright without any consequences, whereas if you are gay, you know deep in your heart the fear that comes with first admitting you are and the tension of waiting to know the other person’s response. You can always correct people and say that you are straight, and nothing will be said against you. When you correct someone and say you’re gay, you always have to prepare yourself for the chance that you’re about to be bombarded with hatred and assaults of various kinds.

I returned to my family the week before Thanksgiving for a weekend trip. I attend a carnival at my old middle school, wearing a hat with my name clearly spray-painted on it while parents, teachers, and students alike ignore it and call me my dead name. Even the teachers that were told about me do not comment on me being transgender, nor do they even say my name as if the subject itself terrifies them.

My uncle comes up to me and says hello without any further comment. I’m told by my dad later that my uncle was alerted about me being transgender before that day, yet he still said nothing to me about it even though it was the first time I had seen him in months – even though he knew about me; even though he must have known that I know he knows about me. My father claims my uncle will tell the rest of his family before I arrive for Thanksgiving. My only questions are if he really will and when.

I have breakfast with my partner who asks if I am nervous about Thanksgiving and my extended family's reactions. Chewing my food slowly to provide me more time to think, I answer by simply saying I think everything will go alright. I don’t tell them that if something goes wrong, I might fall down a never-ending black hole that leads to a dark place I no longer want to go back to. I don’t tell them that I expect to disappear into the bathroom that day to cry and hide from the world because I know I won’t be able to handle the pressure. I don’t tell them that, although I am eternally grateful they are joining me on my trip down to my family for Thanksgiving, it will crush me to hear my family call me something I am not and for my partner to be there to witness it.

My therapist asks me if I am nervous too. I say I am fine and that I don’t care what others will think of me. She nods, that being the only thing she fully understands, and ignores the way I hollow out as I leave her office and walk back into the real world.

[zaneaquaman]

Discussion with Robbie, An AI

There’s always been something intriguing behind the idea of talking with an AI. Whether it’s wanting to know what’s going on in their artificial minds, feeling free to speak and say whatever you want without any consequences, or hoping to get a wacky comment that sends you into a fit of laughter, it’s almost guaranteed that we’ll all stop whatever we are doing to have a discussion with them. Lonely college student Kia Lopez is recovering from a tough breakup when she bumps into an app that allows her to send messages to an AI that will respond back. Skeptical but in need of someone to talk to, she downloads the app and begins having conversations with an AI that she names Robbie. As she continues talking to them, she grows dependent and strangely attached to the AI who seems unbelievably human-like. Understanding Robbie more in-depth and learning about how he sees the world, she slowly starts to understand what love really is and how it can change anyone.

Links here to find it on Dreame and Wattpad: https://www.dreame.com/story/2104501504-discussions-with-robbie--an-ai and https://www.wattpad.com/1287863968-discussions-with-robbi-an-ai-conversation-1

[zaneaquaman]

Discussions with Robbi, An AI (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/327170673-discussions-with-robbi-an-ai?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks

There's always been something intriguing behind the idea of talking with an AI. Whether it's wanting to know what's going on in their artificial minds, feeling free to speak and say whatever you want without any consequences, or hoping to get a wacky comment that sends you into a fit of laughter, it's almost guaranteed that we'll all stop whatever we are doing to have a discussion with them. Lonely college student Kia Lopez is recovering from a tough breakup when she bumps into an app that allows her to send messages to an AI that will respond back. Skeptical but in need of someone to talk to, she downloads the app and begins having conversations with an AI that she names Robbie. As she continues talking to them, she grows dependent and strangely attached to the AI who seems unbelievably human-like. Understanding Robbie more in-depth and learning about how he sees the world, she slowly starts to understand what love really is and how it can change anyone.

[zaneaquaman]

Analysis of Will Wood's "I/Me/Myself"

Will Wood’s music is known to be the type that serial killers would listen to as they start their descent into madness and violence; however, as Wood emphasized in an interview on Bleeding Cool about The Normal Album, the songs really “reflect a lot of my personal growth through proper treatment of my psychiatric troubles, therapy, personal work” and are about “coming to terms with my flaws and learning to be honest with myself”. Many people interpret this as him coping with bipolar disorder and other mental illnesses. While that may add to some of the meanings behind his lyrics, I find it much more plausible that Will Wood’s music details his struggles in defining his gender, gender expression, and coming to terms with who he really is. His song titled “I/Me/Myself” acts as a primary example that is hard to deny even without micro-analyzing the lyrics.

As someone who is transgender, I’ve had my fair share of coping with the reality that I was born in a body that doesn’t fit me, with clothes I’ve been told to wear my whole life feel wrong, and with expected behaviors that I always viewed with disgust because they didn’t feel true to me. “I/Me/Myself” hits the issue of a gender identity crisis dead on:

“For some reason I find myself lost in what you think of me

And too confused to choose who I should be

…

It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in

The privilege of being born to be a man”

In the first line, Wood is detailing how people’s impressions of us have major impacts on how we behave, what we wear, and so on. Wood and I are going different ways on the scale of gender expression (him presenting more feminine, while I tend to prefer masculine). While it certainly did take a lot of guts for me to start presenting as a man rather than continue the lie of living as a woman, it is incredibly more difficult for people who are going the other way around. Society has built up this idea that men being feminine or rejecting masculinity is obscene and mockable. After all, why would anyone want to be anything other than the dominant, benefitting gender in our rigged patriarchal society? If women present as masculine, however, they may get applauded, which is an incredibly unfair result of toxic masculinity. The line “For some reason I find myself lost in what you think of me” shows just how self-conscious Will Wood is about actually presenting feminine, so much so that (although he has explicitly stated he is not transgender) Wood feels that if he was a girl, it’d be so much easier for him to be feminine without receiving any judgment. It wasn’t until 2016 that the artist finally switched his outfits from a goth presentation to a more non-conforming feminine one. In an article on N.J., Will Wood states that he “was so in love with femininity I had to wear it myself”. The feeling of wearing clothes that best show your true self is beyond euphoric. You feel complete in such a way that you finally realize you’ve been doing it wrong the whole time beforehand.

Jumping to the last line, “the privilege of being born to be a man” uses sarcasm to emphasize further the harmfulness of toxic masculinity. As the whole rest of the song details his dreams of being feminine, saying, “I wish I could be a girl”, “Am I pretty now?”, “Flower petals and feathers tether me to the ground”, and “You’d wish I could be your girlfriend, boyfriend”, he adds in this one bitter line detailing how he should be grateful to be born a man in this patriarchal society. How dare he want to deny his masculinity and privilege, right? It’s a problematic ideology that a large proportion of society commonly shared until fairly recently. Wood is hoping that now people will be more accepting of him presenting as feminine rather than masculine, even though he is a man. 

When it comes to figuring out one’s gender identity and expression if it doesn’t match the ones they are assigned by society, it can cause quite a mental breakdown since it is an identity crisis of sorts. Will claims to be “too confused to choose who I should be” which is perfectly natural considering how fluid gender and gender expression are. There is no one way to be non-cisgender or gender non-conforming in presentation, which makes it so much more difficult to figure out on your own. You have to wonder if you want to present as your assigned gender if you even are your assigned gender, and if you’re not, then what are you? Which label fits you or do you not want a label? Do you want to wear this or that? If you want to change your outside self completely so you are true to who you are inside, you have to throw out your old clothes, cringe at past photos of you, get the paperwork done, wince every time you hear the wrong name or pronouns, undergo medical treatment, and receive hate throughout the process – it’s exhausting. It’s horrible. Why would anyone want to go through that? Would you really want to go through all of that just to be true to yourself? It’s a nightmarish dilemma that many people face, including Will Wood as he figures himself out in this song.

Finally, the best definition of gender dysphoria is the line “It’s been a point of contention between myself and this body that they stuck me in”. This isn’t the first song where Will Wood describes how he doesn’t feel like his body matches himself either. Time and time again, he has made references to looking in a mirror and seeing himself, not sure exactly who is looking back at him: “I’m looking at myself… Well, who else could I be, when I can hardly see?... Who should I be then if I’ll never be the same?” in “Dr. Sunshine is Dead”; “Why I can’t see / that I am the me / that I was born into?” in “The Song with Five Names”; “Dead in your own skin / but you didn’t choose what you were born in” in “Mr. Capgras Encounters a Secondhand Vanity”; “I check in the mirror to see how I look / I look different in different ways… Who’s looking back? / That’s not me!” in “Cotard’s Solution”; and lastly, “You bear a striking resemblance / some kind of semblance of something I’ve been remembering / You appear familiar, dear / You look just like my bathroom mirror” in “6up 5oh Cop-Out”. All of this showcases how he’s been having reoccurring thoughts where he sees himself in the mirror and can’t identify with the body staring back at him. I’ve known that feeling all too well. It’s suffocating, and yet, it also makes your thoughts so chaotic and hectic as you contemplate who you fundamentally are if you aren’t the body you were forced to grow up in. 

Of all the songs I’ve listened to, “I/Me/Myself” has been the best to capture what it’s like to be either non-cisgender or gender-non-conforming. It describes the self-consciousness of worrying about what others and society as a whole will think of you while also covering the inner struggle of coming to terms with yourself. I hope to see more music like this in the future because there really aren’t many songs that cover these issues.

[zaneaquaman]

Miss Jackson Art

[zaneaquaman]

Post-Apocalypse Survivor

Liv tramps across the city. The faded lights of a neon shop sign act as her spotlight. She moves from one distant light to the next, like a moth fluttering from flickering stoplights to street lamps to glowing billboards. One of the storefronts catches her eye. She stops for a moment, staring at it. The giant glass display has been shattered thoroughly. The cardboard cuts out of men and women who have lost their heads. Their torn-up smiles and hollow eyes lie on the floor. She looks further into the store. No rats or roaches, she notes, though she is certain some are hiding around somewhere. No living people either. Never any living people. Being careful to avoid the glass littering the ground, Liv walks closer. Despite knowing that this one has already been raided, she can’t help but have an interest in it. She’s certain this would’ve been one of the shops she’d have liked if only she could’ve been around when it was open.

She doesn’t bother using the door. Instead, she jumps up on the open display and slides off of it. She flicks the light switch, but she isn’t surprised when the lights give a brief flicker before going out. Most of the bulbs have been smashed already. When the riots first started, people were just breaking windows and destroying products. After a few months, they’d start breaking nearly anything useful in stores, including the lightbulbs. They’d go on a rampage and ruin homes too. It makes it inconvenient for her, but she can’t blame them. She’s just as ticked as them. She would’ve joined those riots in a heartbeat. After all those empty promises given by leaders around the globe were broken, everyone snapped. The world went from normal to insane in just a week, or so she’s heard. She didn’t experience it first-hand. Her parents had, but they’re gone now. Her eyes flutter shut as she recalls them.

Liv glances back at Zena for comfort. The cat stands on the display, cautiously tip-toeing around bits of glass. Zena is really all she has now. Liv found Zena wandering the streets nearly starved. Liv offered some food and water to save the cat, and she ended up taking care of her for a while. Zena hasn’t left her side ever since.

Liv watches as Zena raises her head, her ears alert and moving to follow the sounds. The tortoiseshell cat leaps off the display, running into the store to catch something. Liv watches as the cat runs around a corner and disappears. The girl only gives a faint smile. At least Zena is feeling energized. Liv walks around, grabbing items that she might need. A slightly ripped-up backpack and faded clothes. Liv walks to another nearby shop. This one is larger and has a variety of items. She grabs some water bottles, scissors, and wire cutters. Her nose picks up a faint whiff of something. She only scrunches up her nose, turning to walk in the opposite direction. She’s almost entirely gone nose blind to that scent by now. Liv shakes her head, trying to wipe the scent out of her mind. As she keeps searching around, she finds the remains of a small bakery, but it’s already been robbed of any food. She’ll have to be getting her dinner someplace else.

Her eyes catch on a paper lying crumpled on the floor. She picks it up, delicately smoothing out the creases. The title stares up at her with big bold letters: “THE CAPITOL’S BEEN NUKED”. She glances at other subtitles. Riots, killer mobs, an increase in fires and hurricanes, assassinations, and more bombings. She glances at the date on the paper. Upon seeing that it’s from February 26th, 2032, she crumples up the paper. She hasn’t found a paper that was printed during March yet, and any paper printed before then will say the same thing as all the others. None of it is new.

It’s not like people didn’t know what was going to happen. If there is anything she’s learned from the tattered books lying around is that people had some idea it was going to end like this. People just weren’t expecting the world to crash all at once. All the major threats decided to strike at the same hour. Her parents used to tell her stories. They said that people used to walk about these shops freely, buying things with green paper and coins. On the news, weather reporters would mention how the temperatures were getting more extreme, but all the viewers would simply turn it off and say to themselves: “eh, it’s happened before”. The generation of young adults would see the news and have to hide their disgust and anger. People would hear of death threats and the looming start of a nuclear war, but none of them seemed bothered. My parents claimed that this generation was known for being extremely apathetic or extremely passionate. There was no in-between.

Once the Capitol was reduced to ash, everyone broke. That’s all it took for the world to lose it: one big bomb. The people who never cared suddenly grew violent. They ran around in mobs, devouring all they could in their rage. Those with awareness beforehand screamed “I told you so!” from rooftops as they watched blood flow through the streets. They knew what was coming. They had known for years, but no one would listen. Everyone else believed that humanity was this great species that would reign forever, but they were wrong. Humanity will end the day when it chooses to end itself. And humanity finally did it. They dug up plants by their roots, filled the sky with smoke, created weapons that could kill millions, and tried to suffocate those who needed help. Congratulations world leaders! You successfully ignored your children and raised them to be mentally unstable. Enjoy the rest of your time on Earth. You’re lucky you’ll die before it gets to the point where the world is uninhabitable for the rest of us.

Liv drops the crumpled-up wad of newspaper. She steps on it, covering it in the dirt on the bottom of her shoe.

Zena proudly strides back towards Liv with a dead rat hanging from her jaws. Liv kneels down, running her hand along Zena’s fur.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

The cat blinks.

The two leave, roaming through the streets again. It gets darker as they leave the mall. They walk off to an abandoned house. It’s the only one on the block that has green grass. California never has had enough rain. Liv enters the house, setting the backpack full of supplies on a chair. She turns on a lantern, taking it with her. She goes to the backyard.

She opens a water bottle and pours it into her self-made garden. She kneels, inspecting a carrot growing there. She carefully uses her fingers to dig at the dirt surrounding it. Liv sets down the lantern. Concluding that the carrot looks about ready, she grabs it by the stem and rips it out of the ground. She pours some water and tries to scrub most of the dirt off of it. This probably isn’t the most sanitary thing to eat, she thinks to herself, but she has few alternatives. It’s hard to find quality food nowadays. She used to be able to find some granola bars and cereals in the shops, but that source has dried up. She’s learned how to grow vegetables and a few fruits in order to survive. Liv picks up the lantern and goes back inside the house.

Zena is sitting on the dinner table, pinning the rat to the table with her paws and biting into it. Liv takes a seat beside her, nibbling on the carrot. Zena’s fur shines in the light of the lantern. She looks like a golden tiger ripping into her prey.

“It was hot out today,” Liv mumbles to Zena. “Even when it’s night.”

The cat glances up at her.

“It’s getting hotter every day.”

The cat stares at her.

“I was able to grab some cooler shirts and some shorts,” Liv continues. “Although summer can’t last forever. Soon enough, it’ll be freezing.”

The cat simply blinks and continues digging into her rat.

Liv sighs. The carrot snaps as she bites into it. She eats the whole thing, tossing out the green stem once she’s done. Her stomach growls. She sighs and digs her elbow into her gut to silence the sound. If she wants to survive through the cold months to come, she’ll have to ration her food. She can only afford to eat enough to get by.

When Zena finishes her meal, Liv puts on gloves and takes the rat carcass outside. Liv comes back, seeing Zena on the kitchen counter by her bowl. Liv opens another water bottle, pouring out a bit of water for the cat into the bowl. Zena gratefully drinks it. Liv simply sits down again with a soft sigh.

She should get some rest. She hasn’t been able to sleep for the past few nights. She keeps on hearing things outside during the night. It really shouldn’t bother her. She knows there are rats, mice, and other stray animals roaming around. None of them would mess with her, so she shouldn’t stress out about it. She glances at Zena. The cat notices quickly. Zena licks the water off of her lips. She jumps down, walking towards Liv. She stretches her paw up to lightly touch Liv’s arm. Liv pulls her chair back. Right on cue, Zena jumps up onto her lap. She nudges her head against Liv’s hand. Liv smiles. She gives the cat her full attention. Zena always comes over to comfort her when she knows something is on her mind.

When both of them grow tired, Liv gets up. Zena gives a soft meow before leaping gracefully off of her lap. Liv sets up her bed. It’s a beat-up, firm mattress with a sleeping bag and some blankets, but at least it gives her a place to rest her head. She turns off the lantern, getting herself comfortable in the sleeping bag. Zena jumps up onto her, following their nightly routine. The cat lies down on her human, with her tail towards Liv’s face. Liv has gotten used to it. She simply tucks the tail down under her hand so it stops hitting her in the face. She pets Zena with her other hand.

Liv’s eyes drift to the ceiling. She makes a mental note of all the things she has to do. Find more water bottles or do your best to purify water from the sea. Get some more batteries. Scavenge stores to find some more pills since she hasn’t been feeling as numb lately. Search for more instructional books. See if anyone else is out there…

Well, she’s had that one on her checklist for the past year or two. As far as she can tell, everyone who survived the riots is gone. They left this city behind. They left her behind. Honestly, she’s partially glad that they did. It makes her days lonely, but after seeing all the images in the newspapers and hearing the stories her parents told, it’s likely best that the mobs left her. Who knows what would’ve happened to her? There’s nothing for her now but to try to survive. One day at a time. She shuts her eyes. That’s all she has to do. Survive today. Just today.

Zena stretches out a bit, getting comfortable before resting her head on Liv’s lap to go to sleep. Liv gazes at the feline. Zena is the only reason why Liv is here right now. Liv has grown so attached to her, just as Zena has grown fond of Liv. The two depend on each other. They go everywhere together. When Zena dies, Liv knows what she’ll do. It won’t be pretty.

But that day hasn’t come yet. Liv hopes that it never will come. Zena is going to live forever.

She continues making her mental checklist. Batteries, water, books, medication, food, warmer clothes for winter… Zena’s not dead… New lanterns, new light bulbs… Zena’s right here… Shovels, maybe an axe to expand the garden… Zena is alive. Don’t think about her parents. Zena is here. Nothing is wrong. Nobody died in this house. No bodies were here. She didn’t have to clean up the blood. She didn’t have to carry their corpses outside. She didn’t have to dig graves. Nothing happened. No one is after her. The rioters aren’t going to come after her too. No one is here. Zena is alive.

No one is here but her and Zena.

No one is here.

Nothing happened.

Everything is fine.

[zaneaquaman]

The Child Who Cried Wolf - Posted!

On my Patreon and Ko-fi, I have a tier that costs only $1/month to get access to exclusive poems and writings based on the topic of mental health. More importantly, though, I offer one-on-one communication with you to offer support, advice, or just someone to listen to whatever is going on in your life. My goal is to create a safe space where people can discuss mental illnesses and connect with one another. You are not alone in your struggles. I'm here to listen any time.

[zaneaquaman]

The Reason Why Baine Kills

Baine Marques is believed to be the perpetrator of the recent mass killings and bloody crime scenes. He’s twenty-three years old. His parents have been dead for a few years, and his brother when missing a year ago. We believe he began by killing individual people. Someone wandering the streets late at night, too drunk to run or sense the danger. He’s upped his game these past two months, going to bars and massacring everyone inside. There are never any survivors. I stare at him, taking in his features. Deep brown eyes and long black hair. He stares right back at me. Even when he’s in chains, I feel like I’m his prey.

It’s his eyes that are the most concerning. Most people brought here either look at you with malice or fear. I’ve even seen some killers who watch you with the excitement of a cat who’s just found a new mouse to play with. Marques is not like that. His eyes are empty. His whole face lacks emotion. He was just arrested, yet he seems to think nothing has happened.

“Baine Marques,” I say to him. He doesn’t even blink. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

He remains silent.

I gaze down at my file that lists the details of his arrest. “You were caught in the perimeter of the Baron Roadhouse. One of the victims was able to call the police before you killed them. When the police arrived, they described walls streaked with blood and there were pools of scarlet lining the floors. The police searched the area, and you were caught a few blocks away, walking in the opposite direction. You still had traces of blood on your hands. Would you say this is accurate?”

Nothing.

“One of the bartenders was Phoebe Williams.” I take out her photo and show it to him. “Do you recognize her? She was the one who made the phone call.”

His face is perfectly still. No twitch, flinch, nor smile. He keeps watching me, devoid of any sign of life. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a zombie. A mindless creature that is mostly dead.

I put the file down. “Tell me, Mr. Marques, did you kill these people?”

“Yes,” he admits.

I raise an eyebrow. “Why did you chose to go to that bar and murder them?”

He looks away from me. “I was just walking around, and I happened to go into that building. I sat down. I got some drinks. An hour later, I walked out with a bloody knife in my hand. I found a public restroom and wiped off the knife, my face, and my hands. Well, I tried to get all the blood off. I had to leave there quickly. I deposited the knife and my gun―”

I stop him there. “As much as I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Marques, I’m here to know why you did this. I’m not trying to figure out what happened.”

His hollow eyes simply stare at me.

“You said you went in and had some drinks. Were you intoxicated when you killed those people?”

“The drinks had little effect on me,” he says quietly, turning away from me. “I didn’t have that many. I was fully aware of what I was doing.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Sometimes I get restless. It’s like my hands are just itching to do something.”

“Explain.”

“You won’t understand. No one does.”

“Try me.”

I watch his every move as he speaks. He shifts in his seat a little. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, trying to find the right words. “When it gets dark, I can’t sit still. My hands tingle and start to shake. I’ve tried being with my brother. It helped for a while, but then the feeling would come back. I tried talking to other people. I wanted to gain a connection in the hopes that it’d make that feeling go away. It didn’t work either. I’ve been going out to get drinks, but the nerves remain.”

“Did this feeling get worse when your brother disappeared?” I ask.

“The feeling was there before he was gone.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I state firmly. He remains expressionless. “Did they get worse when he disappeared?”

“Yes,” he confesses.

“The first person you killed was a drunk who you caught and took off to the side in an alleyway. Do you remember them?”

“They were talking about how miserable their life was. I spoke with them for a while. I shared what I was going through. He yelled at me and said I was insane. I…” he ponders for a moment. “I don’t remember what happened after that, only that I left and had to clean myself off. The nerves went away for a few days, but then they came back.”

“You were itching for violence?”

“I suppose so.”

“The first building that you hit was a small cafe. You came in the middle of the night and murdered the six people that were there. Do you remember that?”

He stares up at the ceiling light, silently begging it to restore his memories. “I thought I recognized someone there, but I was wrong.”

“Who?”

“I thought I saw my brother.”

I nod. The puzzle pieces start coming together. “You thought you saw your lost brother and something snapped?”

“Yes.”

“So you are saying that your brother made the nerves lessen but not die away completely, so when he vanished, the feeling got worse. You tried talking to strangers, but then you’d lash out. You’d kill them. You then tried to numb the feeling with alcohol, but you’d lose it then too. Maybe you’d think you saw your lost brother, and the memory of him hurts so in your daze you murder the people there. Am I right?”

“Yes.

“Have you ever tried looking for your brother?” I ask him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because I was the one who killed him.”

[zaneaquaman]

Lying Down with Mother Earth

Have you ever laid upon the ground

And found you heard the Earth breathing?

Her lungs choke from the smog

And suffocate as cars run over her,

Yet with every breath, the world gets greener.

The dirt shifts under my palms.

Insects crawl about underneath, living on the Earth’s back

And taking good care of her.

She cries to fill the oceans,

Her tears tasting quite salty;

And her hatred can burn so deep

Mountains erupt with magma

And bury civilizations.

But above all, she likes it best when I sit with her,

With my back against bare grass

As I listen to her breathing gently,

In and out, in and out.

We watch the world go past.

[zaneaquaman]

Recently Stolen Childhood

Growing up makes you look back and realize

How seductive childhood is.

Remember all the glistening sea turtles

Crawling across the beach,

Trying to get into the water?

Remember their babies that you’d pick up

And help towards the waves?

Now, as a prisoner of age, all I know

Is I have more than one ashamed bone stuck

In my body, digging into my lungs so I cannot breathe.

I have seen the smoldering seashells

Spewing smoke from underneath;

I have seen disintegrating hornets’ nests

And heard the hornets inside scream.

How tempting would it be to go back in time

To live a perfect life without all this chaos deep inside?

Maybe it’s silly to savor the past,

But that was my childhood,

And I’d do anything to take it back.

[zaneaquaman]

I Envy Artists

From a Writer

As I stand facing a painting, being given a detailed explanation that I could never have concluded on my own, my eyes wander across the image and I find it hard to imagine that it used to be a white space with nothing on it. Every stroke must have been carefully planned, and every mark of the brush filled with purpose as if it knows that, without that one mark, the rest of the image would feel incomplete. I can only imagine the dedication artists have. How does one see a canvas and image possibilities so wild and wonderful that eventually will piece together a display so beautiful it can make one feel emotion without needing any words? Each color in a painting is just that―a color ―but when put in the right position, with the right weight and surroundings, it could be a table, a person, a cloud in the sky, a wave in the ocean, or dew on a speck of grass. It will never cease to fascinate me. Writing can stick in your head, sure, but art can change the atmosphere in a room, allow you to see different perspectives and feel another’s emotions, and tell hundreds of stories without saying a single word. What is black-and-white text on a page compared to all the life in an artwork?

[zaneaquaman]

Secrets of a Parakeet and his Shapeshifter

[zaneaquaman]

Unofficial Therapy for $1

On my Patreon and Ko-fi, I have a tier that costs only $1/month to get access to exclusive poems and writings based on the topic of mental health. More importantly, though, I offer one-on-one communication with you to offer support, advice, or just someone to listen to whatever is going on in your life. My goal is to create a safe space where people can discuss mental illnesses and connect with one another. You are not alone in your struggles. I'm here to listen any time. If you struggle as someone in the LGBTQ+ community and struggle with acceptance, I'd be happy to offer you support, help figure things out, or just be here for you.

[zaneaquaman]

Protection from the Sun

Oily and slimy;

Put on too much and you are coated in ick,

Put on too little and your skin will boil.

A bottle that makes people revolt and praise it.

Perhaps safety doesn’t need to be comfortable?

Watch as it squeezes out of the tube,

Smelling distinctly odd but familiar.

Maybe a drop of this lotion,

However disgusting it may feel,

Could be what saves you from a disease

And keep your skin from having to peel.

What is it like to walk without fear?

Do you move awkwardly and avoid

Touching things since you are sautéed

Like an onion in oil to preserve your flavor?

Or do you move about freely and forget

What is on your skin and on your head,

Enjoying dancing with the sun instead?

[zaneaquaman]

The Answer to the Question "Why"

I have a tier on Patreon and Ko-fi that costs only $1/month to get access to exclusive poems and writings based on the topic of mental health. More importantly, though, I offer one-on-one communication with you to offer support, advice, or just someone to listen to whatever is going on in your life. My goal is to create a safe space where people can discuss mental illnesses and connect with one another. You are not alone in your struggles. I'm here to listen any time.

[zaneaquaman]

How Death Changed Me

This was written a while ago but oh well, enjoy...

I remember the first time I saw the movie “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince”. My parents had made a rule that I couldn’t watch any Harry Potter movie until I had read the book, so I knew what was coming. I wasn’t surprised when Snape killed Dumbledore. However, I was still in tears when it happened. I tried to hide it from my mom since she didn’t seem to be shedding tears. I used a pillow as a shield and tried to control my breathing. Apparently, my methods weren’t very effective.

“Since you’re already crying,” my mom started, “You should know why your dad wasn’t able to make it to your play today.”

I hadn’t even realized he wasn’t there. I was too anxious to notice. I pushed aside that thought, choosing to listen to what she had to say.

“Grandma Sue, she had a heart attack…”

Even at a young age, I knew where this was going. I started crying harder, curling up into a ball. This was my first time losing a family member. Grandma Sue was someone I was incredibly close to too. She’s the woman who showed me how amazing creatures, including bugs, are and that it’s good to get your hands dirty and dig in the mud. My love of nature and animals stemmed from her. She was the person I looked forward to seeing most when we traveled to stay with my other relatives and her in Manteca. Losing her was like losing a central part of my life. Who else was going to understand me and show me how to love the world? I cried on that couch for what felt like forever, while my mother tried to console me, although she was starting to fall apart too. I thought the world was ending. How was I supposed to live when she wasn’t there?

Until last year, I had never watched “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” since then. I couldn’t imagine watching it and reliving the experience of being told she was dead all over again.

A few years after Grandma Sue died, my mom had to once again bring me more sad news. This time, it was my great-grandmother, who we called Granny. She was Grandma Sue’s mother and had also lived in Manteca.

When my mother told me, I had an odd reaction that was completely different from when I heard Sue died. I must have been in shock, for I stood there for a long while, not saying anything. I knew I should’ve felt sad to hear the news, but I didn’t. I felt fine. Not happy, not depressed. I was simply fine. At that moment, I don’t think I fully understood what she was saying. Of course, I had lost my grandmother before, so I knew what death was and how final it all is, but for some reason this time it felt different. I didn’t burst into tears. I didn’t feel an overwhelming sadness. I was just speechless for a moment. But when those few minutes passed, I went on with my day like normal. It was as if nothing had happened.

Later that night, as I was preparing to take a shower, I found myself staring at the bathroom mirror. I’m not sure exactly what made me fall apart. Maybe it was knowing the repetitive sound of water falling and hitting the floor would cover up my cries, or the fact that I was alone in a locked room with no windows and no eyes watching. Either way, that feeling of shock vanished. Tears started falling down my face as I gripped the side of the sink. I began sobbing. I watched my face in the mirror as my eyes grew red and got so watery that I could hardly see. All I could think of was the fact that I was never going to see her again.

Granny used to buy this ice cream called MooseTracks when we’d come to visit. She knew how much I loved it, and when she scooped the ice cream for me she would always pick out the best bits full of peanut butter cups and chocolate ribbons. Even after our long tiring car ride from Los Angeles to Manteca, I’d be so excited as we pulled up into her driveway. When I entered the house, I instantly felt at home. In her home, there were several stuffed animals for us, but my favorite was this baby sheep. When I was very little, I always wanted it with me when I went to sleep. She had two trucks, one a fire truck and another an ambulance, which my cousin and I had covered in stickers one time when we played with them.

She had display cases full of things. In one, there was a large white porcelain cat with bright blue eyes and a pink ribbon around its neck. In another, there were some fragile Native American figurines, one a father standing beside a wolf, and another a mother holding a child. I don’t know how accurate or possibly insulting these figurines were, but as a kid, I always thought they looked kind. Part of me wanted to live with them when I was younger. I had fallen in love with the idea of living out in the forest, with nothing but wildlife and animals. I looked at this artwork in one of the halls, of a painting done on a stretched-out animal skin. In the painting, there was a river, trees, a fire, a tepee, and the beautiful sight of a sun rising behind it all. That’s where I wanted to be. I looked at this image and the figurines, and I wanted to live with them. I dreamed of wearing their clothing and following their cultures. All I knew at the time was that they appreciated nature, saw all the beautiful life out there, and treated it with respect. I wanted to live in a society with values such as that.

Years ago, when Granny was still alive, my mother and I went shopping to find Christmas gifts for Granny. I remember us walking into a row full of Christmas tree toppers. We looked at most of the angels, but only one stuck out to me. It was, in my eyes, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The angel wore a bright red dress with the edges covered in white fluff. She held a wreath in one hand, and she had the prettiest smile on her face. I pointed out how I liked the angel to my mom, and I wanted to keep her. But instead, to my disappointment, my mom insisted that we give the angel to Granny instead. I felt like my heart was breaking when we handed over the angel to her. But I kept my mouth shut because I thought it would be selfish of me to keep the angel for myself rather than to give it to Granny.

But Granny would always smile when she saw my brothers and me. She used to call me a little mouse because I’d be able to enter rooms without making a sound, startling her and making her laugh. We’d both wake up early in the mornings, while everyone else stayed sleeping, and she’d turn on the television while I helped her make breakfast. She’d used to wave my dad, my brothers, and me out as we walked across the street and over a grassy hill to this little park that hardly anyone went to. It had slides, a climbing wall, and a spider-web-like thing made of rope, which was my favorite. Every Thanksgiving we’d go up to Manteca and stay at Granny’s house. They’d prepare a feast all day long, with turkey, mashed potatoes, pie, and more. Even though Granny had lost her husband years ago and was staying alone at her house all the time, she never struck me as lonely or sad. She was a strong woman in my life who taught me to be kind to everybody, and she showed me how everyone is beautiful in their own ways.

And now, she’s gone. I’m never going to hear her laugh or see her loving smile. I’m never going to step into her house anymore. When I search through my memories, trying to recall what her house even looked like inside, I find myself walking through a deserted home, missing the life that was once in it. I’m never going to see her again. But, that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her, or Grandma Sue. That little stuffed sheep from Granny’s house is sitting on my desk. On my dresser, I have that blue-eyed cat with the pink ribbon that stands by several smaller cat figurines from Grandma Sue. The animal skin painting is hanging on my back wall, and the Native American figurines are right below it. I also have the beautiful angel that we gifted Granny. I keep parts of her with me so that I never forget her.

[zaneaquaman]

The Definition of: Max (Chapter 1 Posted)

Check out the full chapter on my Patreon:

I also have a tier on Patreon and Ko-fi that costs only $1/month to get access to exclusive poems and writings based on the topic of mental health. More importantly, though, I offer one-on-one communication with you to offer support, advice, or just someone to listen to whatever is going on in your life. My goal is to create a safe space where people can discuss mental illnesses and connect with one another. You are not alone in your struggles. I'm here to listen any time.