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Okay, so you think you know my story, right? You think you know, but you have no idea. You see the stuff I post on social media that makes it look like I run this town. Couldn’t be further from the truth. Having my 4,345,187 followers on Twitter looks really good on paper. Like really.

I’ve got 5,697,518 likes on Facebook, my 3,645,132 followers on Instagram sell my pics of jewelry, me modeling a gown fresh off its debut at Fashion Week in Paris. Ew. Plus, tips to any corporate entity who wants me to sneak their brand into a photo. My god.

I promote perfume, leggings, and yogurt. I wish I could be as natural in real life as I make it look, but frankly, I’m doing what you people do, faking it till I make it.

The thing is, I don’t think I’ve ever truly made it. I’m stumbling through life breathless at every turn, wondering how I ever got so lucky.

I used to try and deny the truth to myself that I didn’t belong to this world. Every move on this chessboard of life has been one better than the last.

And for that, I am eternally grateful. Like those tiny green aliens in the animated film I’m not legally allowed to talk about.

But how stupid can you all be? How can you think this is all normal? How have we normalized this behavior to make money? It’s ridiculous.

I’m reminded that I’m the one who’s standing here, pouring my heart out like I’m confessing my sins to God. And I guess in this light, in front of your beautiful faces, I am. If you’re not buying me, who is?

I mean, I’m pretty goddamn fabulous, let’s be real. Did you see me in that one thing the year before last? I mean, I know, right? In closing, I would like to thank the Lake Forest Committee for giving me the Rise of Star award this evening. You’ve all been duped. Good night.

---

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Miriam woke up with a start. The bedsprings squeaked as she yawned. The haze of sleep guided her eyes to Agnes. The bottle blonde slipped on her black cotton top, blinking at her phone. 5:15 AM.

The ripples of Agnes’ muscles sent a jolt of fire into her belly.

“Leaving already?”

“I figured I’d get out of here early, so I don’t get papped with you,” Agnes explained through a well-timed yawn.

“I can’t find my bra. Where did you throw it last night?”

Miriam pointed at a pile of clothes on her side of the room. “I’m pretty sure it’s in there somewhere, along with my things.”

Agnes grimaced as she sifted through the frieze of material. Finally, she stuffed last season’s purple Victoria’s Secret into her midnight blue hobo bag. “I should get going.”

Miriam sat up to inch her way towards her. She pressed her bare breasts between Agnes’ shoulder blades. The weight of her body was like a feather against the black cotton, yet the slight friction sent warmth through Agnes’ body. “Who says you have to go?”

She pressed her dry lips into the nape of Agnes’ neck.

“I have a meeting with Tony,” Agnes replied, weak under Miriam’s gentle touch. “You met him at that party in Century City.”

Miriam let go of her. “So?”

“So,” Agnes shot back. “I have to go.”

“Look, I know you’re all about your career, but it’s the 21st century. I’m sure your fans would be OK with you being a lesbian. You know that people are already talking about it on the internet.”

“It’s not any of that,” Agnes said, shrugging her off.

“I know it’s not,” Miriam said. “But is selling your body worth hiding who you are nowadays?

“You know there’s stuff going on that would protect you. We’ve evolved as a society not to be rude and judgmental. Well, some of us anyway.”

“This is how the business is,” Agnes shook her head. “You know this.”

Miriam did know. “So… be better than that.”

“I don’t have it in me,” said Agnes. She turned to look at Miriam, who broadly smiled at her. “But pretty things distract me.”

“So let me distract you a little more,” Miriam offered.

Agnes paused as her shoulders sank. “I’ll see you later.”

---

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My name wasn’t always Mary.

A Biblical name, the cross that we bear that is entwined with that female epithet, the feminine sanguinity that spills with every moon’s phase. It was gifted to me. I don’t know where it begins. It always was.

I’m unsure of my real name. So many years have passed, and I haven’t found a reason to call myself anything other than Mary.

I am Mary. My tombstone will bear the name Mary, for the Mary before and the Mary after.

The virgin and the whore. I had dreams of being more. I suppose I was marked as Cain’s people the moment I was born. Mother said I was born with a black heart.

I followed my older sisters everywhere. They protected me from ghosts, and I killed spiders for them. They told me I could be anything I wanted to be, even if Mother and Papa said I couldn’t.

One night, they dared me to follow them into the bathroom. My eldest sister flicked the water on the mirror. They told me to say “Bloody Mary” three times.

I said the cursed phrase and a woman appeared. She stared deep into my soul and reached for me. I reached for her hand. It felt wrong, but it felt good too.

I felt her sew herself into my spirit, rippling across my skin in an illicit dance.

My sisters’ icebox screams rang in my ears.

I turned around to see where my sisters had gone. They were not there.

I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up, I began to walk.

I wasn’t hungry. I had no need to drink. I attempted to keep time but there was no point. I did not age. Days, months, years may have passed, but time became inconsequential.

I built a house, one with a grand staircase near the front door and tile floors and gas lamps. I built it like the houses I saw in the museums we visited.

I read all the books I could get my hands on.

I put my dolls where I wanted them.

I grew a garden with hedges and sunflowers and a tire swing nearby.

It was marvelous.

I realized I bore the curse of Mary when I felt an invisible hook grab my belly button, pulling my body through the ether. It was to a mirror.

I opened my eyes wide and pounded my fists on the looking glass at the people on the other side. They screamed at my unkempt appearance and ran away. They were not worthy.

The hook pulled me all over the world, the universe even. I could see the people changing, the fashions that came into vogue, the tongues they spoke.

I thought about my circumstances and knew I had to find someone with a heart as black as mine.

There is another Mary out there to take my place. There must be. That’s how this curse worked right?

They had to take over for me, since I took over for the other Mary.

At least, that’s what I told myself. What I’ll continue to tell myself as I soldier on.

---

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“I wish I knew what that was. I mean, work is work, but I don’t feel fulfilled. What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?” I replied.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

I jerked my head back like I had been electrocuted.

“I don’t know.”

He smiled at me.

“Nah girl, take your own advice. What are you supposed to be doing?”

I shrugged and looked away.

“I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

“Have you written anything?”

“Honestly? No. I just got my degree in English and History and I figured I would try different things.

“When people find out what I studied, they’re always like, ‘are you gonna be a teacher?’ And I’m like, ‘no because being the center of attention is so not my thing.”

“You’re definitely in the wrong business!” he teased me.

“Yeah, no shit,” I replied.

“All the shit that we deal with everyday, from front of house to back, I could write twenty books easily.”

He nodded. “So why don’t you?”

I shook my head. “No one would want to read it.”

“How do you know? You won’t know unless you write it.”

“And you?” I replied, trying to change the conversation.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

He shook his head. “No, we’re talking about you.

“But if we’re being honest, it’s definitely not what I’m doing now.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I transferred here from XX, I was a supervisor at their business center before it got swallowed up by FedEx,” I offered.

“For real?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you apply at our business center? I’m sure we would’ve found a place for you.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t see any positions available when I applied for this job. Besides I took that job as far as I wanted to go professionally. There was nowhere else to go.

“A lot of the employees there at the end didn’t care about their jobs anymore. Dealing with that apathy soured me from going after it more.”

“Soured,” he repeated. “Good word. You should write a book about that.”

“Twenty books,” I reminded him, “twenty books!”

He glanced at his phone. “I gotta go back. My lunch is almost over.

“It was good talking to you. I hope I can read one of your books someday.”

I smiled. “Yeah, it was good talking to you too. I hope you can figure everything out.

“And hey, you might see one of my books someday.”

---

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Finally. Lunch. I could unwind for 60 minutes away from the madness and try to get back to square one before I would have to go back for another three hours and do it all again.

What am I doing with my life? Why did I accept this job?

Oh that’s right, because I’ve got bills.

How many other people have jumped into the abyss and been okay?

Why am I so afraid?

These were the same questions I asked myself as I prepared my leftovers in our microwave, and fired up the TV in our break room.

This particular TV got cable, one of the only ones that did on our floor, other than the dealer’s’ break room down the hall. It probably shared a link with the hotel rooms’ upstairs.

No one questioned it and it was a welcome respite from the ugliness on the other side of the door.

Like most people who believed they were in the wrong career, lunch was the only intermission afforded to me from the false warmth I had to wear eight hours a day, five days a week.

I chucked my gray jacket on my chair and glared at it.

‘Fake it ‘til you make it,’ they always said.

I’d been here for over a year, and I had long ago seen the writing on the wall. I was so over it, I had hiked East over the Rocky Mountains already.

The door opened and the Filipino guy from the business center came storming in and sat down at the eight top table they kept in our room. He seemed engrossed in something, scribbling on a scrap piece of paper. I quietly sat down across from him and began to eat.

The television was playing E! It was a repeat of last week’s “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.” Bless their little cotton bobby socks.

I tuned out but kept my eyes on the TV to prevent overclocking of internal processors further.

God bless TV.

“Oh man,” he muttered, throwing the hotel branded pen he was using aside.

I never knew his name. But we were friendly.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Well, not nothing. See, I DJ on the side, to make extra money.”

“Oh that’s cool,” I offered. “What do you spin?”

He smiled at me, appreciative that I knew the lingo. “Mostly hip-hop.”

His face dropped into despair. “There’s rumors they’re planning on cutting our hours again, and I was thinking I could take on more gigs. I mean, if I could, I’d be a DJ full time.”

“So… you’re crunching the numbers, I guess?”

“Yeah, trying to see if I get X amount of gigs, then that would help. I mean, I could if I had to.

“But I also don’t know if I want to keep doing that, as good as it pays for a side hustle.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I feel you. I mean I get 40 hours here and there’s no shortage of work but I hate hospitality. It’s the only industry out here but I can’t live anywhere else.

“It’s too expensive and it’s not like I’ve got mad bills. It’s like that Smiths’ song, ‘why do I smile at people who I’d much rather kick in the eye.’

“It’s so draining. I’m not cut out for this work!”

“I’ve never heard of that song, I’ll have to check it out,” he said.

“Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now,” I said, “you should definitely download it.”

He squinted at me. “What do you think I should do?”

The question caught me off guard.

I don’t have my shit together, I shouldn’t be giving advice to anyone else.

“I think you should do what you’re supposed to do.”

---

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“What a pretty balloon,” remarked the lady.

I looked up. It was a plain latex balloon, purple, tied off with two strings, weighed down by yellow, heart-shaped weights.

“Is it yours?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you should take it,” she said. “It suits you.”

I shook my head. Wherever I was going, I didn’t need a balloon. I began to walk. I wasn’t even sure where I was. I wasn’t even sure where I was going. But it was quiet and I knew I wasn’t alone. I felt free if that made sense.

“Ow,” I said, a sharp pain erupting in my right wrist. I looked down at it. It was crooked. And bruised. I shook my arm gently and cried out in pain again. When did I break it? What was the black stuff embedded in my arm?

I saw the balloon again. From the corner of my eye. I turned my head abruptly, refusing its existence. I used my left arm to prop up my damaged wrist so I could continue my journey. I couldn’t quite piece together where I was going.

I was on a road now, and I could see the headlights of the cars going past me. I tried to wave them down, jumping up and down and screaming, and I guess I must’ve landed wrong because my ankle gave way.

I crumpled to the ground, howling in pain. My entire right side was electrified by searing pain. I smelled gasoline. I smelled an acrid scent I couldn’t place. I smelled the summer weeds that reminded me of my childhood driving up and down 132.

I looked up at the balloon that hadn’t left my side. There were headlights headed for me but I had no reflexes left to move. I saw the car stop short of me, crunching on the tempered glass pooled around me.

I blinked. And saw the balloon again. Only it turned to look at me. It had black circles on its face. They were its eyes. It had a yellow shaped X where its mouth would be. The tuft of white on its head looked like clouds.

“Miss?” said the voice. It was a man. He had kind eyes.

“Oh my god, I think she’s…” said another voice. A woman. I felt the fear in her voice.

“Better call the cops,” the man said.

The balloon came to float beside me. Its heart-shaped hand reached for me. I took it as it helped me stand up. I couldn’t understand why it could hold my weight.

In the brightness of the headlights, in the darkness of that night, I saw the old lady again.

“Grandma Ethel,” I muttered.

I had few memories of her.

“Hello ducky,” she said gently. “Are you ready to go?”

I looked up at the balloon. It turned to smile at me.

“Yes, Grandma, I’m ready to go.”

---

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I created their world seven days ago. Now, I will have to wait to hear from anyone.

You don’t get honesty from a girl like me every day. Unlike some deities, I’m not selfish. Throughout my life, I have been taught to share what I have with others in our sick, sad world. The ultimate microcosm of life is where the objects of my imagination can live freely like birds. They could practice the ancient arts of love, war, magic, and responsibility because it was so practical.

My first mistake was letting them think. I wanted them to feel and make their own decisions. The virtual gift of any higher power is to create life. Create something that believes in what it wants.

I should have seen it coming, but it backfired. I sent them signs proving that I created these fictitious characters, and they laughed in my face. That’s how it used to be. It doesn’t even matter to them anymore. They don’t realize the miracles I gave them simply by making them. Those people lived their lives and didn’t inspire me in any way. War, famine, and false idols dominated their lives, but they ignored the beauty that I bestowed upon them.

It’s my own fault. According to the old saying, if you give them an inch, they’ll take it a mile.

One day, I decided to put them away. After I opened the file of bits and megabytes, I shook in embarrassment. Where had I been wrong? So, I tucked them into a folder I hardly use on my computer with a click. They got a timeout.

It’s still unclear what happened to them. The fact that they’re starting to wonder about their existence is exciting to me. Not enough to get me to pay any more attention to them, but enough to say, “Don’t forget about us.” They live, but so do I. It’s a relief to be away from their drama for now.

Now that it’s time to pick up the pen again, I’m not sure what to do next. Why do people commit words to paper for a living? Their outrage is palpable. Nevertheless, they’re my people. That’s the truth.

---

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Happy first anniversary to the podcast!

1. Closed In

I chose this space
I chose this time
I chose this movement 
I chose this shape
I prefer the solitude 
but do I deserve it?

2. Lost Youth

he left me
all alone 
to fend for myself
do you know how that feels
in confusion, I kept my lips sealed 
and the World Turns

3. how I learned to love the bomb

rumors and hearsay
the story that never dies 
almonds and applesauce 
the smells that never lie
faith in death, faith in life, Faith in humanity 
it's all the same

3. Overwhelmed

I share the same air, as she 
I sit in the same chair, as she 
I bleed the same metallic taste of blood, as she 
yet I don't know who she is
she'll always be a mystery to me

3. I Left My Heart in Mountain Valley

I went through the motions 
I danced The Peasant dance 
when I was meant for the solo, as the king
I sing the song of the quail 
when I was blessed 
with the pipes of the Nightingale
I spoke the word of the Layman 
when I was destined to speak 
the words of the demagogue
I left my quiet farming town 
for the bright lights of another city 
I said, luck be a lady tonight 
but I came back because of Fate 
as the king, the Nightingale, the demagogue 
I slipped down the slope 
into the curse 
that shrouds my farming town 
I fought against the will 
and found myself Unbecoming 
I'm frozen to this place 
a tree root that won't die
I'm the peasant again, the Quail again, the Layman again.

4. Desperate

they say it's human nature 
how can belief in a fairy tale be human nature 
I've become so cynical 
that I only trust the tangible 
maybe it's time to let go

5. Miss Focusing / safe with me

it's so easy, it's so breezy 
I've got to stop the world 
misfocusing on me 
what have I got to lose 
shall I step up 
with my heart so bruised 
you'll be safe with me

6. Requiem’s Lament

she holds the world at Bay 
but she's like a lump of clay, 
waiting to be molded
she doesn't have the will to cry 
but she’ll be the first to lie
because of past heartache 
she takes her baby steps 
and I'm right there beside her

7. storm

alone, are you? 
so am I. 
crying, you are? 
me too. 
sheltered from the storm? 
so am I. 
afraid of the storm? 
me too.

8. Secondary Plot

in the backseat of my mind 
all I can think about is love 
will I be a star 
will I be happy 
will I have someone to give my heart to 
I walk past him every day 
as I go through the paces
she says hello 
and fetches me 
fresh cups of coffee 
without asking
I’m frigid in my bed
Since The One left
so I guess 
I should take the plunge
I guess 
I should fall in love
it's never too late

8. sick

maybe my mother didn't hug me enough
maybe my invisible friends didn't want to play with me 
but I like to mentally torture people 
I like to keep them wondering of my true motives
they are my puppets, and I play their strings
maybe I should have been nicer to my primary school teachers 
maybe I shouldn't have opened the fire extinguisher in the library
maybe I should have been more active in sports 
maybe I shouldn't have to explain myself
I'm sick, I admit it.

---

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1. Interstate 280

Another breakfast alone, 
won't wash the bed sheets, 
can't lose the scent of your cologne. 
These words will dry on their own, 
all these things that I've done. 

2. Blurred

For Simba. 

Like back in the day, all these emotions make me numb. 
Time has lost all sense of propriety. 
Food tastes like the ghost of a cloud. 
I miss you and I don't know what to do. 
Everything is blurred, crumpled like foil, 
tossed into the bin like yesterday's news. 
I can't resist looking out the window, hoping to see you there. 
I wish I had more time to hold you close, to cry. 
My memory of you is mucked up, no matter how hard I try. 
Not sure how to move on, other than pretend to smile, 
fake it till I make it, plaster on that mask, 
put on my armor, moving senselessly 
like the queen on a chessboard. 
I want freedom from the pain. 
I bite back those tears 
when I hear your song on the radio, 
or any ballad, sad instrumentals at this point. 
Burning tears pierce my eyes like the nails on His cross. 
I wish I was there, so that you didn't leave this world alone. 
Wishing he told me the moment he thought you wouldn't make it. 
So many wishes left unfulfilled 
in the short amount of time. 
I hope to heal my damaged heart soon enough, 
undertaken so many beatings, 
these almost thirty years. 
I promise that you'll live on, 
in that broken corner of my soul, 
with everyone else I've lost. 

---

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1. Superlove

I won't let you in. 
I'll fight you to the end.
Too close, I can no longer be your friend. 
Love ends where hate begins. 
You are which of the seven holy sins. 
Hold you down, surrender to me. 
Meet you in the black hole 
of a distant galaxy. 
You make me strong, 
can no longer deny. 
The thought of you 
makes me comply. 
All I ever wanted was you, 
black and white tableau 
flame in my mind, 
of all the memories we left behind. 
All the minutes 
I imagined me and you, together, 
like it was only natural, 
a hushed greeting from you, 
like a sledgehammer to my loins. 
I feel almost normal 
when you're near me, 
but I keep myself guarded, 
unable to face the truth. 
And if I lose myself in you, 
then me will cease to be. 
I refuse to let go, 
of all the things 
that I have ever known. 
Love hardens, love breaks, 
but I won't let you in.
 Pride - I think - is my only sin. 

2. To be young again!

To jump on cracks, breaking mama's back. 
To run from the shadows of a cloud on a spring day. 
To skip to my Lou, fall down from a ring of roses, hopscotch and jump rope and down down baby. 
To be enlightened by curiosity.
 To examine the world through science, reason. 
To believe in God unrepentantly. 
To beg someone
 to kiss the boo boo 
to make it better.
 To imagine the floor is lava.
 To defend to the death 
the notion that 
Rain on a sunny day 
is the devil's wife weeping. 
To bathe in water and imagine the Titanic sinking. 
To clutch your teddy bear, thinking they will save you. 
To be young again. 

3. Home

Home is where the fences are cinder blocks, 
radiating heat well into the night. 
Home is where the shit on the street 
is from ornamental plums, 
and not migrating ducks and geese. 
Home is knowing where the garlic salt is 
in the kitchen. 
Home is where your dog is. 
Home is waking up to the sun every day, 
ten months out of the year. 
Home is walking out to your car, 
covered in a thin coat of dust. 
Home is moving your joints 
and not hearing them crack 
because humidity.
 
Every day is a new day. 
I have been craving this adventure. 
I earned my stripes. 
The ride is bumpy, 
and I'm wearing a helmet. 
I got it good, for now. 
But sometimes, 
when you're feeling 
so far removed, 
when you hear a noise 
that doesn't sound right, 
you want to be home. 

---

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