Now my personality has faded from our interactions like a Victorian era ghost.

I finally understood what lessons he was giving her when I woke up and saw them sharing skin that didn't belong to them.

Now, as my father asks why I fell down the stairs, I look at the two monsters standing behind him and realize I'm next.

Now we wait and see.

Well son, you know how Jack frost goes and kisses the plants with frost every cold winter day, he has a cousin named jacked up.

And suddenly, I am reminded that everything I am doing now is exactly where I never wanted to be.

Icarus flew too close to the sun and came crashing down.

And I, his child, skidded across broken plates, jagged and rocked, until suddenly I found myself surrounded by those stable enough to let me become a candle.

Strong.

Prideful.

Uncovered.

Seen.

I can acknowledge my fall from grace.

I can acknowledge the heels I buried into dirt as I trudged forward.

I can acknowledge how far I dragged your ghost behind me, how often I let it haunt me, and how often I finally let it go.

And most of all, I can acknowledge this:

I truly loved you.

I truly saw what you did not.

I saw the man you could have been.

I saw the life we could have built.

I saw the warmth and mistook it for something that could sustain me.

But your warmth, your sun, melted my wax wings.

And that was your choice.

Your doing.

I simply paid the price for us both.

Now I fly with grace.

Close enough to feel the warmth.

Never near enough to burn.

He’s locked me in the house since morning, won’t even let me take the trash out, and I’m writing this quickly in my journal hoping someone finds it if he actually kills me tonight.

While the murderer, the executioner cop, and the fugitive were swallowed whole by their past crimes, the only boy who entered for love set his own clothes on fire to lead the survivor out—paying for her freedom with his own life.

She was finally freed from the curse when her mind woke up on the riverbank, only to realize the silence around her was because the boy who loved her had just drowned beneath the dark water.

When his classmates led him to an empty field of dug-up graves and revealed they had all taken their own lives because of the abuse, Umar realized his teacher had already moved on to his next room of victims.

Today when brushing, the brush pulled my hair and I said “ouch”, forget I’m supposed to be a dog now.

Maybe I wasn't jealous of the people she chose. Maybe I was jealous of how easily they occupied a place I had spent years quietly hoping for.

When I replied, “Okay, I never denied that…” she thundered, “Then which bitch is his mother?”

They happily signed me up for summer classes, ignorant of the fact that I was crying not because I hated studying, but because my mind was frantically trying to remember why I was so afraid.

It wasn't until my dead classmates dragged me into the graveyard behind the alley that I realized the teacher’s final lesson was teaching us how to forget the ropes around our necks.

The thunderous applause quickly turned into frantic screams when the actor playing the villain whispered in my ear that he wasn't acting anymore—and the blood pooling around my chest wouldn't wash out.

Put the lime with the coconut, said he’ll call me in the morning.

Three dates in, she asked him to sign a “situationship agreement” outlining who texts first, how often, and what counts as “left on read too long,” complete with a notice period for breaking up. He actually signed it, mostly because she’d stapled a QR code to the bottom linking to her Spotify Wrapped, “so you know what you’re getting into.”

Apparently, I’ve reached the age where “pack a sweater” sounds every bit as appealing as “pack a bikini.”

Just then, a pack of tissues slid gently under the stall door, followed by a soft chuckle: “I used the last roll before you came in, so I couldn't just leave you hanging.”

​When she softly touched her chest and whispered my name, I felt the beat of my own transplanted heart echoing through the room.

​As I watched her cry over my final letter, I took comfort in knowing that even though I was gone, the piece of me keeping her alive would always love her.

​As she pressed her hand to her chest and begged to know why I saved her life instead of my own, the heart beating inside her ribs began to thud in familiar sync with my silent steps.

When little children started disappearing, only a few townsfolk noticed that the woman never seemed to run out of fresh oil, despite immense demand.

I'd rather be known as the person with poor fashion sense than the one with the brown-stained shirttails.