Voices passing under the table.

Twenty four legs plus four.

Bones and wood.

The fire is brewing.

Ashes in a heap.

Under the table.

A volcanic conversation,a heated debate.

The debris of strategic confetti smoldering,hot of the paraded press.

The king and queen in royal attire.

Sitting above the madness,dropping crumbs to their world below.

Open minds catching juicy morsels of fabricated ideas that are whispered in forked tongues.

Spooned and fed tasting the crimson infernal truth.

James was out before dawn again. Martin watched from behind his curtains—the scratch of metal on concrete, the rhythmic shoveling, the small mountains of snow piling higher at the edges of each driveway. Their street, clean and passable while others remained buried.

Martin's coffee went cold. He hadn't slept right in weeks.

"He did the Hendersons' walk too," Lisa said, appearing beside him. "Even salted their steps." Her voice carried something—admiration laced with accusation. The unspoken comparison hung between them like frost.

Last night: "James built a skating rink for the neighborhood kids."

Last week: "James helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries."

Last month: "James fixed the Wilsons' porch light."

Each good deed a small cut.

Martin watched James finish the Rodriguez driveway and move toward theirs. He stepped back from the window, shame burning his face.

That evening, Lisa slid a bowl in front of him. "James dropped off some of his famous chili. Says it'll warm us right up."

Martin pushed it away, mumbling about not being hungry.

In bed, he stared at the ceiling, calculating weeks until thaw. Beside him, Lisa breathed evenly, dreaming perhaps of better men. Outside, snow began falling again, covering everything in perfect, accusing white.

that wasn't me

at least it didn't feel like me,

speaking to you

emotional lies

i should have been better

i could've been better

and i think, in the end

it all would have changed

if i could have one more redemption

one more chance

i think i'd beg you not to hate me

I stretched my hands in help

they took it

but,

they resented me when I was for good

I wondered if the abyss was real

I wanted

no, I needed to drown the likes of those that used me and never loved me

i needed love

but I got shamed

is it terrible? To want something I never desired up until this moment?

do I give in to hate?

to evil?

if I do, I’ll satisfy the voices craving depravity

my morals will be shattered

but who cares?

just me?

its a stretch but I’ve made my choices

I’ve cried on my sins

I’ve made peace with my resolutions

and you know what?

I rather be evil

bad choice

but I do it for the real me.

She met him in a concrete sea,

His eyes were golden, like a predator in the night—

Something wasn't quite right.

He led them along, weeks turning into months,

Her smiles now the reason for their fights.

Something deep within her heart begged her to turn around,

Take the next exit, head to higher ground.

Pulling the wool over her own eyes, she continued blind—

A world built on a lie, sealed with the security of his smile.

Step by gentle step, his promises like honey on her lips,

She stood in a house, all hers—he said,

But now a prison, one she helped create.

Her good intentions led her here,

Believing love could fix him.

She sank deeper, her heart once burned so bright,

Now a lump of coal in her chest.

Her choices, veiled in doubt,

Her voice a faint, conflicted whisper.

The road ahead is long and steep,

The sweet lies she told herself—

The reason for her defeat.

Hatred, for herself, for him—

From the wrongs she brought to her door,

Leaving her wondering what she was fighting for.

Some people have butterflies in their stomachs, but I have a monster. When others butterflies flutter my monster roars. It has many hands, long bony hot fingers that scorch anything it touches. It starts with the heart, wrapping its long fingers around it until the heart begins pumping faster and faster trying to get free. Then another hand claws the trachea pinching the airway almost closed. As my heart beats harder, I gasp for breath barely choking an inhale before inhaling again. My heart burns from the scorching fingers and my lungs scream for air. The monster moves to my head. It begins whispering in my ear, "what if.." " how could you.." "-embarrassing-". As I hear these thoughts the air becomes thicker and thicker barely coming in at all. The monster puts its hands over my eye. The room spins in and out of focus turning around me as I lie there, a crumpled heaving body. The monster has won.

I hate the monster, and I hate the people who try to tame the monster telling me to relax when the monster doesn't care what they say. But most of all I hate the people with butterflies, who could never understand what it's like to have a monster.