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This is for the time I threw the rock that hit you in the head. Bad. For smoking that cigarette to try and fit in. For not loving you back. For making plans with you for lunch and leaving you waiting. Then running into you outside afterward. For stealing $5 from your wallet for comic books. For making you cry while we walked to the restaurant. For ignoring your 4 year old cries. Then hearing you fall down the stairs. For not realizing I was being rude. For not picking up the phone. Then turning it off. For flirting with the girl you liked. And liking it when she flirted back. While you were in the room. For not realizing you loved me. For thinking I could love you back. For asking you out. For never asking you out. For saying I’ll be right back with another drink and never coming back. For making you cry on Valentine’s. For yelling at the breakfast table and storming away. For falling asleep while you were upset. For not kissing you. For kissing you. For convincing myself into believing something. For making fun of your body. For not wanting you to marry him. For still not changing my mind about him. For not loving you back. For turning my music up really loud to ruin your picnic. For making fun of your job. For coveting your wife. For lying about my computer crash to get a better grade. For not stopping you from hitting that child. For not stopping you from hitting my aunt. For not helping you up when you fell from your crutches. For not loving you sisters equally. For forging your signature. Multiple times. For not loving you enough while you were still living. Both of you. For charging you too much. For not respecting you enough. For not loving you back. For mentioning obscure music to make myself sound cooler than you. For not helping you load the car when you obviously needed help. For not giving you another chance. For acting like I didn’t hear what you said. For acting like I’m fine when I’m not. For lying about oversleeping so I wouldn’t have to see you. For being selfish. For ruining what we had. For not offering to pay for lunch. For assuming that you would. For not wanting to be friends with you because I hate your wife. For convincing myself you felt the same way. For being a fickle bastard. For blinding myself from the truth. For not having enough willpower. For being a really fickle bastard. And most of all, for not loving you back.

TB
Cambridge, MA
June 2, 2008

He walks back to his bed and pauses midway as he stares at her lying on her side, asleep, draped in his sheets. He tries to feel his heartbeat with the palm of his right hand, forcing his mind to save this memory. She stirs. He smiles.

He strolls in the park and sees a mother slap her infant child with unneeded force. He feigns apathy and convinces himself he is an outsider, his right to preach doesn’t exist.

He overhears a conversation between two suits on the train concerning the disadvantages of having those “fucking Moslems” in our country. He decides trying to change a single mind would accomplish nothing and proceeds to get off at the next stop and wait for the next train.

He looks at the money in his hand and then up at the girl behind the counter who gave him back too much change for his morning coffee. He hopes she doesn’t notice his pause and continues to leave the shop, unblinkingly walking past a homeless man asking for money.

He turns off his bedside lamp as another petal falls from the memory-laden yellow tulips onto the glass table. His head hits the pillow, he closes his eyes and pulls up the sheets to his face, begging them to reveal her scent to him for just one more night. He touches his chest with his right hand and knowingly triggers a memory.

He joyously dreams of her molding him into a better person.

TB
Somerville, MA
April 20, 2008

He hovered over the sink, naked, and stared at the mirror again tonight, straight into his undilated pupils, and he wondered to himself where his tears were. He couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard he gripped the sink with his bandaged hands. He then looked down and asked himself another question, the same one the doctors asked him every day for the past few weeks, why didn’t he realize he was carving his wrists with a knife?

…his left hand slips and his head bumps against the mirror… he finds himself forming an apology…

The only thing he remembers during that otherwise forgettable lunch was biting into his apple and then waking up in the infirmary. Was he really that far gone? No, it must have been the food, he did have a sensitive stomach, he always skipped breakfast for the same reason, never eating with the others.

…his lower back starts to ache as a drop of blood hits the ground unheard…

Maybe tomorrow he’ll go out for a walk, get some air, meet some new friends, find some new hobbies. “Tomorrow”, he thought to himself and smiled. His hands stop shaking and he hears heavy breathing. He backs away from the mirror, gently puts on his clothes, and climbs onto his bed. “Good night”, he whispers as loud as he can into the room and shuts his eyes and tries to do the same with his ears.

…he hears an apple being eaten in the other bed…

He wishes for a dream of tomorrow before falling asleep in his freshly bloodied underpants. He wonders how many days he has remaining in prison.

TB
Cambridge, MA
March 3, 2008

He stood there, amazed at what he just heard. “Do you have faith?” he had asked him. He thought he had anticipated every response, but not this. He paused, tried to remember again why he was here, to convince himself one more time that this was what was needed. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be able to do it, maybe this time he would finally withdraw. It didn’t happen, he solidified his intent even more. Flexing his jaw muscle and furrowing his brow he hoped and prayed his fear wouldn’t be visible.

He looked over at the chair in the corner of the room and slowly walked over. One more time he checked and tightened the rope around the hands and feet. Six times already he had done just that. Everything has to be in its place. He looked up at the ceiling and then out the window. Everything has to be in its place.

“Enough!” he heard as he was bending over to check the rope once again. He knew there wouldn’t be an eighth time and he looked down at the knife he had been holding the past few hours. He had used the same knife before, never keeping count as to how many times it had touched warm blood. He briefly wished he had, but decided it was better that he didn’t know.

He stood in front of the chair, his calloused right hand gripping the blade. Their eyes met briefly and he looked away, embarrassed as to why he had spent so much time on the tightening of the rope. He took another step closer, hunched over the chair, tasted his own tear as it rolled down the cheek, and solemnly choked out, “AllahUakbar!” and then proceeded to bury the knife into his son’s throat.

TB
Cambridge, MA
January 14, 2008