Asepsis

        It was raining the day I died. I didn't die physically, of course. I don't think ghosts are too good at telling storeys, after all. No, I died inside. But I'm getting ahead of myself, now aren't I? I suppose I should start at the beginning. No censoring. No details forgotten. My lack of writing skills aside, today is the first day I'll really let myself accept what happened. It all happened three years ago. It was October 17th, 1953. I had just turned twenty-two, and had just married the love of my life, and the man who stole my heart and refused to give it back. I suppose I thought we were in

I learned how to understand the trees today. When I was little, still always with a smile, I learned how to hear the trees. I think listening to the trees is something that everyone has to do differently, because when I tried to tell others how to listen, they called me mad, crazy. I wasn't bonkers like they thought. At least, not in my opinion. But still, I tried to get others to listen for the whispers of the trees. They  must have an awful lot of stories, the trees, I thought, and I wanted to know everything they had to say. It took me such a terribly long time to understand their murmurs. They didn't speak English, or anything else that

I want to die. That is the simple fact. I want to die. No, I am not suicidal. I do not want to die because I am depressed, or because I have a horrid life, no. I want to die because I will become the wind slithering through your hair on a cold winter's night. I will whisper among the world, touching budding poets and artists, giving them inspiration to create art that will save young ones who wish to hurt themselves. I will dance through dying buildings and make them sing. I will be the wind that you feel tug at your clothes when you kiss your lover. I will embrace with the leaves of the great oaks and willows, and I will race the rushing r

She was fifteen the day she stopped eating. She was so tired of it all. She would look at the pictures of the pretty girls. The girls she wanted to be. And she would envy them. For hours, she would envy them. But they never envied her back. Eventually, the envy was too much. So she pushed her dinner plate back, still full. "I'm not hungry," She said. Her mother asked if she was sick, but she shook her head and walked to the room that had become her release and her prison alike. It wasn't long before avoiding dinner became avoiding dinner and lunch, and then avoiding dinner and lunch and breakfast. Soon, she was going one, two, three days

Where the winds are howling, Your vigil, ever keep Cry out to ever deadened gods now, Just beyond your reach "Deliver us from the ocean!" You cried at the screaming sea "Hear us, lords!" You wished aloud But the gods heard not your plea When the storm is raging Your blood dries into salt Poison waters crash to wounds Tearing at your faults You have been forgotten Left to die alone Flesh will rot in silence You never would have known

Morning glories grow atop your grave, Roots twisting deep into your tomb. In fear for your soul I cross myself, Hidden from the light of the moon. I know not the silence in which you now lie, And your corpse says not a word. The raven watches my grieving ears, Straining for things never heard. Your ashen skin remains in my mem'ry, Your empty eyes haunt my heart. And though my heart mourns for you still, Your life was condemned at the start. Like a flower in winter, you were too weak, Ne'r meant for a world such as this. I blame you not for ending your life. Because for the same dark fate, I now wish. "Save our souls," You crie

*Author's note: This was written from the perspective of a man in love. This is not my perspective.* I love her on Sundays. I love her on all days, actually. But especially on Sundays. Maybe it's because that is the day that she sings and dances everywhere. She is graceful in her little hops and turns. She isn't as graceful as those ballerinas that so many women slave to be, but she has a natural sort of grace that you can only be born with. Her body has soft curves, and she wears them well. I wouldn't call her skinny, because she has a form. A figure. And she is all the more beautiful because of it. Her hair is a mousy light brown, with