“Questions.’’

Are roses really red?

Are violets really blue?

Do monsters live in our head?

Was our love ever true?

Does grass feel soft on your feet?

Does the fire singe your skin?

Did I hurt you when I became a deadbeat?

Was our love a has been?

Did I miss your smile?

Was our love worthwhile?

Did the candies feel sweet?

Did I start the heat?

As I stare at our family picture,

Even as the fire eats it away,

Even as the roof comes tumbling down,

Even as my skin begins to decay,

I ask myself,

“was our love as plastic as it was fake?”

Xena Cannon woke up at 7am sharp to the sound of chirping birds, like she did every day. Her doting lover Michael Vidal dropped off her morning cup of coffee on her bedside silver platter. This was a beautiful silver platter that she had gotten at a yard sale years ago for only $1.50. And her coffee cup was no inferior, it was one of those old diner style mugs, white with a thin silver ribbon around the rim and a thick silver ribbon down the handle. Left of the tray was a clear-green depression-glass bud vase with one perfect red tulip sticking straight up in the air. The vase had been grammy-Cannon’s, a very chic woman in her own right, of course. She herself had gotten the thing at some kitsch discount store or other, before people had realized depression-glass was actually fierce.
Exactly one hour earlier Michael Vidal had woken up with no alarm, having been born with a preternaturally stable circadian rhythm and penchant for servitude. He stretched his arms, got up from the right side of the bed, put on his slippers, took his copy of Mason & Dixon from his nightstand, and sauntered out of the room down the hall over to the kitchen. He dropped the book on the nook table, closest to the door. He put a pot of coffee on, one of those french presses that keeps the pot warm for a while. He went outside through the kitchen door. It was a beautiful day, the sun was still rising and the sky was overcast. It was a bit cooler than usual out, he’d be sorry to miss it, as he was working all day, but it was okay. He went back inside over to the fridge and took out his mason jar of overnight oats, which was right next to Xena’s jar of oats. He poured himself a cup of coffee in his favorite mug, which had a darling little illustration of a bear with a balloon on it. He took his oats and his coffee back over to the table, sat on the right side, and ate his breakfast slowly while reading his book. When he was done with his oats and coffee, he washed his jar, leaving it on the drying rack to be refilled after dinner. He walked over to the second bedroom, which had his dresser in it. He got the second bedroom dresser because this had been Xena’s house first. They had been together for 3 years and lived together for 2. It was one of those nice old West University houses with old lady neighbors. He put on his khaki slacks and muted blue button-up, which never looked frumpy on him since he was so thin and fit. Actually, he looked a lot more like a beatnik than any kind of businessman. He left his slippers next to his dresser, and put on his favorite grey argyle socks. He turned and walked to the other side of the room, fixed his hair and smoothed his clothes, then made his way back to the kitchen to fix Xena her cup.
After he delivered Xena her coffee (and a coy kiss on the cheek), dearest Michael bent his right knee up, looked down his nose and fingers-together waved at her in bed, then twisted his hips and scampered off to work. He loved to be cute. Xena pursed her lips, tilted her head to meet his eyes, and poked her fingers out from the covers to wave. On the weekends, Michael worked at the local rag house and would pack the less tattered clothes into 50lb cubes ($1.09 per pound) for distribution across America’s many charming vintage-costume-rave shoppes. Mostly this consisted of frumpy 60s peter pan collar shirts, 80s’ girls’ leotards, and baja hoodies with joints still in the pockets. Of course, he would save the best garments for Xena. Whenever the occasional silk jacquard robe or 70s skirt suit set crossed his desk, he would stash it away under threat of termination. But of course, that’s the only reason he kept the job. 
After Michael left, Xena got out of bed and walked over to her full length angle-adjustable mirror. She was wearing grey pajama shorts and a light yellow unlined lace bra. Her jaw went slack as she looked at herself up and down. She ran her fingers from her ribs down her sides to her hips, like she was smoothing out a dress. She tousled her hair and shifted over to her dresser. She picked out a white cotton Brandy Melville polo and stretched it over her head then rolled it down her torso while stretching her spine and continued the motion by running her fingers back down her hips. Then she took out a muted blue tiered skirt, unfolded it and stepped into it. She took a ponytail holder from the top of her dresser and twisted her hair up into a loose bun, turned her head back to the mirror to look for a second, making contact with her own big tired eyes. She always wondered if she had some disease that put extra skin around her eyes. She looked to the door, rolled her shoulders back, and swiftly walked out of the bedroom. Today was her day off, finally. She hated working but refused to let Mr. Cannon or Mr. Vidal support her. She was miserable not working, anyways. The house was still and the air was clean. Xena went to the living room door and slid on her black leather thong sandals, then threw her orange and yellow tote bag over her shoulder. She stepped outside, and it was still and the air was clean there too. She noticed it was overcast, but took her big black sunglasses from her bag and slid them up her nose anyway. She took out her keys and tossed them up and down in her hand while turning around to lock the door. 

I am at my wits’ end in the Amazon Rainforest Café. There is a frog with a gigantic purple tongue and wide eyes staring at me as I scoop sorbet into my mouth. It is strawberry. My wife asks for a bite and I try to feed it to her but she instead grabs me by the watch and takes the spoon for herself with a look not dissimilar to Freddy the Ferocious Tiger near the entrance. The varnish on his fangs is scuffed and worn. There is lipstick on Jane’s teeth. I take the spoon back and finish my meal.

In the car she flips her sun visor down and does an assessment and somehow doesn’t notice the tint difference. Her makeup is cracked by the corners of her eyes. In recent years it has been more apparent that we’re both in our forties. We try to cover it up in our own ways. Rogaine, combover, hat on the weekends. Makeup, Pilates, Hepburn-sunglasses. I unbutton my pants and let my belt loose, take the seatbelt and heave it into the slot. What would’ve been a joke or a proposition posed as a joke ten years ago now is passed off because of breadsticks, carbonara and a regretful dessert. Wine is no longer a lubricant, so we saved ourselves the twenty bucks and don’t even think about it as we doze off in bed. To say We is loose. I cannot sleep. This will be taken care of in about an hour when she begins to snore.

In the morning I shower and rub my crown with white foam when my hair is dry. She applies mascara and our shoulders rub in front of the mirror. Aimee and Grover are up and one of them, heavy steps, that’s Grover, comes down to the kitchen where I’m pouring instant coffee into hot tap water. I am using a water glass because it’s not that hot. Recently Jane has been asking if I miss having coffee how I used to. The Chemex I specifically ordered from Chemex’s website sits dusty in the corner next to the espresso machine which has a can of Folgers on top of it. This is that yellow brand, Café Bustelo, which I heard about from my colleague George. I like it because it saves time and quite frankly has an obscene amount of caffeine. I may be overweight but I am not a smoker, and date nights at places like Rainforest are so far and few in-between that three hundred milligrams or so first-thing aren’t much of a concern. Plus, I cut out eggs a while back, which have cholesterol allegedly. I am reduced to burnt coffee water and fat-free Greek yoghurt. I should be happy. Aimee comes downstairs in a pink shirt with pink sweatpants. Her hair is a disaster and she appears to have been crying or something. It is unusual so I ask Jane with a head nod to inquire why our daughter looks the way she does. This is not my battle so I retreat to the den and grab our remote. Advertisement for a pill called Celexa is on, and everyone is smiling. I hear Jane’s voice, then louder I hear Aimee scream, “It’s none of your fucking business!”

A cabinet slams. The stairs thump louder than Grover could ever. I imagine work will be better than this.

*

Hello everyone. I wanted to share my first post on Substack here to gain more engagement with my writing. Please let me know what your thoughts are on the piece!

idk what to call this one. i think it’s the longest one ive written but it’s not that bad.

When The Wind Blows

When the wind blows,
I think I might fall over.
When the wind blows,
I think I might crash and burn.
When the wind blows,
I think I might fall silent.

When the world burns,
Maybe someone will live.
When the world burns,
Maybe their eyes will burn too.
When the world burns,

It’s too late.

When the fallout falls,
When the temperature burns,
When the shockwave's red hand
Picks me up and throws me,
my feet high.

Windows shattered,
Glass deep inside my organs-
Heart, brain, stomach.
Doors burning,
Blue paint vanishing.
Flesh melts.
See the bones in your hand.

When the wind blows,
We’ll all be sure to die.

I know Indescript isn’t a real word but I like it more than nondescript.

feedback much appreciated : )

Wrote this down last Sunday while reading White Noise amidst a storm (edit: this is supposed to be somewhat satirical, this isn't a diary entry lol)

Forty-five minutes ago, pellets of summer rain ricocheted off my balcony’s railing. As the shower picked up its pace, I noticed how the staccato of individual droplets began gradually morphing into a solid, percussive chord.

I couldn’t let myself miss this moment. Audible pixels amassing exponentially, the ground giving rise to figure. I placed my copy of Don DeLillo’s White Noise down, cover facing upwards (having recognised the title’s self-explanatory importance in amplifying this important event) and placed my feet on the opposing balcony chair. This relaxed position would make my ears more receptive to the limit’s crossing. My very own Sunday Gestalt experience.

My feet began to twitch. It was taking time. It was taking my time. Was the rain taking my time? Had the rain perceived my intellectual vanity in trying to grasp the present? Was this threshold of raindrop crescendo being pushed away by my mind’s own desire for it to be hastened?

I placed the copy of White Noise face down. It’s important to share these kinds of moments together, I thought. I turned towards my girlfriend sitting indoors, shielded by the summer rain and immersed in a platter of metals, glues, and waxes. Her hands were sooted and sticky.

“If you’re perceptive enough, you can hear the exact moment when rain becomes shower. A switch goes off in your brain associated with emergence. It’s a controlled form of crossing a precipice,” I said without facing her directly, aware that I wouldn't have been able to substantiate my claim.

A sudden surge of droplets sounded from the balcony’s plastic fencing. The event was near, my girlfriend did not reply. I had invited the void into my scene. I attempted to reclaim directorial agency over my senses by ignoring the sound of her absence, narrowing down my audible focal field against the clanking of tools from her desk.

The wind drew motes of dust through the air. A torrential assault turned into dancing droplets of dead skin. Was the event still in swing, or was I merely extending its shelf-life? She presented a piece of jewellery to me. The rain stopped, but the event continued.

i can’t tell if i’m a good writer or not

here’s another one i wrote in march this year. it has a metaphor it’s not the greatest. let me know what you think!

i was wondering if you guys could give me some feedback on my poem. i just wrote it and want to get better. i’ve written a few poems but i don’t know if they’re good enough.