-er.

greener than the grass
under which my body lies
softer than the air that blows
through the holes
left in your heart.

happier than that one time
and it was only once
greater than any day
before i saw
what you were.

pale and torn
and
goodbye.

sans voir

blessed are the invisible;

naked and free, unseen.

kept away from the misguided;

alone and safe, untouched.

left to drift, to do and to be;

beautiful and unmarked.

and from the margins,

they're laughing at me.

a weed, a flower.

she was charismatic,
so strong.
flexing her muscles,
smiling,
and winning over hearts.

she walked on her heels,
as if she owned the place.

stomp
stomp
stomping
over us.
silencing us.

she was bright, interesting,
complete.
and i met her,
only to hate her.
growling as i watched her,
in perfect movement,
in sound being,
radiating all that is good.

whilst i sat, curled
in a chair, small
and suffering,
jealous,
and in awe,
she stood and stared down
at me
pushing me farther into the ground.

and i let her.
because i was frozen.
and i let her,
because i am me,
and she is everything.

and she grew, grew, grew.
as i shrank, and disappeared.

treasure hunting.

i was clawing through the night
searching for something i
had lost --
who knows what.
it feels as if my whole life
is a constant search
for a place,
for a love,
for meaning.

but i'll be searching forever.
i'm just really shitty at treasure hunts,
i guess.

He is loved

when You walked in
so late at night
drunk as hell,
loud and obnoxious,
I didn't care.
because that's what love is.

when I gave You
all of my secrets
to do with
what you pleased,
I didn't care.
because that's what love is.

when I forgave
every small lie,
every misstep,
and ceded to you
completely,
I didn't care.
because that's what love is.

and I love You
though I don't love much
but You--
You, I love.

a misfit, abandoned

Tele-turn me
Upside-down.
Break my bones.
Shove me,
Into that hole
I just don't fit in.

Tear off each arm,
Adjust my jaw,
With a crack.
Remove my shins,
Sawing
Above the knee.

Everyone's gotta fit
Somehow.
When they don't
It can't be,
It's a mistake,
A glitch.

I don't fit.
I won't fit.
I've never fit.
They put me
On an island
Of misfits
And sailed away,
Smiling.

If a tree falls...

We are completely, entirely, as a society, entwined in one another. I, for one, know where you are, who you’re with and what you’re doing at most, if not all, times. We are inundated with the thoughts and musings of others, whether they are welcomed, or if they irritate us to the very core of our being. I have seen pictures of your friends, and your friend’s friends. I know what your baby looks like, right out of the womb. I know when you are sad, when you are in desperate need of companionship, when you succeed, fail. I have access to everyone’s everything. We can chat—pick any venue. Facebook, Twitter, text messaging, over-the-phone, e-mail, Skype, even Instagram. There is KiK, WhatsApp, BBM, iMessage, Tinder. You’ll be online somewhere.

And yet, with every opportunity to be in constant communication with others, we are lonelier than we have ever been. And you can knock it all you want, try to escape from it. Turn off your phone, have an off-the-grid day, or week. But you’ll be back, itching for someone to notice that you exist, notice that you are no longer offline. Salivating over Facebook “likes,” reviving with every phone vibration, with every little ring. And you can say that you don’t care, claim to not need the constant validation that comes with connectivity, but you do. We no longer exist unless someone else takes notice, unless someone else comments. We are only ghosts until another’s words colour in the transparent space where we stand. And all we can do is wait. Independence can therefore no longer exist.

But what happens to a society that is so co-dependent? What happens to privacy and to one’s self-worth? Is it possible to regain our independence, revert back to an age before the Internet, before social media and the cell phone, before telecommunications? Probably not.

I can barely keep my phone off for an entire day, and am almost constantly using a device that allows me Internet access. My world revolves around what others are doing, what clever quip I can post next, who has made a nod in my direction and what disastrous photos have been most recently published. I am nosy, narcissistic, impatient. I lack concentration, focus, the desire to leave my home and step away from my laptop. These scary truths may not have been entirely formed due to the rise of social media and smartphones, but there is no doubt that they have amplified exponentially in the years since receiving my first computer with Internet access, since having been gifted my first cellphone. As I look back on these events, I wonder--if they would have been postponed or avoided altogether,  had I never had a cellphone, never googled, would it have changed me?

The answer is this—it couldn’t have been avoided, and therefore, would have never been able to change me. Sure, this may be a cop-out response, a classic case of avoidance, but it’s the truth. Societal norms would have brought me to this place; a place where having no Internet is possibly more detrimental to one’s development than allowing access to it. There is no way I could have made it through college, university, even most of high school, without Internet access. True, social media and the smartphone may still no longer be mandatory elements in a successful, fulfilling North American existence, but we’re getting there. We’re so close to giving up our last bit of individuality and independence, but in turn, making a valuable exchange. We gain a wealth of knowledge and societal solidarity that is so great; it can only be, at the base of it all, a positive trade-off.

I leave you, as I scramble to publish this essay everywhere that I can, Facebook, Blogger, online magazines, with a thought: Does something exist if no one can access it? If no one posts their pictures, thoughts, ramblings, et cetera, all over the Internet, do any of these things even really exist? Perhaps not all of these posts are, to put things nicely, of value to others, but at least they are seen. Perhaps our interconnectivity has allowed for the existence of more art; it is not always of great quality, but exists in greater quantity nonetheless. In considering this, can I, in good conscience, claim to have written this essay if it is never read? Isn’t my goal, then, to paste it wherever I can, to ensure that its existence is known and hope that perhaps it is art in the eyes of someone, somewhere?

maybe it's me.

Everything is a little bit grey today.

A little bit flat, colourless.

I’m not sure if it’s because I can only

See grey nowadays,

Or if it’s because I want it to be this way.

The dog is dreaming, twitching beside me.

And I think, jealously,

How nice it must be to sleep

So goddamn easily.

But maybe it’s me, keeping myself awake.

I don’t really smile anymore.

Not the kind, at least,

That is bold, wide and honest.

But I don’t frown.

Because I'm numb, inherently straight-faced.

There are phases I go through,

Times I think, maybe

I can write it all down, succinctly.

Make sense of it.

But the prose is always choppy, tangled.

So I just go back to bed.

being careful.

i wanted to write it down for you.
scribble it out
fold it up
and place it in your hands.

i wanted you to hold it,
save it for later,
unfold it
and pick it apart slowly.

i wanted them to matter--
those words,
what i felt,
and for you to care.

but instead i wrote them,
and re-wrote them
in my head
and decided never to give them to you.

not.

meticulous

calculated

safe

precise

things i am not.

at the end of the street

at the end of the street,
there is the tiniest of houses,
in which lives the smallest of people,
with the biggest of hearts.

their giving often going unnoticed,
their tired eyes, never thanked.

the day comes when the most miniature
of families
snaps.

surprised looks on corpses' faces
as they lay on porches
and in the streets.
slashed, beaten and bloody.

the family returns, unaffected.
to their tiny house
at the end of the street
where they wait.

they join for dinner,
staring out their window,
excited for the chance to do good,
repeating their cycle of give and take.

the hunger

the hunger, strong and manipulative.

the weak, sure to give in to

the hunger's soft cooing, drawing

the people nearer, taking them.

the hunger has broken my will

the desire to shrivel, desire to be thin.

the hunger calls me and rattles the walls.

the noises are noticed but not responded to, at all.

the hunger, my enemy. the food, my poison
the more it lures me, the faster I run.
the hunger must be fought, though I am frail.
the thought of feeding, my worst nightmare.
the hunger has made me what I am;
the small, weak, shadow of who I once was.
the hunger is shrinking me, killing me;
the more I ache, the more hollow I become.
the hunger has got a hold, a grip so tight.
the sun doesn't shine for me anymore,
the hunger keeps the clouds up above,
the sign of my sickness, unfixable, I rot.
the hunger, you can eat, or you can not.