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it was a sad 
sight
lately

and the sounds coming 
from it were even
sadder

Such was the house
of humans

Full of shouts 
and objects banging and
braking against the walls,
curses against gods,
against parents,
death threats,
agony
and grief
and pure rage

destruction

But not being humans 
the two of them
watched from outside,
from their enclosure
outside their pen

“It’s the destiny of 
all humans,” she told
him 

“To fight each other 
to death?” he asked

She nodded
her big, fleshy head,
making her ears flap. “That’s
right. The curse of 
those humans is that
they’re trying
too hard
to place a male and 
a female in the same space,
have them share the
same life
and actually expect it to
work out. How foolish.”

“Is there really
no way
it can work out?” he asked

“Ah, you’re so young. Barely
more than a piglet,
aren’t you? Look, when it 
does work out 
between humans... it’s 
an exception. Never the rule. 
Their curse started with
having fingers
that can grab things
and extended to 
having minds that can
grasp concepts
other than food, sleep,
and sex. 
To be able to think higher
is a curse, not a blessing. Maybe
they’ll figure it out one day.
Until then,
let us enjoy our lives. Let’s 
celebrate, darling. If the humans
are too busy killing themselves
they won’t be slaughtering us
and they’ll soon be our
food
instead of us being theirs. Happy
day! Oh, I am
excited. C’mon, mount me,
darling, let’s celebrate.” 

“Mount you?” he said. “But...
aren’t we related?” 

“Oh, come now, don’t think
like a human.” 

He mounted her
and the 
screams coming from inside
the house of humans
accompanied them 
like music

It all ended
with a bang

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That did it
He was tired of coming home from work
and finding
a fucking book on the table
instead of food

but the book was also on his
pillow when he went to bed

on the toilet tank

in the garage

in the shed behind the house

and on the dashboard of his goddamn car

He had enough of it

And one day he told her
he had enough of it and enough of her
It was time to break up
this wasn't going to work

He was not going to quit smoking
and she was not going to quit nagging him
to read her book on quitting smoking

"I won't marry you until you're 101 days clean,"
she'd said

He smoked a pack and a half a day

It was time to break up
and, gods, she didn't take it lightly

In that morning he left her alone to collect
all her stuff from his house and be gone
by the time he returned

She was indeed gone by the time he returned
and took nothing more than what belonged to
her and even left something behind
Her self-published book on how to quit smoking,
what else?

He sighed
picked it up from the coffee table
looked it over
sat on the couch
put a cigarette between his lips and
when he lit it the house blew up

Perhaps a big moral in the book was to
always check the gas after a
breakup

but it was too late now

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she hadn’t been his wife

because her religious family would never

allow their sweet treasure

to marry a lowlife like him

But she had been his girlfriend because

she needed to rebel

against her family somehow

But very little of that mattered now

She was no longer among

the living

and it was her own choice

Enforced by two fistfuls of pills

and half a bottle of 65% proof vodka

Her family was beginning

to forget her

now

Suicide was something not even Jesus could

forgive

“I’m stronger than Jesus himself then!”

he shouted in the

hand mirror she left behind

at his place. “I forgive you! And I

still love you.”

He smashed the hand mirror against the wall

and knelt amongst the

shards

They watched him from below

with crimson eyes

Eyes that reminded him of hers when she was

crying in his arms,

talking endlessly about her stupid family who

won’t take mental issues like depression

and anxiety seriously. They said

it was but a phase

and she just needed to grow up

and pray some more. Also, her lowlife

boyfriend needed to go

If only that last

rule wouldn’t have been in place…

She would’ve been here now,

he knew

He reached for the

largest shard,

not breaking contact with the crimson eyes,

and stabbed it deep into

the wrist of his left hand

“Haha,” he said, still looking

at the eyes. “Just like when you took

bathroom breaks from the sermon to video-call me. I… still love you, babe…”

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he deliberately chose
the nastiest
sound for the alarm clock

Zeeeehhweeeehhchhh

and there it went
again
Every four hours. Announcing that he
had to start the
engine again lest he
froze to death

The phone had 17% battery left. He
would need to visit
the library again
for a recharge but it was becoming
increasingly
harder as the smell of homeless
was growing more
potent on him

He checked the time again
turned off the phone
turned on the engine
wiped the windshield with his gloved hand
watched his breath leave his mouth
fumbled around for a cigarette

no luck

He took out the lighter and
struck it
and all it produced were sparks

It's been quite a lot of
no luck
lately

At the library he took small
chapbooks
with him to a desk and pretended
to be studying them
while the phone charged besides
him
but not having anything
better to do he
read some of the poems in
those chapbooks. He didn't understand
poetry, didn't know
how to read it to
make sense. He was simply not
a man of writing and reading,
didn't understand why
the lines were so choppy
and didn't go all the way
to the right margin of the page. Why did it
have to look so
intentionally wrong? Also
why didn't it rhyme if
it was called poetry? He resigned himself
eventually. He'll never understand
this part of literature

but still, there was
something
he read in one of those deranged
verses with words all
over the page. One poem that
ended something like this:

"then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest
bit.
it needn’t be much, just a spark.
a spark can set a whole forest on
fire.
just a spark.
save it."

His English wasn't the
best but he
understood the message well enough

the spark was
there
still

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To work at the peak
of the desert heat

The adults told him he’d need
an injection for that
and the man dressed in white
grabbed his arm and lifted it
and stung him with the needle in the shoulder
and injected the serum

It took away all doubt
from his mind
and all weariness from his heart
and limbs

He was ready

“Good boy,” the adults said
and patted him on the back

They gave him an assault riffle,
one he’d held and used
before for practice,
and sent him out of camp
and towards the enemy soldiers

It’ll be fine

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It is known
You can never hold on to
an adventurer

and she was one

And she was gone

and he stood by the window
and smelled the
guitar she left behind,
not knowing how to play it

A girl like her
travels around the world
like a sailor and
loves many boys and men
and they never forget her

The one mistake
they all share is
trying to lock her in their
world

It’s like trying to
capture the sun’s light in
a bag and take it
into your dark house

Women like her
are responsible for
men who call themselves
romantics and write love poems
and dream

He struck the cords
of the guitar
once. Looked out
the window. Warm, sunny day.
Streets busy with children
running fast, passing by
adults who walked slow

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that guitar is useless in
his hands
he spent over ten thousand
hours playing
it's all he does really
he had all the time
in the world
after the accident that
rendered his legs
useless
He sits in bed or in
the wheelchair all day
and plays the guitar
but it's all useless
he's lacking the fire
in his eyes
all his songs are the
same song
a sad tune
and the lyrics are all in
his mind
and they're darker than his
eyes
colder

the other day his
mother found a
knife in his room,
under the mattress

he said the guitar wasn't
enough anymore
the guitar was fine so far
because the cords
brought feeling
to his fingers
but now that the fingers
had gone completely numb
with thick skin
he wanted to
pick up the violin