The day I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived. I felt it in every fiber of my body, and I was enlightened— exhilarated. With adrenaline coursing through my blood, I sprinted down the halls of my abandoned, shabby apartment complex. The air was musty and grey, almost emanating green, nasty aura. I ignored the usual environment as I left the building. The sky was a bright blue, and the air was chilled, almost stilled. Everything felt bright and optimistic, but slow and nostalgic. I felt at peace. And that’s how I knew that today was the day. The one I’ve wanted all my life. The day where I would feel the epitome of happiness for no apparent reason, and everything good and natural would occur to me. The world would spin like always. And no evil would out break. Life would be perfect for the first and last time. Today was the day.

I remember when these halls sang tails, But now leave entrails of sand across its floor. The dust piles to the ceiling And the doors are left open to show the aftermath of forgetting, I remember when the walls hung sails and great old fables for its guests to adore. And the core is broken, not to be repaired. This is no home, not even a house. Just a relic of despair. I heard the skeleton of wood sing a solem tune of fairwell; “Forget me not for here I am, Forget me not under this sand. I live below these loft banks, I reep nothing of what man takes. Flicker the light and rip up the floor boards, Break the windows and cut all the phone cords. Break me until I am useless like I am. I now know nothing, do nothing like you can. I feel no pain, not any longer. Im atrociously no sight to ponder. Feel no remorse for my hollow bones, But try to remember when I was a home.”

His scared hand reached out and grabbed by wrist, each warm and bony finger wrapping around my tanner skin in a way that called shivers down my spine. “Kacchan…” He mumbled my name like it was a prayer. How can someone make me feel so wanted while having done alsost nothing to achieve it? Well, that’s not true. He’d done everything, our entire lives to make me feel the way that I do. “I understand how this may sound to you, but I want to explain it the best way I can, because this is the most important moment of my life and I won’t waste it with confusion.” He told me, eyes glazed over with the reflection of the sunset next to us. He glanced away to watch it for only a moment with a soft expression, and then back to me with the very same one, as if to tell me I am his sun. “Since we were kids, I’d…. I had always followed you, I knew I would to the ends of the earth, and there was nothing that would change that. I think if you turned evil, if you detested heroes- I might have as well. That’s just how much you meant to me- you were my everything, and you _are _my everything, still. I put all might on such a high pedestal, because I imagined that some day, you would be there, with or without me. And I would either stand by your side, or watch happily from afar. It never mattered. I just wanted you, in every sense of the word, more than anything at all. More than a quirk, maybe. I like you. I really really like you, more than just friends. I need and want you, and I want to give you everything that I have and everything that I am even if you don’t want it. What I’ve created, what I am is worthless otherwise- I’d want to give it to no one else. Please just… never mind, it’s not my place.” He finished. I had a lot to think about, there were too many words to process. I think I understand that he…. Loves me? But he never declared that formally. Does he only appreciate me? I felt as though my heart understood every word Izuku spoke, but my brain had yet to catch up. Maybe it was refusing to. But I forced myself to go on. “What I… I…. Shit.” I mumbled stupidly as I struggled to form a reply. I glanced away at the almost gone sun, with fiery red bleeding across the skyline. “Do you mean… you want to…” “Will you be my boyfriend?” He intervened, helping my constipated thoughts when it came to anything romantically motivated. Okay. Now I know. I really know, all that time I spent acting like a love sick doofus over him hadn’t been for nothing.

When I was little, I used to torment my little sister into fulfilling psychopathic wishes of mine. She folded on every crease. This is her mindset if I were to imagine it. … __ Lacy is strong and confident, she’s cool and popular, everything I wish that I was. She has friends that I would give anything to play with. But she hates me. She hates me. I wish she wouldn’t hate me, I wish my sister loved me. I think she sees me as a toy, maybe even a broken one. As she’s grown older, an entire 3rd grader as of now, she doesn’t play with toys anymore. They’re fun to poke and look at, but pitiful in an overall sense. She made our mother have me just for her own entertainment- so that she had a playmate. But she’s grown too old, and she has no use for me now. I want my sister to play with me, and to love me, but I’m just a useless doll. She’s ordered me around to do her bidding like some throw away servant that displeases her. For an entire day I dedicated my service to her with no repayment because she asked me to play servant with her. Litterally. She’s made me try out dangerous things before her so that she didn’t get hurt, because her life is valued higher than my own. I wouldn’t disagree. And even after all of that, Lacy had tried to get rid of me completely, as if the mere sight of myself was plaguing her eyes. She’s pushed me down stairs, tried to poison me, hell- she hit me on the head with a lock as a baby. Any person would say that she’s sick in the head. But I think she’s perfect. Because in all honesty, “I would be anything for you.”

(I did not see that if said poem, my fault).

I waited for hours that day. Hours and hours, looking out at the sunset waiting for you to show up, and praying that you didn’t. I felt like an outcast, while I was alone with my thoughts in that uneasy silence. I rather it had been filled with your mumbling, but then again, I knew if you were there I would never forgive myself. I don’t think I ever have, anyway- forgiven myself. I never deserved to live after what I did to you; what I told you. I probably should have been the one that dived off that roof. But I’m an ignorant fool who’s too full of himself to die. I can’t even die for you. Pathetic. I waited until the sun died out like the ashy cigarettes of the friends whom I abandoned, and rightfully so. I don’t know what they went on to do without me. Did they still harass you; hurt you? I should kill those assholes. They deserve life just as much as I don’t. But it wasn’t just then. I waited for dusk to dawn every single day. On the weekends, too. I didn’t want you to change your mind one day. I had to be there to save you; it was the least I could do. Maybe it was comforting to me in a way, to feel useful to you. Or maybe I was just at peace in the place I knew I deserved to be. My parents were always pissed, screaming at me every day when I came home late in the night. I hardly talked to them then, just droned along as they yelled at air. Well, my mother did anyway. My father usually just sat quietly, looking stressed and pensive, wanting to reach out but too mute in some way. I felt bad for them, but not as much as I felt horrible for you. Once we graduated that year; graduated middle school, I stopped coming to that rooftop. I taught myself that you were strong enough to live without my help; that I’m not as important or controlling over you as I thought. My words didn’t have influence over your actions, in the end. You didn’t go to that rooftop once. It made me realize I was the idiot. I was the one who told myself to go to that rooftop every day. And every day, I subconsciously dared myself to jump, just like I told you to do. I’m my own villain, without even realizing it. But I rather it be me than you. I was releaved at that revelation, no matter how ego-bruising. I didn’t mind that I couldn’t control you, because that meant you were safe. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted; for you to be safe.

The ghastly article fit perfectly around the young woman, each curve pronounced and taken care of. Its colors clashed, patters mixing together either in a much too busy way, or in a fashion that just wasn’t appealing; cheetah print and fluorescent green palm trees. No sane person would wear it. The clothing couldn’t be named in type. It was no dress or gown, but it reached the floor. It was neither long sleeved nor short sleeved, but each arm was draped in flowy fabric that graced the elbow. It had a v neck that wrapped around the chest in a robe sort of way. Layers of skirts were cut at different lengths on each level so one could see the pattern or color underneath. Despite all of this, the woman’s face lit up with joy and she twirled, adoring the reflection in the floor lengthen mirror. The very clothing she was wearing was a creation of the villages finest seamstress, whom refused service to everyone for the past 20 years. But the young woman, standing in the tent, had forwent the hags barriers. The seamstress wasn’t prized for her creation’s beauty, but rather, for their feel. Each peice was uglier than the last, but the victims of them always came through extremely pleased, almost acting like a different person. And now the girl could see why; she could _feel _why.the rivers of fabric imitated the flowy banks of a brook, rippling across her skin in silky rhythms. Music began to play around her, and she could have sworn there were bells sewn into her skirt to cause it. The roughness of the lace adorning her shoulders reminded her of natures ethereal mountains; so tall and sturdy, rough and rugged, but so beautiful it would take your breath away. The outfit felt like dipping your toes into snow cold water, making you want to recoil with shock; it felt like summers blades of grass tickling your fingers as you lay out in the sun; it’s like dancing at a festival with your tribe, and everything is in slow motion as you laugh and twirl, and the orange and yellow fractures of the sun caresses your face, and the music fades into suggestions. It feels like living.

(Morbid. Read with caution) I woke up in someone else’s body today. She didn’t look like me at all. Maybe her voice was a bit familiar, but it was drowned out by the sight of her bagged eyes and mangled lips that contorted into a frown of agony. Her arms were bony and hideous. I couldn’t stand the sight of her. It was as if I couldn’t control her actions despite feeling the numbness of her own skin. I watched in the 3rd perspective as she committed atrocities i would never dare imagine myself doing. But she isn’t me, so I didn’t care all that much as she stabbed everyone who loves her in the back. I didn’t care that much when she cried herself to sleep. I didn’t care that much when she added another tally to her skin like it were marking each day she burned alive on earth. Her hideous skin. I didn’t care that much when she lusted after her friends, imagining morbid scenarios that made my stomach churn. I didn’t care that much because she isn’t me, and I would soon return to my own body. But one day, I woke up back in my own skin. I faced the mirror to see my grotesque limbs and other parts, littered with those scars I had seen the girl commit. Burdened by the mistakes my host had made in the time I embodied her. And I realized I had spent too long waiting to return in a fit of insanity to realize I’m the girl whom I didn’t recognize; the girl I hate; I just didn’t want to own up to my own faults. My many, many faults. But now I would. I would own up to them in the only way I knew how to. I grabbed the tool that had scored my body every day I’ve lived before. I wanted to mark today just I had all the rest. But this would be the last time I marked. It would be my last day. I reserved the special occasion for my neck.

White. Bleak. Red. It burns. Blue. It’s thriving. … __ I want to be a blue star. I want to thrive like them, and shine brighter. Blue seems sad and meek at first, but I’ve always thought underlying meanings are everything. Sometimes I have so many thoughts I want to burst. Sometimes I burn cuts into my skin, one for each thought to remind me of how bright I am, like a star. Others tell me I’m brilliant, I’m as bright as my smile. I like to believe them, and this helps me. Drifting between one and another of my kind keeps my head quite. My fingers itch to try it. To burst a new nebula, die a new star, cluster new beginnings and feel as you are. I scraped circles into the moon, carving out a face to resemble you. Many people deny me of my feat. They say it’s just nothing talk. But I made it just for you, my dear. Why don’t you appreciate my light I’ve gifted you, as it appears in its fullest once a month? Nevertheless I don’t mind if you refuse, I’ll continue to flit and float amongst the empty space. The nothingness is starting to fail me as my thoughts travel back. I want to burn like a star again.

‘Bread… milk… soup…’ Chrissy went over the groceries in her head a million times, practically engraving the list in her neurons. Her mother was strict about these kinds of things. She always wanted this specific food list, nothing more, nothing less. The woman even went as far as giving Chrissy only the exact amount of Knuts down to the tax coin, having memorized it herself. So if Chrissy, in the event of insanity, were to decide she wanted to stray from the list, she would have to forcefully relinquish an item to do so, in which case her mother would most definitely notice. Chrissy raised her hand, lifting her fingers to reveal the 7 Knuts in her palm, their dull bronze color looking hideously back at her. She hated money. She hated everything about economics. Why should she have to pay for food? For shelter? For life? Why should others decide for her that the moment she was born, she’s part of a prison-subjective-system? Chrissy tucked the coins into the rough pocket of her light denim overalls. They sagged around her hips and had to be rolled several times at the cuffs near her feet to even fit. There were several places in which they had been patched up precariously with brown fabric. Along with that, Chrissy paired the only other article of clothing she had; a dark brown T-shirt that was frayed in many places. The young girl, age 15, walked quietly through the secretive streets of The Loot. It was an extensive system of buildings that traveled for miles and miles, lined with shops, homes, businesses, etc. the sky was always covered in a blanket of midnight and smog, no dazzling features to it. When Chrissy was very little, she had once heard a story from a stranger that, a long time ago, there use to be ‘stars’ and a ‘moon’ in the night sky. The old stranger had described the stars like hundreds of white sparkles, twinkling constantly, and it’s leader, the moon, as an indecisive man who changed his ‘face’ all the time. Chrissy peered longingly at the ugly blackness before her, wishing stories like that were true. But alas, she’s no child. Not anymore, at least. With one swift turn, the girl straggled into the grocery market she buys from. She had to be discreet so she wouldn’t be attacked by a ‘lawless’. But these days, her mom says, lawless are all that are left. The lights buzzed and blinded Chrissy as she entered the store, and she covered her eyes on instinct. “Hey, Chrissy.” The old punk-clerk said from her left. Chrissy jumped with surprise and quickly looked at the familiar man, only then calming down. “Oh, hello Mr. Oswald.” She murmured greatfully, waving meekly as she walked off. Her brown hicking boots clicked across the dirty, abandoned tile floor, that was once white but still glistened a bit from the strong lamps overhead. Chrissy wondered what it had been like 50 years ago. She wondered that about the whole Loot, infact. Mr. Oswald was a bald, middle aged man that ran the poor market, which only housed a few groceries, but that was enough for Chrissies mother, so that was enough for her, in turn. He looked like he was in a gang, or a lawless. Markings were painted across his skin like trophies, and the man always seemed to have a cigarette in his mouth. He also was consistently caught wearing a white tank top that was hardly white anymore like the floors of his store, dirtied with stains. Chrissy located all three of the things she needed, grabbing each in the order of the words that played on loop on her head. ‘Bread…’ She grabbed a circular loaf of bread wrapped in clear preservative plastic. ‘Milk…’ She found a plastic jug of greyish-white liquid, lukewarm. ‘Soup…’ She picked up a can of red soup from a dented metal shelf, taking all three items to the register, like she does every single Monday. It was an unstopping, ugly, boring cycle she wished with everything she could end. “Jus’ the usual, huh?” Oswald grunted with a deep chuckle, cigarette bouncing between his lips with each word and flicking its discharge onto the counter below. “You know it. Couldn’t dream of getting anything else.” Chrissy half heartedly replied, fishing out the coins from her pocket. The 7 Knuts fell on the table like they owned the place, scattering about. “Eigh’ Knuts.” Oswald reminded casually as he picked up each coin one by one, eyebrows furrowing when he only found 7. “Yer… a knut shor’ missy.” The man said, crossing his arms. Chrissy paled. 8!? 8 Knuts? Had she gotten so used to life now that she had gone insane and mistaken 7 Knuts for 8 as the usual amount!? That had to be it. Her lip wobbled as she shook her head. “B-but I-I thought… I thought it was 7….” Mr. Oswald shook his head. “Nope. Deman’s gone up. Be eigh’ now.” He explained uncaringly. He had never really cared— no one did. Chrissy had to remember that, and stop mistaking familiarity for kindness. “Oh, okay. I’ll put the soup back this time.” She whispered disappointedly, shoving the can a few inches away from her. The clerk nodded. “5, then.” Chrissy stowed the 2 extra coins in her pocket and let Oswald take the 5 already out. “Alrigh’ be safe ou’ there.” Oswald mumbled half heartedly as he put the coins a into a practically ruined register. With a conscience of fear that her mother would be furious, Chrissy reluctantly took the now bagged food, hoping she wouldn’t be targeted for it on the way home. The streets were desolate as always, with the exception of a few shady characters hiding in the shadows that Chrissy dare not interact with. However, in the event of a detour, Chrissy found herself needing the bathroom, so she diverged her path to a small gallery of restrooms she knew existed in the alley way between an abandoned resturant and an old bookstore no one ever used. Quickly doing her business in a rush to get home, Chrissy flushed the plastic toilet and wiped her hands on her overalls like always. She’d always felt wrong for doing that, not knowing why. But before she could leave the restroom, she paused underneath the flickering light above her head, leaning up against the door where she had just heard ruckus. Behind it, there were the faint sounds of a conversation between two men. Chrissy didn’t want trouble, so she figured she would wait to leave until they did as well. Until then, she thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a listen to what they were saying. “—shipment?” “Yeah. Just came in.” “Oh, great. We need to get rid of it.” “Mhm. Those are the orders. Mayor says he hates those stupid books. I agree. Who needs to know about all that bullshit?” “Right? They’re illegal either way. How did you say they came in?” “Some group of outsiders. They were traveling and our guys took ‘em down. They didn’t stand a chance. But they had all of those shitty books with them. We can’t have the people reading that trash.” “Right. Where are they now?” “In the back of the library right here. No one goes in it anyway, so that’s where we stored em. We’ll burn them first thing in the morning.” “Are you sure we can afford to wait that long?” “Yea, it’ll be fine. Stop worrying so much. Com’mon I need a drink.” Finally, the sound of footsteps scurried away, but the thoughts scrambling Chrissy’s mind didn’t. She’d always been a curious girl, and this was no exception. Perhaps it was her weak trait. She ran across the alley way to the back entrance of the library, finding the doors luckily unlocked. On the inside, the abandoned book store was obviously pitch black, except for an old lantern and a box of matches on a dusty table. Chrissy lit the match on the side of the small box, igniting the lantern and taking it in hand as she walked the length of the library, trying to find the back area of the store the men were talking about through all the darkness. There were shelves upon shelves of rich mahogany wood. They were rare to come by, though Chrissy didn’t know why that would be. Was it like money? Why would a type of plastic be hard to make? No shelf had a single item on it. She figured that’s where the books would go. She had never been in a library, however, she had read books with her mother before, back at home. So at least she knew how to do that much. She never thought the skill to be useful, though. Not until now. Finally, she found the ‘back of the store’. Against a brick wall was an entire laundry bin piled high with books, leather binded and everything. Chrissy picked up the first one she saw. It had a black leather binding, and golden letters on the side that italicized; modern animals. Chrissy’s eyebrows furrowed. She didn’t know what either of those words meant, so she figured it was just a name of some person. She’d never met anyone named ‘animal’. On the inside of the cover, there was a date written- 12/4/1907 Chrissy didn’t know how to do math or what that date implied, but she figured it was a long time ago. Her mother had told her they were in the 31st century, whatever that meant. Her eyes darted to the first page, looking at the title picture. It was an oddly cute sort of monster-like thing. That meant this was probably a children’s fable. The monster was drawn in black and white, but it appeared fluffy, with large doe-eyes and pointy ears, 4 legs and a long rope like thing attached to its behind. Turning to the words, Chrissy started to read, looking at yet another picture provided of the same creature. She didn’t know if she liked it or not. ‘This is a cat, or feline. This specific breed can also be called a house cat. They typically eat…’ Chrissies eyes kept training down the page, more curious by the moment. It was talking about this creature in facts, as if it were real. The girl paused. This was a book written way in the past, supposedly. Did that mean back then, this ‘cat’ was a real thing? Like a type of person? Or was it something completely different. Just as Chrissie was about to turn the page, she heard a click of machinery from behind her, and she froze, not even turning to find the source. “Seems we have a rat.” The familiar voice of the man from the bathrooms cooed, satisfied. “Seems so. Thanks for the tip, by the way.” The other man from the bathrooms said, a smirk in his voice. “Anytime, boys.” She knew that ugly sneer, that drag of syllables, thick and lazy accent, stunt of words due to a cigarette. Mr Oswald. Before Chrissie could think to cry or explain herself, she saw the pages of the book bleed red like magic. And that was the last thing she thought of. Magic. Her world went darker than that gastly sky outside of the library, hanging over The Loot; the only place she’d ever known. Maybe she would get to see the stars, now.

My palms shook like anything. I was never nervous before, not like this— not ever. I’m strong and confident and cool, and I could have anything I wanted. I’m the shit. So I didn’t know why I was so anxious, because there was no margin of error. Nevertheless, I still hunched down, wiping my sweaty palms along the outside of my jeans, sighing. Reluctantly, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled paper, scribbled words across its surface. I had written down what to say in the emergency where I forget. I hadn’t planned to use it— I hated that I made it in the first place; writing the paper was nerdy enough, but needing to use it is like admitting a weakness. (Which I do not have). My red eyes vigorously scanned the paper, taking in the words for the umpteenth time before shoving it back into my pocket with determination and rushing as fiercely as I could into the school gym, where I knew he would be training alone. The door slammed open, but in my mind it all worked in slow motion; like a movie. The sound echoed across the plains of the area. I hated how bright the lights were beginning to seem, blinding my eyes. I stumbled through the doors, my determined face still in rolling to overshadow my embarrassment. And then I saw him, sitting down on the bleachers all the way across the gym. He looked tired, like he was just taking a break while he drank a bottle of water in one go and wiped the glistening sweat from his perfect skin. I took a moment to admire his beauty. His pale skin, cutely place constellation of freckles, plump dark curls. Why had I been so ignorant of it in the past? I could have seen all of this, for so much longer. The boy spotted me, face lighting up as he capped the near empty water bottle in his hands and launched himself from the bleachers, skipping to me. I loved it when he did that. Yeah, sure— maybe my ego is large enough. But from him, it’s not like that; from him, he grounds me, and encourages me, and makes me feel even more confident than I already am. I feel loved, as well. But I’ve learned over time not to take it for granted. “Hey Keith.” He chirped brightly with that ear to ear grin of his, standing right infront of me as I stared down at him. He was shorter than me- by a lot, too. But I found that cute. I mean, the guy is the personification of my type, after all. “Hey, Iker-“ “Wow, real naming me, huh? No- ‘hey stupid’?” He interrupted me with a giggle. I just shook my head. Usually when people interrupt me I’d flare up in anger but I didn’t care right now. “No. I really need to talk to you.” I said, a hint of desperation accidentally seeping through. Iker seemed taken aback by this. His eyebrows furrowed, face falling as he stood still and waited for me patiently. “Okay…” I stuffed my left hand inside my pocket, clutching the not forgotten ball of paper in my hands for some kind of comfort, as if holding it would help me speak. I don’t lie, and I don’t beat around the bush. My personal motto is to do exactly what I want as quickly as I can. This was no different. “Iker…. Shit…I just wanted to say I have feelings for you. You know… like, for a while now or whatever.” I said, mumbling towards the end. My stupid heart was trying to kill me or something. My world felt blackened as he held me precarious through turmoil and victory. Love was stupid. Iker looked confused more than anything, but there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes that I caught just in time for my heart to plummet. “What do you mean ‘feelings’?” He asked. Yeah, he knew what I meant. I knew what I meant. We both knew and that made me angry. Was it at him? At myself? I huffed and rolled my eyes in reflex. “Dammit you know what I mean. I like you and shit. Like I want to be more than friends.” I admitted. God, I was just embarrassing myself. Iker visibly paled, glancing away in disdain. Okay, this is not what I had expected. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to say yes and cry happy tears and jump into my arms and we’d be happy forever. But here I am, ego bruised and about to cry like any idiot I hate. His opinion matters like all the stars in the sky to me; why, I didn’t quite know. Maybe that’s the work of love. “I- I don’t… what? Are you serious?” He asked worriedly. There was no backing out for me. “Yes.” I said plainly, practically trembling. But I tried to hide it. “Keith… I’ve known you since we were kids. You used to bully me, even.” He started. And yeah, that hit hard. “And I really just… have a hard time believing you… like me like that.” Dammit. How do I prove it to him? And even if I could prove my affection for the guy, would it even matter? Would he even love me back? “I do. I’ve tried to hide it for the past year like an idiot, but I just… wanted to be honest whether you believe it or not. I wanted you to know that what I feel for you isn’t platonic. And I know you feel that it is. Platonic. Like you said, I’ve bullied you since forever, I’m an ass, and I’m probably no romantic.” I rambled, starting to sound like the nerd myself. Maybe it was a habit from listening to him mumble day in and day out. Iker faltered. Seeming to be swooned by my words. But I wouldn’t believe it until I heard him say it. “No. I mean yes. Or uh, okay… so, I had liked you too… but that was a long time ago. I’ve gotten over my feelings.” He started. “I appreciate your feelings for me, and they’re not wrong at all! Keith, it’s okay. I still love you. A-as a friend, you know?” He quickly clarified with a nervous air, waiving his hands with a wobbly smile. Even in this situation, he was trying to comfort me Friend. Yeah, friend. I’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. Everything would fine. Love was stupid.