I may not be your one
I accept it.
But my person is out there
I will find them.
They will find me.
It's all good, let's just leave it here.
I don't do negativity.
I don't do anger.
I don't do insecurities.
Let us part ways.
It's all good.
Never allow fears to stop
you from being unstoppable
😎😎
Conor McGregor inspired me.
I won't go into detail about this notorious man. You know him. If you don't Google exists, if you care.
The failures, the shortcomings, the unforgivables, the embarrassments cannot weigh on my shoulders. I have to take those moments turn it into fucking magic. Make those moments work for me, move forward. Try again and again and again...Fail again and again and again...Don't quit.
Peace, Power, Dignity, Respect, Love.
Be committed. Don't listen to the noise. Do what I feel I am called to do.
My goal is to start small. Have one week without TV. Figure out what the hell I fight for. Sometimes, I get off track but I am human. I am going to fix my mindset. 💋 still working on my progress.
The second member of the Unfortunate Fours was Mitch. He was a booger-eater, a loud-mouth, good for the jokes and a true troublemaker. Once, he glued wheels of sixth grade teacher's chair because he despised the sound of Ms. Roberts sliding across the floor. She was a 250 pound woman and refused to walk around the room. When we had a question, we walked to the desk. When we needed an explanation, she slid to the board and wrote at eye level. When we could not see the explanation from the back of the room, we had to walk to the front and stand. So, when Ms. Roberts called for a new chair, Mitch borrowed his father's tools and unscrewed the bolts. She collapsed and the class roared in laughter.
Three broken chairs later, Mitch was caught but his vigilante actions had not gone unnoticed. The principal began random sit-ins discovering Ms.Roberts lack of performance did not stop at her desk; as a class we were preforming below reading level. When the yearly standardized test came around to say we failed miserably was an understatement because the next year we had a new teacher, Mr. C.
Mitch never met Mr. C. It wasn't his fault. No one noticed the signs, but us and we were nobody. Nobody would listen to us. Nobody seen what we saw either. Nobody cared to ask why Mitch wore long sleeves in the summer time. Nobody cared to ask: Are you okay, today? Nobody listened to him cry on the brick wall after school was over. Nobody wondered why he preferred to walk home, even though his mother was always on time, waiting in the parking lot to pick him up.
Mitch's father was an alcoholic. It was the same old story really. I'm sure we all heard about the abusive parents having way too many. It wasn't the hitting, Mitch complained about. It was the cigarette burns on his skin, the killing of his three year old dog, Puff Daddy. It was the constant belittling of his mother, the excuses, the cover-ups, the maybe-if-I-tried-harders.
During PE, after the broken second chair, I noticed Mitch always doing push-ups during free-time instead of playing with the rest of us.
"You don't want to play dodgeball?"
He breathed slowly through his nose, looking as if the world was on his shoulder. "Playing is not living."
"Living is playing."
He stopped to look up at me. "You tell me if the life I'm living is worth playing."
He waited for my response, but when I opened my mouth silence filled the air. I turned my back, but remembered what the Unfortunate One would say.
"It is better to hope for a better living than to play a game."
"My mother plays the game. She is on time every day to pick me up because she has a fear clock ticking in her mind. One minute late coming in the door, she earns hit to the face. I hope every day the fear clock breaks and we escape. It doesn't happen, so I will break that clock if I have to."
He went back to his push ups. I watched as he went up and down, pumping his arms, determined to stop the clock.
The next day, I joined him.
I did my first push-up that day.
He laughed at me."You have noodle arms and your butt is too high."
"I am trying here."
He pushed my hips down. "Butt down, strengthens the upper body."
He corrected my arms and encouraged me to do more than two push-ups. I accomplished four to his forty.
What I liked about Mitch was he didn't take his issues out on others. He held his smile consistently throughout the day, he was patient with others, he shared his food with Unfortunate Three even if it meant accepting the ride home from his mother to relieve his hunger.
He was a good teacher. By the time Mr. C arrived at our school, I was able to do one hundred push-ups. The day I reached half that, I ran to call Mitch.
It was shortly after Ms. Roberts' chair collapsed. Three days had passed without Mitch. We were getting worried, but I continued to practice my push-ups to show Mitch I had graduated from noodle arms.
On June 4, I worked up the nerve to call Mitch. He had warned me to never call his home on Tuesdays and Fridays because his father did not like to be disturbed during TV shows. So, I waited until June 5th, Wednesday night after school.
The phone rang five times before a person heavily breathing answered.
"Hello? I am calling to speak to Mitch. Is he able to talk?"
Heavy breathes turn into cries. Then a rageful volcano eruption crashes in background.
"BITCH, I SAID NO PHONES. HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE!"
"Hel--"
Dead dial tone, ringing in my ear.
I was unsure of my next actions, but I knew what I knew about Mitch's home life. I had the information. Mitch warned me. He told me, but I couldn't help the feeling swirling around in my gut that day. Something was wrong. So, I called the cops, reporting a disturbance in the neighborhood, giving Mitch's address. I remembered it from the year before, when we uses to trade jean jackets. The trade was more me taking his jacket and wearing it home but he was nice like that.
On the day I would have called, Mitch stepped between his mother and his father, who was drunkenly holding a wench. The wench was swung, blunt force trauma to the head is what the teachers whispered weeks later. Mitch laid there for a day, breathing helpless, hearing his mothers cries unable to make a decision, unable to choose her son's life over her husband's. She was unable to break the fear clock until it was too late. Mitch tried his best to hang on. I know because he gave his last breath a couple minutes before the police arrived. It was a slow internal bleed, the teachers whispered weeks later.
That summer was a dreadful one. I continued my push-ups, tried to focus on the positives and on the first day of school I arrived to Mr. C class early. I didn't care if it wasn't my first period, I waited.
I waited for the class to begin, participated in introductions, listened to the class overview and when Mr. C finally took a seat in his brand new chair, in which it collapsed, I smiled and yelled: FOR MITCH!
Mystic felt his eyes on her, studying carefully. She had no idea what he was waiting for. Peering up from the rim of a cup of coffee, she looked at him smiling sweetly from the far left of the coffee shop. He was surprised as his eyes landed on her. Mystic met his hazel eyes with a curt nod, as if he was a friend. She did not get a chance to look at him carefully last night before escaping: he was athletic, lean, moved swiftly around the room on guard, never allowing for anyone to get the jump on him.
There was a total of ten people in the coffee shop. Their stare down attracted some customers to glance between the pair while dragging their feet to the bathroom. He seemed to notice, approaching the counter to order a coffee: black.
He attracted eyes from women, they gawked as he passed, taking in his smell. The barista blushed as he paid, smiling sweetly but he was too annoyed to care or perhaps he had a one track mind, a man of focus and purpose.
He changed out of his assassin attire. He was now wearing a simple hoodie and jeans colored in black to better blend in background, to remain unseen with a baseball cap.
Mystic sipped her cup, intrigued by the mystery man. She wondered how he would endure on her table. What would his last words be?
“I want my knives back." He said calmly placing his mug on the table, sitting down across from me.
Mystic smiled. “I should call the police and report that I have a stalker.”
He sat back in his chair. “Really? For a woman who chops people up and pours acid on their bodies, I would think you would stay far away from the police.”
Mystic swirled her index finger around the rim of the coffee cup giggling. “Oh someone has heard of me, but you didn’t call the police now did you?” She relaxed into the seat licking her lips. She enjoyed the game they began to play. “Someone wants their money, bounty hunter?”
“I’m not a bounty hunter.”
“It doesn’t matter to me." Mystic tilted head slightly looking him over once more. His face was familiar, but she could not place him. Those eyes of hatred, she knew that look all too well.
“Give me my knives.” He demanded.
“Or what? You’re going to fall asleep on me again?”
The coffee shop door chimed attracting all ten customers; all eyes flew to the door as two police officers walked in. One was short and chubby and the other tall and skinny. It is funny how partners work; how one could be completely different than the other.
My attention turned back to the man in front of me, waiting patiently for his threat. He continued to stare at me, once again studying me. He cleared his throat once, twice then leaned forward as if to tell me a secret.
“Or I’ll tell those nice police officers who you really are, Mystic.”
Her heart sank, feeling the burning hatred simmer beyond her grasp but I wasn’t going to let him see it. She breathed and said smiled sweetly. “I don’t know who that is.”
“You have the burn on your right wrist, it looks like a moon crescent. I saw it last night and not many people have that mark, besides I gave it to you.”
“You have me mistaken with someone else."
The mysterious observer rested his cup on the table, he tipped the summery black coffee over as he reached for napkins. Mystic jumped back, being careful to contain her screams with a bite of her tongue.
"My apologies, darling." The mysterious observer grabbed Mystic's left wrist exposing the moon crescent burn. She realized her mistake and quickly retracted her hand from his grip.
The mysterious observer cleaned the area smirking. "I've been looking for you and I know your tricks."
"Who are you?" Mystic could not lie. She was entertained, excited even to play this new game, wondering what surprises this mysterious observer holds.
He was proud. Aware the tables had turned.
19 hours earlier...
We were wondering how it got so serious, so in dire need of love and attention that it was all we could think of. We were young and stupid. Our parents didn’t teach us right, bestow us with enough common sense so we could figure life out for ourselves. We quit before we had started, whether we had a choice from birth, who knows? Our foundation was weak and it was not our fault that it got to this point of pathetic cries from the boy next door and sad looks from our peers. As we sat across from each other, my browns gazing into her royal blues, we sat in silence and wondered if we were next to jump off a twelve story building to get just a little attention. We called ourselves the Unfortunate Four.
Tyla was the first unfortunate soul of our gang. She was the best of us. She was diagnosed with Stage III brain cancer at the age of eleven. I can barely remember what she looked like these days but she always wore a smile, a jean jumpsuit with a yellow ribbon on it and she was full of words of wisdom and bravery.
“It’s for the hope my parents lack.” She used to tell me. “They have no hope, just fear so I turn to my ribbon for hope I will get better.”
We were in the middle of math class and she seemed more mature than the rest of us. It could have been a side effect for terminal illnesses, who knows? We grew up two houses apart from each other. Her father was a door to door man always on the run trying to sell as many boxes of product as he could before the end of month. I remember many doors being slammed in his face, my door included. I heard my mother gossiping on the phone one day, saying Tyla’s dad disappeared and ran out on his family. He had debt to pay and he couldn’t come up with the goods so he packed up everything except his family and left town. I tried to talk to Tyla about it, but all she wanted to talk about was the daisies Mrs. Laurens had planted in her yard across the street from my house. She would sit there for hours looking at the daisies like they would speak to her if she focused harder. I sat there with her in silence, keeping her company.
On May 15, Tyla died. She almost made it to twelve years old. Her birthday was tomorrow and I know this sucks but I had gotten her the perfect present. I had handcrafted it myself in art class. I was really proud of the yellow daisy themed bracelet I had made for her. It is terrible she had never gotten the chance to open it, never got the chance to have her first kiss, never got the chance to graduate high school, never got the chance to yell at her mother for the damage she may have caused.
We were playing with My Little Ponies in Tyla’s yard. Her time outdoors had become limited as well as her attendance at school. I was forced to hang out with my less interesting classmates who knew nothing about daisies, hope or the pretty princess of the year. I was bored to say the least. On May 15, I went to see Tyla. I missed my best friend and to my surprise she was on Mrs. Laurens lawn sitting near the daisies and clutching her yellow ribbon. I remember walking over to her, hearing her crying. She forced her best smile when she turned to face me.
“Hey, you okay? You’re not supposed to be outside.”
She laughed as if I had told her the best joke in the world. Then she paused, and said. “You promised you wouldn’t do that! Treat me like a sick girl!” She cried. “You were supposed to be better than them!”
I nodded. I did promise. It was a few feet away over in my yard that I made that promise, but my mother told me she’s sick and nothing would ever be the same again. My mother told me to give her the space she needed to heal because she didn’t have much time left.
I shouldn’t have listened to her. I should have listened to my friend because my mother was right about one thing, we didn’t have much time left together. I wish I knew then what I knew now.
Tyla’s face lacked color and her lips were blue like she had been licking a blueberry lollipop. Her golden brown hair was non-existent, it was fragile. She was fragile. The steps she had made towards me were small but she managed to pry my hand open, leaving her yellow worn down ribbon in it. Some strings were coming undone and it was light in my hand, cold to touch just like Tyla.
“Hope for the best. Be better than your mom and my parents, have hope.” She whispered before collapsing to the ground.
When The Lines Are Blurred.....
I want you to come back to me.
Know I will always want, need and love you in every way possible.
I want you to cry
I want you to wait
Because When The Lines Are Blurred.....
I'll be there searching for you,
No matter how hard life gets I'll be there to hold you.
But I need you to keep faith
when the pieces don't fit puzzle,
Know that I'm the only thing that makes sense.
Know that I love you, need you and I hope to God you come back to me because you're the only person that can keep me sane.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Mystic was born in blood, coming out of my mother's womb like every other human being or creature that walks the Earth. So...what makes serial killers if they are born just like everyone else? This question swirled around in my head for ten long years. She was born a healthy little girl. She was not physically, verbally or sexually abused. Yet she has this urge to feed the darkness inside again…again…again... What makes her different from her peers, from the people she used to know, from the people she used to call friends, from her neighbors? The answer is simple; Mystic was reborn in her mother's blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Varies from pounds to ton
never a Captain, but
there is no control
without me.
I
plunge
slash
fight
through obstacles,
no man sees what I see
how deep I go
how much I flow
down in the abyss.
Mute
No dead man tales to share
chains melted in my soul
I am a slave
Never a Captain of my boat.
This may be hard to read... it is done purposely*
In a room full of consumers,
I am invisible
Quiet and observant,
Smiling at the jokes
Pretending to engage
Pretending to belong
Pretending to have interest.
I am different.
I accept that.
I will find my place where I can stand proudly and be with my kind.
💞💕💞