Undress me of these emotions, of these agonizing feelings that bind me to the physical incarnation of a perfect impossibility. Remove them from within me, placing them blatantly, unabashedly out for the world to see.

Dissect me... and explain to me what this is that I feel.

I am of no significance, lacking structure, merely one in a million: living, breathing, simply... existing. I am not nearly of age to have made a name for myself or to claim to have learned how to love. I am just a girl, just a human being standing precariously close to the edge of a mental bridge I have built for myself.

I expect perfection, and am perpetually disappointed.

I become skeptical, losing trust in everything around me, even life, especially love. I walk through life with a cautious gait, daring someone to touch me, to break my stride. I build walls; I put up fences; I am a fortress, impregnable.

Or so I once thought...

I am pensive and withdrawn from the world. I stereotype you; Yes, I judge you. I believe the worst in people, rarely allowing myself to see the good. Occasionally, I let down my guard. I begin to feel... I begin to care... always dismissing the cold, hard fact that it has failed to work before and is certain to fail again. ... And when it does, when my own attempt to "feel something" finally c r a s h e s and b u r n s, breaking the most personal, protected parts of me...

...I dare to inch closer and closer to the edge of that bridge.

I am not without hope, not without a future, but I AM broken, not quite as untouchable as I had once believed. I carry with me no regrets. I forgive; I survive, like so many others before me. I find it within myself to love, t r u l y love... tempting myself to take the step that will finally carry me over the edge of my bridge, into the unknown depths of unknown waters, where it is uncertain that I shall ever emerge again.

In time, every season must conclude,
And, with it, the love I have carried for you.
Oh, let us be children and live without care,
Live without love, the must subtle of snares.

I ask not for a summer, spring, winter, or fall,
I'd rather have never loved you at all.
Because sadness takes the most destructive of forms,
No April showers; just thunderstorms.

In our youth, we are destined to be apart,
Conclusions both heal and destroy the heart.
Shameless crimes we've committed now wear on my soul,
Perhaps we'll find healing once we're both alone.

Love makes people foolish; I will not be a fool,
Before the world finds me weak, they will first find me cruel.
But if I let our love die, all has not been in vain,
You will heal with the seasons, and find love again.

This is life. No, this is living happening in this pigeon polluted plaza currently overflowing with tourists, photographers, and Hispanic boys on skateboards. Behind me, I hear the laughter of tiny children playing in the fountains; the very sound of life itself.

Oh, how I wish I were a photographer, able to take the one picture that would convey the thousand words I so desperately want to write. There is a story to be told here; a story so beautiful, I feel absolutely incapable of
telling it. For not only do I find myself at a loss as a narrator, but I realize the impossibility of learning enough to do such a story justice; to convey fully the history of this place and of it's people.

For instance, the dingy looking woman in mismatched clothing, leather bag slung carelessly over her left shoulder, eyes - bloodshot, and breath - rank, who just walked over to inquire whether or not I could buy her a meal... what is her story? What is it that has reduced her to such a low style of living? Is it the same thing that leaves her eyes red and, after receiving my decline, has her stumbling over to a dark man at a nearby table to repeat the same question yielding the same disappointing results? I am left to wonder how it is that she landed herself in her current predicament as she bums a smoke from the man and staggers down the street out of sight.

What about the older looking man in a brown cowboy hat who seems incapable of not utilizing his cell phone... what is it that undeniably catches his attention? Is it work that keeps him occupied, or is he on a call with his daughter who is missing him while he is away from home? Or even, the unkempt woman in a rainbow dress pacing around aimlessly… Is this part of her daily routine, to visit the plaza routinely greeting strangers and watching the traffic going by?

Even the architecture here seems to tell a story. To my left is a beautiful church built entirely of stone in which bells ring everyday at noon. How many years have passed since its’ construction? How many hundreds of people have found their God, been baptized, and had eulogies spoken for them there?

Unfortunately, I realize these are questions to which I will never have all of the answers.

My thoughts are interrupted by a man in green button up shirt decorated by a rather prominent button that reads, “How may I help you?” I smile as he greets me and asks if I am from Ireland. For the thousandth time today, I chide myself for wearing the green shirt that bares my shoulders, proudly displaying my pale skin and red hair for all the world to see. I shake my head politely, accept his compliments, and settle back in my seat as he wanders away.

I decide to sit for a few more moments, watching as people walk by, imagining their story and how it is that it brought them here. Reluctantly, I rise to collect my belongings. I smooth my shirt, then saunter off in the direction of the City Council building, inspired, and in need of a nice, cold glass of water.

Allow me to be bold- brave prying eyes and bare all. Allow me to tamper with excommunication- to tempt ostracism- to tease trouble by talking of taboos... speaking of shushed subjects- oh, society's little secrets, the ones we're all willing to share. Allow me to expound on the lessons parents never wanted to teach- the lessons children are so eager to learn. The very act- the very word- that induces giggles, inspires poets, excites lovers, and makes or breaks "true bliss."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns." -V.N  

***- a word constructed of three of the twenty-six letters that make the English language go round. On their own, quite harmless, but collectively- a jaw-dropping, blush-inspiring, shush-provoking combination. ***- the ultimate caricature of love and all that is romantic- oh, just look at this tangle of thorns. Tangled- because we have turned the beauty into a beast- taken "the two will become one"- and rationalized- two will always be two- Not you, me or me, you. No, nothing bad can come of this.

***- used to make lies beautiful and truth obscured. Sold in society- the promoter of skin- condemned in the church- discouraged as sin. All the while, teenagers are toppling around- neck deep in lust- desperate to be loved- fumbling- tumbling into the open arms of the ultimate outlet. ***- a shallow solution to a deeper problem- a gift given, unwrapped, re-wrapped, and given again. Allow me to attempt to untangle these thorns- when does making love become wrong?

When it makes heroes into harlots and turns the righteous into romantics- when it complicates the uncomplicated? When it manipulates insincerity to seem sincere- liberates itself from simple mathematics, why, the more the merrier, and forgets three's a crowd? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, allow me to be ridiculed- expose myself as a hypocrite and define: It is when *** is misconstrued as a mere act of "love" that it becomes a crime.

Tonight I write not of Aristotle, or of Whitman, or of even my true love. Tonight I write not of wedding plans, or family tensions, or lack of creativity. Tonight I write because it is what I do. I write without purpose, or intention, or direction, or agenda. I simply write. I write not of song birds, or love stories, or philosophy, or religion. I write not of real love, or real events, or reality itself. I write not of fiction, or fantasy, or fairytales. I write not of freedom, for it is something a writer never truly tastes. Tonight I write because it is the only thing I need never explain. I write.

If I spilled our story upon pages for all the world to read,
It would never change the fact that you have damaged me.
No, words cannot restore to me that which I have lost,
They only amplify my actions and what their fleeting pleasures cost.
I cannot write a love poem that will negate all the rest,
To vent with pen and paper, removes no burden from chest.
Constructing songs of stricken stanzas will do nothing for my soul,
For I'm missing too many pieces, I'll surely die before I'm whole.
But laughter will be my medicine because, to me, you were a drug,
And undeniable addiction – merely poison in my lungs.
Oh, I knew you'd never catch me, not that you'd cause my fall,
My words to you spoke volumes, whereas yours meant nothing at all.
I realize these lines change nothing … for I cannot write this off,
But I'll waste ink with the efforts, in hopes of moving on.

She cracked the cover. It should have been cloaked in dust by now. But it had been on display, like the rest. Her life was a bookshelf display of materialism and pretentiousness.

Holy Bible.

It wasn't exactly the latest issue of Vogue, a cover she had cracked at least once every month of the last year. She clumsily flipped through the pages... unsure of which might hold the hope to which she so desperately needed to cling.

She wasn't exactly a stranger to Religion. It was nothing to "try on for size." It was something in which she had been born and raised. Easy as breathing. Faith, on the other hand, wasn't so easy to find. In between the to-do lists, the future plans, and the hard-earned paychecks, she didn't invest much in a provider she couldn't see. Or was it, be?

Ecclesiastes was repetitive.
Proverbs, a bit too dry.

She settled for something short. simple. terse. She wasn't sure what she was even looking for, after all.

James.

"If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God..." A good start. "Who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him." Somewhat reassuring.

She breathed the slightest sigh of relief, or was it a snort?

Continued.

"But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, driven and tossed by the wind."

The catch.  A l w a y s   a   c a t c h.  

She closed the book, tucked it neatly in between two notebooks, her real bibles. Reluctantly, returning to the reality of unpaid bills and a broken heart.