Scout E.S. in the Shadows

  She gives her breath to make life in the air Trees envy the power only they sought to hold   I watch as she scorches and yells And through her eyes, I can almost see a drought   What she has squeezed from her own toil Is resting unused in my soul   What have I given her back, she questions Yet I know I didn’t ask for this responsibility   She suffers without the pain of approval I birth to follow in the amenities of pain   I gift my new presents what I was once given They follow in our cycle of remorse  

  Candy wrappers slathered onto wooden tables and chip bags’ potent smells wafted through the air and around the stickiness of all the junk food you could ever imagine. No child knew it then, but those chemicals kept them high. Maybe it was on sugar, possibly on one of the countless chemicals under the nutritional information listings with names none of us could read. Either way, it lifted those of us who couldn’t rely on anything else, who kept that smile plastered on our faces from eight to three. A quarter of an hour after that injection, that wrinkling of the wrappers, the crushing of the Smarties, we were free from everything.             We only needed it more the older we got, but eventually, it wasn’t strong enough; we needed something new, something stronger. A few sniffs couldn’t hurt, right? Just like those powdered Smarties, except much more expensive. I almost couldn’t feel myself after it, and all I could rememb...

  The office was the only place that sunlight didn’t reach. On fall afternoons, when I sit in cold corners on stiff chairs, I forget the warmth of the Sun. The familiar face seated across from me was more fixed than the contents of the room, never influenced by the inhabitants of its environment. I enjoyed it; it was comforting for something in my life to stay constant when nothing else ever could. Yet today, I wanted something different. I wanted something better . The feeling of speaking without concern or return had become a burden, not a privilege. Today I wanted to be understood rather than heard. The forms of these walls could no longer contain what my heart and mind released from the restraints of my fragile frame. Complaints, grievances, and anything else worth mentioning were spoken, yelled, and expressed. The face would listen, would care, but not feel. Feelings must be shown; feeling twists the face in every direction, fighting its own urges for self-expression. I call...

           I tried this time. At least I can say that, confidently. And yet I reach no consensus on who I want to become. It seems the fairer I am to myself, the fewer people I have around me. Again, I ask myself, what have I done wrong? What do the ripples in my reflection mean? It must be me; if everyone around me leaves, it can’t always be them. Maybe my breath secretes something poisonous. Maybe my voice explodes eardrums. Or maybe I am just so insufferable that my presence itself is suffocating.             But then I remember all the times I stood by them, in hell and heaven. I remember feeling their suffering, and always being concerned for their well-being. So, I cut my heart out to save them, but I found that they never needed it in the first place. I am the fool for not being sure; what with the fact that they never had one. I clean their wounds and stitch them up, and once they are well eno...

  The second one was placed on my path home. The dirt road was crowded with leaves and weeds, and this time it was a bright yellow bird that was placed perfectly on its side. A piece of paper was tied around its neck. I didn’t want to read it, but I was too afraid of what could happen if I wasn’t aware of it. After all, no one fears the dark, they fear what could be in it. I pulled the string delicately away from its hollow body. The beige cutout fell into the bushes, and I scrambled to grab it. I brought it close to my face, savoring the moment of mystery. It read: One strike left. Leave your Verse . They knew I wouldn’t listen. Even as the bird’s blinding feathers shuffled through the wind and my shoes sunk in the mud, I was grounded. Even as the clouds wept for me, my eyes saw so clearly ahead. I walked through the empty trails that were so little visited as the Hands ran home to bend over and complete mundane work. I wondered; did they ever feel the dirt under them instead ...

  Their images were amusing. I was as amused as a person as I could be; I was brain-dead from the countless hours watching and consuming mindless content. The only thing I could afford to waste was my time, and that I would do. Each second, minute, and hour, I would stare into the abyss of the brightened screens and only notice the reflection that sat disappointed in its existence. It never felt like it was me who stared back, but rather a grayed version exhausted from its self-imprisonment into the virtual world. I avoid my gaze until the screen in front of me becomes a detail; the main event is the aspects of the atmosphere that can never keep me entertained. Again, the screen calls me back in; again, I have no control. As I watch my surroundings move, the screen lures my eyes back. Would I rather test the possibility of happiness knowing that I will risk losing it?                I prefer to choose my sadness than to lose my happiness...

  The bird was the first warning. The small puddle surrounding its body stayed untouched during the storm. Its feathers lay flat and well-kempt against its frame as its stiff legs pointed to the sky. Even in its last moments, it desired the freedom of the winds and the strength of flight. Its eyes stayed open, watching us walk around it on gloomy days and gloomy evenings. We didn’t have the soul to remove it; warnings often meant more when they stared you in the face.             Eventually, its wings became blackened by the clouds, its legs limp and pointing in whatever direction the wind desired, and its eyes finally closed. Only then did the Sun come out. That was the last time it clouded my sight; what the clouds couldn’t erase, the Sun protected. Even the bird couldn’t escape its fate, so what chance did I have without any wings? After all, the Sun never shined on me.         ...