The Lonely Little ArtistOnce upon a time...There was a lonely little girl. She had no siblings.She had few friends.She wasn't very good at making friends. She was shy, she liked animals more than dolls, and no one never seemed to understand her.All the while the lonely little girl couldn't shake the feeling that she was not like the others.However, one thing she most certainly did have was an imagination.ButThe only way she could express her immense imaginationWas by drawing.And draw she did.And she drew the most fantastical creatures, animals, and dragons.And to her, they were magnificent.But to everyone else, they were just silly drawings of silly things that didn't always make sense.And the little girl grew up.And she still paints silly things.And that is what makes her magnificent.
Figment “If you could give birth to your own children, would you?" Mic paused and held my gaze for a moment, visibly caught off guard by the question. Still, he surprised me with a rather quick answer. “Yes, I would.” His eyes became distant and he visibly turned inward. Placing a hand on his thin abdomen, he absentmindedly tapped a finger on his stomach. His voice became quieter. “Yes, I’d like to experience that. Carry my own child.” He regarded me suddenly. “Why?” My reply was flat and detached. “Curious.” I nonchalantly glanced back down at the chaotic song lyrics scattered between my hands on the bar. His response was just conformation to what I had already suspected: that Mic was perhaps not fully content with being a man. I felt my thoughts again
What Strength Looks Like It had been a grueling night. My thin body was stiff from hours of sleepless tossing and turning, broken only by intervals of brief nightmares that drained both mind and spirit. I now lay awake, staring exhaustedly at the wall. The sunrise was dipping my room in pleasant, warm colours, but the testament to a new day only reinforced how very worn thin I felt. Self pity was a leech stealing the last of my strength from me. My mind echoed with voices from days past, running through memories both recent and distant like a bad mixed tape. Typically I upheld a loose immunity to ridicule, but even I could find myself haunted in the dead of night. Tormenting slurs from adolescence and adulthood stung me anew. He probably doesn’t even have a gender.
Sleep is for the Weak I awoke mid-dream, though whether the night’s illusions had been good or wicked my mind was too bleary to recall. The room was bathed in midnight tones, broken only by the hint of tireless city lights blinking through the windows. I felt the compelling urge to check the time, judge how much longer I had until my alarm would be screeching me out of bed. No, I had Friday off. Relieved and with a newfound resolve to enjoy my extra hours of sleep, I rolled over. But when I stretched my arm out for Jared’s comatose warmth, I met empty, cold sheets. I breathed an audible sigh. Ok, either lie here and wait for him to reappear…or go make sure that he isn’t in the kitchen shooting up on heroin, coating my walls with staples and sheet music, or downing some ridiculous concoction equivalent to rat poison. Because Jared conscious in the middle of the night meant he was eith