1

Fatal attraction

They build palaces

Upon those tables

I always thought

Eyes traveling,

Within them strange reflection

What Romance works

Without a sound

Romantic chess- an artistic movement popular in chess in the 18th and 19th centuries

Was fatal attraction a game played in the romantic era? 

No.  oops. Ok.

Within them strange reflection

Brilliance, held in momentary precision (?)

Without a sound

Does anyone even want to read a poem about an old chess game?

I would. Who doesn’t want the things I want? I’m basically always right.

It feels like falling,

It feels like flying if 

You can sustain it–

Too cliche?

Hmm ok. So it’s been three days and I haven’t finished this poem but I HAVE read a lot of wikipedia pages about how the British government was structured in the 19th century. 

2

Geography of a bedroom

Neat rows of nail polish bottles

Form strange forests

Dappled by the light through blinds

On dresser cliff faces 

A beck, a spring, of wood-grain

Flooding into a sea of blue carpet

Stacks of papers on the desk

It’s stilt-feet raising steady current

It carries books and pens sewing machines 

upon it’s sturdy back

It forms plateaus 

It sounds 

[write something here, future Ronan]

3

Surgery

I think that I could break some Chord

Trace unbroken line

Across your skin

Could, in moving, heal, in beauty, 

Break

Through sternum and past ribs

Into the reddest part of you

Futures, and histories, tucked away

For moments

That bleeding star that never stops

And never stops

And I blink

Pulling the line, 

Threading through narrow streets.

I will,

In resolution, find you, 

In holding, heal.

What if I wrote a poem ABOUT wikipedia rabbit holes?

The voyage (?)

Alone, in my city of tubes–

That sounds stupid. This was a bad idea.

On the creation of the power, Nondestructive "Testing":

All this talk about supernatural stuff has gotten me very hungry. For knowledge, of course, I wouldn't go around just eating whatever I find on the floor. 

...Or would I? 

I'm an avid believer in the concept of the 5 Minute Rule---wait, was it seconds or minutes? That doesn't matter. I generally just enjoy eating, why else would I be making food from scratch? It hits very different when it comes from hours or even months of my own hard work, though most of the time I have to stick with grocery store food instead. It's like a dessert except there's a very real chance that the ice cream I've made out of curtains doesn't taste good at all. In that case I ask my friends if they want to try it.

Okay, I have gotten sick from eating random things before, but the fact that I'm still alive is a testament to the potential that I have towards the ultimate breakthrough. If I can just figure out where all this supernatural stuff comes from, without destroying any evidence of its existence, they won't judge me anymore. Maybe there's a secret recipe somewhere too.

Sometimes I wonder what could've been.

I don't think about it often, I've chosen not to because it does nothing to help me in the long run. Maybe I shouldn't care that she was famous or that she'd just been trying to live out an idyllic farm life or that I wouldn't have been shot if we'd done everything differently. Something my parents would say to this is that "you should've known, Delphi" and the very mention of that name would haunt me, because I don't, I didn't know, and I wish I knew. They've always been into mythology, much like one of my friends who went to university for it, but it's quite unfair to compare your child with someone imbued with the power of some deity out there. I wish I'd been more prepared, I wish I could've just swung a rifle back at her and dislodged something enough to incapacitate her. Because truthfully I do still want to know, at least, why. 

Though she'd probably have killed us anyway because there's no way someone normal would keep all those... things. There's no reason to tell us even if we asked politely.

I'm the one to talk about normalcy.

This time around I've just been more exhausted too, considering I had spent most of a day just cleaning the lab that doubled as my home. Looking back at my journal I could almost see the exasperation, and in a way it scares me too. Most of the time, I've been beaten half to death and shot and I couldn't really do much about it. It says something when I'm happy eating unripe corn in the middle of nowhere. At least that doesn't require as much movement, though the gunshot did hurt---it still does, and the doctors kept asking if I wanted to press charges; how do I break it to them? I just told them it was a malfunction when I was cleaning my pistol instead, which they weren't the most qualified to question. At the time it felt like I was in my dreams all over again; helpless, in the dark both metaphorically and literally, moving as if I'm submerged. Whatever I tried, I didn't immediately see or hear the results and it scared me even though the fumes of piranha solution burned at my sinuses. Who knew if I was already dead. I couldn't tell you what that would feel like, but it sure would be terrifying if one's brain really still keeps running for ten minutes after the fact. 

Ten minutes can feel like such an eternity when you're being battered with a bent rifle.

In my endless frustration I always find it feasible to just turn off my brain for a while and hit things. There's a rage room just a few blocks over that a friend had recommended to me a while ago, and there's finally a valid reason for me to go. At first it was slightly awkward because it was just me in a room and I still had the slightest inkling that this would be devastating if footage of Delphyrion throwing things around in murderous rage gets onto the Internet, but soon I remembered that the waiver did included a non-disclosure clause on the company's part as long as I don't break any rules. 

It made me feel good, exhilarated, even. Back in school I would hate PE class because I was horrible at it, though I feel like each object I destroy boosts my confidence that I can in fact do harm even if I can't serve a volleyball. I realize that confidence is more than half of what it takes to win a fight. I can totally body a bear right now (I cannot, but the thought is what matters). I just need to believe.

And so there I go, throwing glass at the scarred walls. It all shatters and crashes down and it reminds me of that time I had to dispose of all the broken glass from my experiments. It's somewhat symbolic of all the work I've done, not that there's any reason to keep it unless I can somehow melt all of it and reshape it into something else.

Actually, that's a good idea. 

How about a phone made out of uranium glass? There were problems with sending messages back and forth between people during the contract.