Author: Madison Gulli-Callaghan

I have the clarity of those dying,
of the ones chained to train tracks;
Death's horn, or a nearing crescendo.

A sane person would attempt to escape
the destiny of the railroad sentence, but
I laugh at the train's blaring tone.

Before the train's verdict,
I tease Death.
I am in love with the inevitable.

I live in Limbo.
On average, I am void of emotions besides
inconsistent periods of mourning and mania.

I have mastered astral projection, or intentionally intense dissociation.
Analyzation is simply a cycle of combustions, or synapses sparking connections.
I struggle with the sanity to stop searching.

Why do I, alive, act as the dying do?
To test my humanity when I feel as if
I am f a d i n g a w a y.

I am the host of a funeral party for myself as
I relate to loss more than anything else.
This is my eulogy.

Featured Art: Unknown

He burns holes in the middle of his palms with a golden lighter.
He, one who created a paradox by escaping demise, 
can control death with a blink of an eye.
He calls himself the Antichrist of the Tangent Universe.

Grave words, coarse as century-old tombstones, echo in your head.
Twist your tongue to resemble the language he speaks.
A stale rasp of a laugh erupts from a skeletal torso.
"Humans are too sentimental."

Fill humans with nostalgia and they will devour it.
Trophies from failed relationships scatter bedrooms.
Hand-written notes overflow in nightstand drawers.
Minds awake during restless hours contemplate 
what it would be like to turn back time.

Humans are amusing to watch when they break their own hearts—
too obsessed with the id to move on.
The pleasure center consumes all capacity—
willing frail creatures to succumb to desire instead of need.

What does it means to exist in limbo?
To be only half alive?
To never win more than you lose?
To feel your body give more than it gets,
arms always wrapped around someone else?

Accept the black hood he gives you.
Follow in the footsteps of the false god.
He will teach you how to create gaps in time and
how to become indifferent.

From the cliff that divides realms, 
laugh at the lost with the Antichrist.
He will sing you the song of how the world came to exist.
He will gift you the golden lighter.
Burn the middle of your palms.

Now, you are the Antichrist of the Tangent Universe.

Featured art: Image from the movie "Donnie Darko" (2001).

I want worn ebony doors lined with cracks from years of being opened and shut,
wooden floors that smell of petrichor,
a library on the verge of collapse under the weight of hundreds of novels and
oil paintings of gothic cathedrals encased in faded gold along the halls.

I want delicate, lace curtains that remind me of silent movies and kitchen aprons,
dozens of records from various decades to be played while making dinner, 
mismatched, floral-patterned porcelain plates and 
displayed trinkets—treasures—collected from exploring the world.

I want to feel like I have nostalgia living with me as if sentiment could be tangible.

More than all these things,
I want sonder with someone introspective. 

Someone who will make lazy afternoons feel valuable,
to caress and share secrets with during restless hours and
to share pillowcases filled with confessions.

I want laughs on porch swings and kitchen fights,
game nights and philosophical debates and
all the memories that make a house a home. 

Featured art: “Åbent Vindue” by Carl Vilhelm Holsøe.

The relentless sun beats down on me as
a shadow in your shape accompanies mine.
I would try to outrun it, but
it has melted onto my spine.

My body is colored the same as rotting fruit;
hues of browns, purples, and blues.
I am stained by these visual reminders of you.

To what degree can I withstand the heat of your anger?

Featured art: “Saguaros” by Erin Hanson.

Foolish Pierrot
wearing pearls of folly and gemstones of recklessness.
Stop sneaking glances of care at the two bottles sitting empty on your nightstand.

You can add to your glass collection,
but all you will have is blood in your handle.
A loss of reality is not time travel.
Writing confessions will not cause him to love you again.

Fluctuating between manic nights and
days where you cannot leave your bed,
you punish yourself because he never did.

As you grieve, 
weeping until your body shakes and seizes,
you feel less like a clown and more like an entire circus.

Featured art: “Petite Pierrot” by Jorunn Mulen.

Mourning you is an exhausting ritual performed in silence. 
It starts with memories wrapping around my spine,
pulling vertebrae down with the weight of:
denial, bargaining, anger, depression and acceptance. 

It is performed in a blue bed—
one decorated with tangible nostalgia soaked in your aroma. 
I toss and turn,
crumbling old polaroids and evicting used tissues to the floor.

Leave me alone.
I do not want to grieve recollections anymore.
I am disgusted eating nostalgia for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I would rather starve than consume bitterness any longer.

Death offers no solace,
so I take to existing in the in-between of sleep and wake—
where you are almost real and
I almost feel alive again.

Featured art: “My Bed” by Tracy Emin.

I violated every rule in the relationship handbook by making a home out of you.

I crafted walls out of your embrace—
supported by the strength of your genuineness.
There was rooms full of treasured memories, like
the harmonic sound of our intertwined voices.

When you left,
I became homeless—
pushed out into the streets without an eviction notice.

I lived in the bags under of my eyes,
searching for people to steal from.
I accepted donated kisses and
wore a state of denial.

To be honest, I have not been able to feel comfortable in awhile.

Featured art: Image from the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004).