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Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Outside the Box the Down in the Dirt May-Aug. 2020 issues collection book		get the 422 page May-Aug. 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Did You Ever Meet A Stranger Stranger?

Melissa DeAmaral

I shake my head until it splits.
I strain my eyes until the vessels burst.
I clench my teeth until they’re ground to dust.

I look outside. The snow flutters like wayward parachute men,
Gentle swarms of tiny white insects.
A wind blows, and fires the flurries violently,
Weaving through currents and branches in the sky.
I am up high, so I only see blank skies and identical trees.
I see no accumulation, only silent songs and dances in the air.

The walls, the fireplace bricks, the carpet, the wooden ceiling:
Everything is the color of mud, of skin, of oranges and browns.
The shapes are straight and neat, sharp and clear, smooth without disruption.
I feel too comfortable, too cozy. I might become the chair soon.

I listen to the same song over and over again.
Steady, meandering beat that wires my brain,
And a riff that drags its nails across my skin.
I’m trapped. Maybe I want to be trapped.
Please help me. I don’t deserve it, but please help me.
Do I want it? Do I need it? My kingdom for an answer.
I’m so bored. Maybe I’m fine with being bored.
I want to scream. I want to run, to break things,
To scream in a room where no one will hear.
To scream in a room where everyone will hear.
To throw myself into things, off of things, under things.
To embrace and erase, without moving a muscle.

It’s all in my head,
A cycle of breaking and mending, but never quite complete.
Lost a piece along the way. Normalcy—to whom does it belong to?
I reach with both arms; I kick away with both feet.
Like swimming? Negative: a spotlight on the hypocrite.
Light and airy like the snow,
But sure enough it piles, insulates a freezing, bitter chill.
Make frostbitten snow angels, a figure in the void.

I want to burn, to disappear in a flash of red and yellow
Until I become charred, a volcanic soup of lava and dust.
People will see, but they dare not touch.
We all pretend to care with aplomb and charisma.
We are all on fire, but some of us run so fast that it doesn’t hurt.
We make a show out of it. Some are on the go like fireflies.
Others become kindling and embers and smoke: dull hues.

The snow sways, scatters, becomes uniform, then chaotic.
It is perhaps like me, inwardly.
But you don’t believe it, and I can’t prove it.
Take my word? You’d sooner bet on a pig in a horse race.
So it’s still the same, a flat bar across my shoulders; reflex.
Keeping my eyes inverted, my heart plummeting, neck craning and shivering.
You are a stranger. But I am stranger.

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