La Sang et La Lune

My mother always told me that when I'm bleeding with the moon, the moon and I should sob together at least once.

So that's what I'm doing tonight.

She's wiping the tears from my neck as I rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

She tries to comfort me with her subtle glow and quite words, but my screams and moans only make her feel worse.

I curse to her stars for the pain the sun puts me through.

The pain and heartbreak that ball of fire makes me endure is close to torture and I've just about had it.

So I continue to rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I breathe.

I deep throat the cold and my lungs get sweet relief for just a moment.

The sun always reminds me of the people who don't give a shit that call themselves friends.

The sun always tends to bring up my ex and she may give off warmth but deep down she's a stone cold bitch.

The moon and I have a lot in common.

We both have to kindly reflect the light the sun gives off, but we both just want everyone to see our glow as our own, and not the reflection of another.

People don't pay much attention to us.

We may control how the tides kiss the shore but we don't know if the sea even has feelings for the sand.

We don't understand how everyone can love the sun when she always ends up burning those close to her and giving them skin cancer.

My screams have turned into whimpers and I don't know how to go numb but I want to.

The moon just holds me in the sheets and I wonder if she ever holds him too.

I don't know who he is and when I ask she refuses to tell me, she just tells me to be patient.

My mind is going blank and blurry and all I can make out is the glow in the dark and for now that's enough.

And we rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and

forth and back and forth and back and forth and ba ck  an d fort h a n d b a c k a n d f o r t h a n d b a


c  k  a  n  d  f  o  r  t  h  a  n  d  b  a  c  k  a  n  d  f  o  r  t  h  a  n  d  b  a   c   k   a   n   d   f     o     r       t



h          a          n             d                   b                         a                                    c                                      





                  k                                                                  a                                                                        n







                                                          d
                                                                          

no.16

I left my heart in San Francisco.

Literally, it’s hiding in one of the linen closets of an abandoned opera house.

As an only child, you learn to hide things from people because you always tend to open up to strangers because in reality, those are the only people in your life.
That's why I hid my heart.

Because if you knew what was happening inside that linen closet you would call me a spoiled brat once more, and you would walk away.

Yeah, maybe I am spoiled.

Spoiled on the love and pure devotion of parents that were told could never bare a child after six years of trying.
They were almost 40 when I appeared in my beautiful mothers womb.
Spoiled on the beautiful things of this world because my parents wanted to give me the globe by age 18.
Spoiled because my parents wanted me to feel beautiful, and because they new my talents at a young age.

So yes, I am spoiled with material items, but there is a story behind each one.

And yes, I am spoiled with love, because I was the only one to love.

I grew up in silence.

I grew up alone.

I grew up being called the "spoiled brat."

Sorry if the girl who was an only child who seemed to fit your stereotype was coming on too strong because the only thing she wanted in this world was a friend.
That was the only thing her parents couldn't give her, and it wasn't by choice.

It's my curse.

To be alone.

Whenever people are brave and enter my life, they always end up leaving the same night.
I'm to the point now where I don't tell them to take off their hat and coat because they'll be needing it in a moment or two.

The curse scares them away.
The curse causes me to get too attached and I can't help but show it because people deserve to know that they're loved and that their presence is wanted.

But I guess it's a social faux pas to be honest.








I don't even know why I'm telling you this.

Maybe I'm just saying this so you will walk in, take off your hat a coat, sit down on the couch and reassure me of my feelings for the night.




Your spoiled brat,
Charles Darnell

Industrial carpeting and brown leather chairs

I'm sitting in the lobby of a children's hospital, and everyone is smiling.
I don't know why, upstairs their children are dying.
Maybe they're smiling because their children are still here for now.
Or maybe they're smiling because they know they won't be for much longer.
Maybe they're smiling because they still can.

no.15

I vaguely remember my 5th birthday party. I guess it wasn't all that cool. I think we did karaoke to the Freaky Friday soundtrack, but I'm not sure.

But I am sure that at one point you liked me. I'm positive that I have a picture of you wearing a skirt and I remember you didn't make fun of me for wearing a purple velvet Barbie dress.

I think I remember getting a huge tattoo of a rose on my chest during spring break. I was feeling rebellious and my friend got one too. I'm pretty sure they didn't send Mikayla and I home when we showed up to school the next day.

I think I sent your mom an e-mail about how much I was in love with you a year after I left, but I'm not sure that she let you read it. I distinctly remember the e-mail she sent back the day after, and how she completely avoided the subject of my admiration and asked me how my parents were doing.

I bet one time at Meg's house her mom got tipsy and let me sleep over. I'm pretty sure she drove us to the movie rental and got us Pirates of the Caribbean. How am I alive?

I remember the guy who had the bread truck. But I can see clearly in my mind the image of you opening the bakery door for me and offering me pastries left and right. I can see Rachel now winking at me from across the room every time she caught me staring at you.

I think I used to sit out on the boulder in the backyard and watch the cruise ships go by. I think I used to imagine the parties happening on them, and wondering if the elderly were doing a conga line by the pool. I'm pretty sure they were, but who can tell from that distance.

I don't remember if your dad had a mustache then or not, but I thought it was so attractive to see you after hockey practice in a sweaty white t-shirt with your pads hanging out to dry. Do you remember the face your mom pulled when she realized it was me at the door? Well I do, and it was hilarious.

All I know is that the memories of you are crystal clear.

All I know is that I don't like your profile pic, because there is one too many people in it. 

All I know is that I still have dibs on being the pink power ranger. 

All I know is that I never shouldn't have left Mainview Terrace,

Charles Darnell

12/2/13

Cold skin on

cold fat on

cold muscles on

cold bones with 

cold blood pumping

through it all

This summer skin was 

soft and fat was

slim and muscles were

defined and bones were

strong and blood was 

warm

But that all changed in

September

The temperature dropped

slower than your self esteem

and you lost taste in brown 

hair, blue eyes and

collarbones

and I lost taste in mustaches

and being lied to

Your frost covered 

me and has kept

me alive

and I'm just sitting

here watching 

the hypothermia

set in on you

and you think 

the new warmth is 

saving you

How naive

Soon your skin

will be cold

and your fat

will be cold

and your muscles

will be cold

and your bones

will be cold

with cold regret

pumping 

through it all

I can't talk.... but Regina can

I feel the need to write, but when I put my fingers to the keyboard nothing happens.

I blame the kid who sat two seats in front of me to the left in fourth.

You better give me a copy of your notes from class. 

Because of you I couldn't concentrate.

....

I'll just let Regina do the talking.

You go my red-lipped queen,

Charles Darnell

a letter to my chest cavity

platonic love

 noun, often capitalized P

1

:  love conceived by Plato as ascending from passion for the individual to contemplation of the universal and ideal

2

:  a close relationship between two persons in which sexual desire is nonexistent or has been suppressed or sublimated

-Merriam Webster Dictionary

no.14

The Couch I Wish Caused a Divorce.

This couch represents my grandparents marriage.

They bought it the year they were married. A.K.A too many years old.

The floral print is worn out: like their love for each other.

The fabric is rough: like they way they abused their children.

It doesn't support your back: just like how they don't support themselves or anyone else.

It's a damn awful couch.

noun. A vague feeling of sadness, seemingly without a cause

put your hand on my sternum.

yeah, right there.

don't move it, just stay there for a while.

i've been having a case of hypophrenia

and i just need to feel warmth in my chest

and i need you to make sure you feel a beating there.

is it there?

i can't really tell anymore.

there's nothing quite like skin on skin.

i read once that every person needs to be touched

at least eight times a day to function.

i guess that explains a lot.

don't freak out, i'm just putting my hand on top of yours.

don't move.

just breathe.

i'll inhale your carbon dioxide to calm myself down.

sorry there are black creeks flowing down my neck.

it's been a long month.

is it still beating?

ok.

ok.

ok.

good energy in.

bad energy out.

good in.

bad out.

in.

out.

alright, i'm feeling better now.

thanks.

a note to lloyd

we've had classes together the past three years.
and when we first met, i hated you instantly.

i'd say sorry, but we both know you were kind of a douche.

i've always sat on the opposite side of the class from you but you always seemed to catch my eye.
like not in a seductive way but in a confused way.
you were always either being a dumba** and being frick'n rude,
or you were hanging on the teachers every word and sharing the most deep and thoughtful things that pertained to the lesson.
but there was never an in between.
that is until this year.

i feel like you've finally found some middle ground.
i feel like you've finally found yourself.
but i can tell you're really scared to show everyone who you are,
so you just write in tears and angst and laughter on your blog.
yeah, i know who you are.
but don't worry, i won't tell anyone.


you're safe with me.

why i check out hot guys butts and why you should too: an acceptance speech

I'd like to start off by saying that the title of this speech has to be the best title of all time.

I'd also like to thank my mother, my mostly companion Rachel, and the men of BBC for getting me to where i am today. without your love, companionship, and booties i would not be here. thank you.

Also a big shout out to Vatican Cameo's. You know who you are big boy.

In my life journey, I have learned many things. For example, even though i may think my selfies are on point enough for Facebook, many others might think differently. But you know what, with all the hate and snarky comments that come with that trial, i have learned to appreciate the true art I put into my work. Another example of lessons I've learned is that even though i always forget to do my extra five, the pages i did remember to do are pure gold. always. and that's what truly matters.

I would like to thank the board for this award because it truly shows how much I've learned, and how far I've come.... 

*que fake emotional crying

But this isn't for me, it's for the fans of derrieres all around the world. this one's for you guys.

Thank you.

no.13

..................................................................................................How to

I don't know what I'm supposed to teach you.

All I know is that I finally can see myself on the cover of Vogue and that's what matters.

For the first time I'm not counting the stretch marks covering the secret parts of my body.

I'm buying Chanel makeup dammit because I can and because it makes me feel good about myself and I don't give a damn if you think I'm stuck up because I kind of want to be because I finally can be.

I've finally let myself be a little selfish and thAT'S OK.

Is this a makeup tutorial or a stick-it-to-the-man speech?

Who cares.

Nobody cared when I did body rolls at the dance by myself.

Nobody cared that the chick with a couple rolls on her stomach started going to see a shrink.

Nobody cares that I ate five cookies today in between meals.

Nobody cares about what brand of perfume I buy.

NOBODY GIVES A DAMN.

And that's totally fine with me, because guess what?

I don't want you to.

I just want to do my own thing, and I want you to occasionally look and me and think "wow she sure is something" because I don't want you to know what I am.

I want to be the mystery that you might think about on a random Thursday night when your 37 and the insomnia kicks in.

Did you get anything from this?

No? 

That's fine, I didn't do this for you anyway.

I did this for me.

Hey, that could be the lesson: do stuff for yourself.

The 37 year old with a sleeping disorder,
Charles Darnell

10:04

.
.
.
.
..
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
...
.
.
.
.
but i think the thing that's killed me most is that i was replaceable.

Love Affairs and Barbies and $200 Pumps

When I was fifteen I thought my father was having an affair with one of his clients.
He wasn't.
He was just spending extra time at the office at night, scrambling to find a way to pay the mortgage.
When I was seven I thought I was adopted.
I wasn't.
But even though my mother showed me the pictures of her holding me in the hospital, I secretly wanted it to be a lie, because I didn't wan't to look like daddy when I grew up.
When I was five my father played with my Barbie dolls and I for hours
But now he doesn't
Now he spends money he doesn't have on clothing for me because that is all he can give me.
I guess his time with me isn't worth more than $200 pumps.




Love you daddy,

Charles Darnell

no.12

POP

some art is to entertain.

i try to sell my self,

and there lies the ultimate problem.

i may be provocative,

but there's no storytelling there.

no.11

live update: listening to Cockiness by Rhianna, look up from laptop and make eye contact with random male in class.

hi.

a letter to the boy sitting across from me

hello.


you've only talked to me like maybe three times, but I think i'm in love with you.


that was way too forward.
let me start over.

Hello,

    I know that secret admirer letters are really cliche, and for you I don't want to be cliche.
But I don't know what else to call this letter, so I apologize for being obvious. I guess I just really like the tailoring of your pants and I really like your art.
I look at your journal sometimes and the things you create are intense without trying too hard. You're honest and funny but you know when to push the knife into the wound a little deeper.



I like that.




   You walk with such confidence and you smile at all the right people, but if I look hard enough, I can see you hesitate before you step towards her. She brings you to your knees and you bow willingly.
You love her.
And I think she loves you too, but in a different way.
I guess that's why I'm writing this.
I guess I'm just saying that I can love you the same way you love her.
But you don't want me to, so I'm staying secret for you.

I guess this is where you quietly whisper "thank you" under your breath.

I'll shut up now. I've said enough.

But just remember that there is always someone out there who sees you, even though you don't always see them.

OK, that's it.

Bye.

haunt me

the next time you see her, i want you to think of me.

i want you to tremble at the thought of being without me.

the next time you kiss her i want you to secretly pretend its me.

the next time you try to say her name, i want you to say mine instead.

i want you to in-vision me like a mirage when she walks through the door.

i want my scent to penetrate your senses when you lay in bed at night.

when you propose to her, i want you to buy my ring size and not hers.

when she kisses you on the neck i want you to quietly whisper my name.

and when she giggles I want you to hear my laugh instead.

when you turn on the radio in your car, i want you to hear me sing along.

and when you lay down your head at the end of the day, i want you to tell me about your day at the office in your head.

i want you to break down crying in the shower because you know i won't be there to get you the towel you forgot in the dryer.

i want you to forever feel the empty space by your side.

i want you to rapidly turn around when you hear my name.

i want you to be miserably haunted by my existence.

because you haunt mine.

Odile

Black has always suited me.

It is void of color that can either fade you out or put you in the spotlight.

When put into a strapless black gown, it contrast by bleached white skin and shows off my collar bone.

Instantly, I become a temptress.

I can bring men to their knees, begging for mercy in the manner of walking.

I become their ruler.

Their ultimate demise.

Their undoing.

I can tear them apart with no problem.

The only problem is, I don't want to.

I don't want to be the girl every woman despises at the ball.

I want to be the kind, soft beauty.

I want to be Odette.

The one chance I get to be her, I can't even truly be the person she is.

I may look like her, but I can never truly be her.

Even in her disquise I have to harm.

I have to be a sex object, and not an object of affection.

The Prince is a true, beautiful man.

But even he cannot withstand the impulse I provide.

I guess this is who I am, and who I will forever remain.

The bad girl wrapped in feathers.

The Black Swan.

no.10

I wish I could say I wasn't thinking about you.
I wish I could say I've moved on and that I think your new lover is great.
I wish I could say that your new haircut sucks.
I wish I could say that I hated that day at the lookout.
I wish I could say that I wasn't looking forward to February.

I wish I could say that I don't pull out your sweater to smell your cologne.
I wish I could say that your new lovers jeans look awesome.
I wish I could say that I hate your ugly laugh.
I wish I could say the opera is better without you.
I wish I could say that you have great taste in lovers.

I wish you weren't a cad.
I wish you never treated me like a mistress.
I wish my existence caused you pain and agony.
I wish you never asked me what my name was.
I wish I could just kiss you at least seven more times.

I wish I could say I wasn't thinking about you.

But I can't.

I'm sorry.



Forgive me,
Charles Darnell

A Random Page Found in Genevieve's Diary

Hi, it's me again.

Mom said something weird to me today.

She said, "you're turning into a woman."

What does that even mean?

Like, my period started seven years ago. 

And I've been a C-cup since 7th grade.

I look like a woman I guess, but I'm not a size 2 or anything.

Is that what she meant?

Or did she mean I'm getting more mature? Like in my brain?

I've been more mature than the kids in my grade forever,so that's not different.

I mean most of them don't even know what the word "fickle" means.

But that's beside the point.

Does turning into a woman mean I have applied for college?

Or that I finally got up the courage to ask a guy out?

Or that I started taking a makeup bag to school?

I don't know.

All I know is that I don't want to be called a "woman" yet because I feel like I've had to be one my whole life.

I've had to act grown up.

I've had to pretend things are alright when they're not.

I just want to be a kid for once.

I just want to play with my Barbies in nothing but my panties.
I just want to sleep on my stomach and not wake up in aching pain the next morning.

I just want to not care about anything or anyone but myself for the first time.

Remind me to burn you in seventeen years.

-Geni

no.9

Things to do by yourself.

• movie marathons
• fancy dinners
• shopping
• attending dances
• bubble baths 
• staying a night in a hotel room
• walks in the park
• crying
• dessert for dinner
• writing in a diary
• petting a cat
• knitting
• taxes
• checking emails
• checking twitter
• checking facebook
• checking tumblr
• repeating the previous four several times over
• creating a secret shrine
• watching star trek reruns
• getting a drink and pastry at your local cafe
• writing poetry
•  
•  
•  
• writing lists

l'Humanité

Je ne comprends pas l'humanité.
Je doute que je ne le fera jamais.
Le monde se sent si distant
Je tend la main et ne peux pas le toucher

Verre m'entoure au quotidien
Ceux que j'amais entourent
Ils ne voient pas le verre et se demandent
Pourquoi ils ne peuvent pas toucher ni m'entendre

Je ne pense pas que je puisse briser le verre
Mais je ne pense pas que je veux
J'aime le monde qu'il fournit
Et je ne veux pas jamais quitter

Je ne comprend pas l'humanite
Je dout que je ne le fera jamais
Mais je doute que vous allez compendre cela
Surtout parce que vous ne pouvez pa lire le francais

no.8

Sanity.

What is it in the first place?

san-i-ty: the condition of having a healthy mind : the condition of being sane

What is considered a healthy mind?

Is a healthy mind just a brain that functions a human to live?

Or is a healthy mind a brain that can process social ques and propriety?

And if it is the later, who is to say what is socially acceptable?

What if someone said it was socially acceptable to wear shoes that look like fish?

Would you do it?

Or would you want to continue wearing tan loafers and have others make fun of you and say your mad?

What if a man likes to write very creative stories about evil queens and pastries that change your size, but the world says hes crazy for writing about such mad notions when he could be writing about government and grammar?

Well I'm sure Lewis Carroll thought the same thing.

Who is to say what is sane?

Whoever said that looking at the moon too long would make you insane?

Because I stare at the moon in awe quite frequently.

Whoever said that is the mad one.

They are missing out on the beautiful glow the moon provides.

You raging lunatic,
Charles Darnell

untitled

Do you ever make mistakes or say things that make you inevitably regret everything you have ever done that lead you up to the moment you screwed up?

Yeah, me too.

Until recently, I assumed that art should be created one way (see post no.2). Until recently, I thought that only deep, symbolic, wordy art was the only true art there was. In how I create art, that may be the case, but it is not the case for everyone else. I was only seeing art through my eyes, and not through the eyes of the artist themselves.

Basically what I'm saying is that I thought I was a Parisian native walking through the Louvre, knowing all the pieces and the history behind them all when in all actuality.... I was a Canadian tourist wearing white sneakers and just waiting to see the Mona Lisa.

As I sit here and watch Hugo for the thousandth time, I finally see now that we are not to judge or understand art if we don't even know who the artist is. We can not fully know how to interpret it if we do not know the history that came before the art. All we can do is appreciate it for what we see in it as an outsider, because all art deserves praise. All art deserves to be accepted.

My humblest apologies,
Charles Darnell

no.7

You want to know what my space jam is?
Fine.
I guess I'll just say it.

My space jam would be to be put on the damn Hall of Fame.

I just want my work to be appreciated and recognized.
But you know what the worst part of all this is?
I can't fully be recognized because none of you even know who I am.
You don't see me in the halls.
You don't see that I'm sitting right next to you in class.
You don't pay attention to my comments and inputs.
You wouldn't even care if I dropped out of school because I am invisible to you.
You only notice me when I comment on your own posts that are filled with hipster angst and gifs.

Even then you only see me as Charles.

I guess I just want someone to say "(my real name) did a great job. Did you see their post? The symbolism in it was incredible! And the realness of it?! Man, you guys really need to read it."

That's all I want.



I just want you to like me.



I hate you all,
Charles Darnell

Vronsky

He stands with tired eyes.
The wet redness underneath them tell it all.
He holds a gun up to it.
He aims the pistol at all the things that brought him here.
He aims it at the life he has now.
So tired.
Lord please let him be, he's had enough.
He thought that love would be enough,
but It's not enough if its with the wrong person.
But maybe she was the right person.
Maybe she was just with the wrong person.
He didn't know.
All he knew was that he had lost.
That the only option was to give up.
He couldn't give in anymore.
He looked like a weeping angel all in white.
The frayed silver knots outlined his exhausted physique.
The blond curls could no longer feel her touch.
He  was covered in light and love,
But all he could see was blinding light.
All he could make out was the sun.
The golden rays that engulfed her many nights ago.
That gorgeous luminosity that wrapped itself around the beauty.
The single star in his world of darkness.
The glowing moon that would be his ultimate demise.
In the midst of all the darkness surrounding them, all he could see was her.
He would always see her.
His eyes would forever find her in everything.
They were so tired.
They were so blue.
Oh Lord, please let his eyes close.
Please be merciful and let him go blind.
Save him from the darkness before him now.
Let the darkness become oblivion to him.
Let him rest.
Let him lay the weapon down.
Ease his mind.
Let the sun go down forever.

"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."
-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

no.6

Honestly, I have no idea how to write about death.

Have I experienced the death of family and friends?

Yes.
I have.
Many times.

Too many times actually.

But my experiences with it will probably mean absolutely nothing to you.

Because in reality, death is different to every single person.

To some it may be a relief.

To others is may be the heaviest burden of all.

And to few, it may even be a joyous experience.

I don't know what you know.

I can't feel what you have felt.

I cannot possibly understand how it is for you.

So how can I in good conscious persuade you to think one way about death if you won't understand what I'm trying to provoke in you?

I have no right to shove my thoughts about this subject down your throat when its so personal.

Maybe in a sense I'm not ready to talk about it yet.

It's still too personal for me.

I guess I don't want to talk about having my second parents dragged out of my front door at all hours on stretchers by strangers.

I guess I don't want to talk about how the girl who saved my life had her's taken away, in what felt like seconds.

I guess I'm not ready to talk about how I faced being killed everyday for two years, and having to have an FBI agent teach me how to check my tail and hide in my basement if shots were fired.

I guess I'm not ready to talk about digging graves for my cats yet.

I guess I just don't want to show you that side of me yet because frankly, I don't trust you.

Yet here I am.

Your untrusting therapy patient,
Charles Darnell

My Mind Won't Shut Up Tonight

Take my arm.
I want you to look at it closely.
Do you see the small mole?
Do you see my veins?
Do you see the green blood pulsing underneath them?
No?
But you can see the green right?
Ok.

Notice how fair my skin is.
Its practically a spring roll wrapper.
Its thin and opaque enough to see through.
Like my soul.



I'm just messing with you.
I don't have one.



Politics are thin and opaque.
The participants think that they put up a thick wall,
made up of promises, speeches and white teeth.
But really if you step back and look closely,
all you can see is money and affairs.
Oh and corruption.
That too.

You know what's corrupt?
The way my mother plays Monopoly.
*canned laughter*


Man, Regina Spektor gets me.
Her songs are written like the thoughts that
go through my brain.
That and she has a thing for red lipstick too.

Its been a while since I've kissed someone.
That sounds nice right about now.
I wonder what its like to be in a relationship with someone
who is willing to kiss you whenever you like?
Is it amazing?
Or would you just get bored of kissing the same person all the time?
Would you ever want variety?
I guess not if you really really like that person.
Maybe it would get better every time.
But I wouldn't know.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
What am I doing with my life?
Oh right, I spend about 3 plus hours on the internet and Tumblr everyday.
That's what I'm doing.
But where is that going to take me?
Probably to a new therapist.
And what will the therapist tell me to do?
To get off the computer and make friends, maybe date around.
Can I do that?
Probably not.



What was I talking about?

no.5

I slept with my lovers shirt last night.
The smell seemed to calm my nerves.
I just wanted to feel the fabric against my face
and just imagine my head on their shoulder.
But when I woke up I was scared.
I was scared because I realized that shirt no longer belonged to me.
I was scared because I realized that it took a lie to help me fall asleep.
Even though I was the one who broke it off.

I went to a school the other day.
I walked through the front door with confidence.
I felt in my heart older than them and more mature.
I felt content with myself until I saw them all.
The moment I saw the masses of hormonal raging teens, I lost it.
I fell back into the cast order of sexual angst and popularity.
I fell back into the cast of the Untouchable's.
The place that I desperately crawled out of once I left this hell hole.
I was traumatized once more, knowing that once again, I wouldn't be accepted.

I visited a cathedral today.
I walked in and was engulfed by the awesomeness of God.
But as I walked past the aisles and prayer benches, I trembled.
I looked up at that holy Crucifix and saw the red paint that fell down His sides.
I looked up at the One they said had done that for all my sins.
I looked and I was ashamed, because in all my life, I had done not one thing for Him.
Not one thing in return.
Not one.

I guess I am only afraid of four things.
I fear making the wrong choice.
I fear doing nothing for me or for You.
I fear of never being accepted.
I fear what you will think of me through it all.
I will continue to apologize and say "I'm sorry" for you.
But what is most frightening, is that it will never be enough.
And that is the biggest fear of all.
Never being enough.

I'm sorry,
Charles Darnell

Sebastian

There was something so royal about it all.
How the foyer was the size of the White House
Filled with black marble flooring and gold framing expensive old art.
How I sat in a blue velvet seat and how
I was tugging at my blazer and checking my watch constantly.
How I fretted over the face that my hair wasn't properly combed
And how I accidentally put on too much aftershave.

My hands trembled.
My heart was panicking.
Why was I so nervous?
We were only getting a drink.
Just a drink.
Not a life time commitment.
But maybe that was why I was so nervous.
Maybe I wanted it to be just that.
Three minutes till 8:00 o'clock.
I hear the faint sound of heels clicking against stone.
Hold it together, dammit its just a date.

She appears from around the corner.
She is standing up tall, she walks with confidence.
Her green eyes softly penetrated into my soul.
Her red hair made me feel like a devoted Samson.
The cut of her dress revealed her shoulders in just the right way.
This woman was my Aphrodite, Cleopatra, Delilah, Madame de Pompadour...
This woman would be my beautiful demise.

I stand up and button my blazer.
She walks up to me and genuinely smiles.
Her soft, silky hair.....

And then I am gone.
I am hers.
Tell mother I loved her, for I shall never return.

no. 4

All I ever wanted was a constant.
All I wanted, was to know that no matter what, something or someone would always be there. Unchanged.
Unmoved.

I used to think that my parents were a constant. I used to think that they knew all the answers and that they could heal any wound with some rubbing alcohol and bandages. In my youth, I saw them as sweet gods that gave me a perfect life. But then one morning, I woke up to my tender mother's face sopping wet with water and mascara, and my father with a face of stone.
Death has a certain way of stripping people to their core. A way of ripping off their masks and personas to show you who they really are.
My parents were no longer stable. They changed, and we moved a few years later.

I used to think my friends were a constant. My naive 6 year old mentality thought that best friends forever was a everlasting contract. The loyalty I held and still hold to those children at school was and is fierce. I told them everything, I listened to them in return. I offered to be a playmate, a sibling, a shoulder. Little did I know that not all people abide by contracts. Most times, they actually take the contract you two made and light in on fire right in front of you, with their new contract holders laughing in the distance. Falling asleep to tears became my constant for a time.
My friends no longer cared. They changed, we moved on.

When family and friends were no longer enough to sustain me, I turned to the only thing left. I had been taught from a young age that God was always there, that He was constant, that He never left you. And above all, that He loved you. Being a young adult, love was the only thing I seeked, because everything left in the world had disappointed and hurt me. I turned to God in complete desperation. I prayed to him with so much fever that any priest with tremble with jelousy. I trusted Him. Then one cold night, a fire was thrown at the only thing I had left to call home. It went ablaze and by the time it went out, I was no longer a constant.
I was traumatized, I moved into a four walled brick room without windows, as to shut out all the light of God. There is where I still remain. I thought that He had changed, that he had moved on from me as so many others did. I felt betrayed.
Yet, in all honesty, it was me this time.

I'm trying to make windows in my brick wall room.
But chipping away at thick, sturdy, cold brick with bare hands is not an easy task.
And sometimes, I give up.
But I'm still trying.
I need my constant.

Your crumbling piece of compacted silica and concrete,
Charles Darnell

Cindy

   A woman walks the sidewalks of the Upper East side, wearing a black coat with the fur collar and stilettos that only native New York-er can walk in. She sees the dimly lit neon sign at the entrance of that sleazy bar that men who are looking for affairs frequent at 2 am.

They tell their wives they're backed up on reports.
Their wives aren't stupid.
They're just scared.

   The woman turns into the alley by the filth and gin in the club next to her, and takes the back entrance. The moment she walks in the door she is being guided by the manager who is rambling on about her being late, and maybe the woman he met here two nights earlier. She slips off her coat to reveal the 40's bombshell she is and adjusts her red, two sizes too tight dress. Her manager hangs up the coat while still rambling on and on about how his girl likes apple martini's and how her ankles were carved by the gods, and the woman just pushes past him to slip into her dressing room.

She quickly closes the door behind her and sits at her vanity. She looks in the mirror.
She sees the dark, luscious curls that gently caress her shoulders.
She sees the deep green eyes that hide behind her long curly lashes.
She sees the plunging v-line that her mother would have slapped her for wearing.
But she thought to herself "Mamma, I don't have a choice", and pushed the thought from her mind.
She sees her pouty full lips as she brushes more red wax on them for the animals her manager calls "customers".

   She hears pounding at her door accompanied by the shouting of her manager that go along the lines of "You're on in 5 missy! You better well not be late this time or it will cost you your job!"
She gently rises from her seat and opens the door to find him in a sweat, furiously gripping his clip board and pushing back his greasy hair.

"The band is already out there waiting for you! Get out their or I'll kick your.."

She just walks past him onto the stage up to the mic. She looks into the sea of monsters and cigars.

They make her sick.

The spotlight comes on and showers her in materialistic light. The applause, cat calls, whistles and
profanities erupt and all she can do is close her eyes. Close her eyes and pretend its not real.

The band starts her opening number.
She opens her eyes.
She opens her mouth.
The club goes silent.

no. 3

Sex.

Great, now I have your attention. But now I don't really know why I felt I needed it in the first place.

I wish I could write something poetic or deep about it. I wish I wasn't just sitting at my computer, staring onto the blank white screen in front of me in a loss for words. I wish I could think of something witty or sarcastic to write for you to slyly smirk at. I wish that this wasn't giving me war flashbacks.

I wish I could go back and change everything in my life that I accociated with "love". It's never brought me anything good. Always trouble. Pain. Abandonment. Yet, I'm addicted to it.

Now I sound like a masochist. But I guess that's what love made me. I guess that's what it made all of us, or else we wouldn't keep trying it again and again for sick pleasure. 

I think we are all just trying to find someone who we can give ourselves too, and who in return can give us an emotional (and for some maybe ever a literal) orgasm. Isn't that all we want? Don't we just want to feel the rush of knowing someone is there, that they care? That we matter to at least one person?

Well if you don't, I do. 

I thought I found someone who cared once.

They didn't.

They left.

But I cared.

I still do.

Sex.

Your addicted masochist,

Charles Darnell.

no. 2

   How can people color inside the lines?

   Honestly, when I color, I am all over the place. I can never keep my hand strokes in line and I am constantly mixing the crayon colors together to create a mysterious new one. How can people be perfect, concise, simple?

   Maybe I just don't understand because I've always been the complete opposite. I have always aspired to be one of the outlandish creatives. I have looked up to people like Van Gogh, Degas, Picasso, the Spice Girls my entire life. I have always wanted to be the next one to create something new. I have always wanted to be one of the artist.

   To me, art is not supposed to be perfect. If I think it looks perfect, chances are I hate it and I've already told three strangers how awful I think said art is. Art to me is controlled (or uncontrolled in some or most cases) chaos. I want the artist to splatter, brush, and pour out their souls onto whatever canvas that is in reach. I want them to not just tell a story, but to try and show the world how they feel. Pictures don't just portray emotions, they portray people.

   I want to feel the euphoria, despair, heart break, confusion, and passion that lives inside the artist heart. I want to be able to reach through that canvas and feel the scars that are etched into the artist soul. I want to be able to fully understand what they are trying to tell us. Art always has a meaning behind it, a warning.

   I just want to live the artists life.
   I just want to be an artist.
   I just don't want to be told I have to color inside lines anymore, dammit.

Your ever-loving muse,
Charles Darnell

no. 1

   Do you remember your first kiss? Let me rephrase. Your first real kiss? The feeling of soft, warm, lustful lips colliding with your anxiety filled ones. Oh, and lets not forget the excitement and horror that filled your stomach and made it ache so much that you thought that you would hydro-pump onto your lovers sweater.

   Do you remember the taste of your very first homemade mousse au chocolat that your father said was better than Madame Bouffard's from Lyon?

   Do you remember watching the blissful and ignorant kids running to the playground, flying on the swings, and sliding down the plastic slippery slopes? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you wished that you could once again not want to feel responsible, mature, grown up?

   Do you remember your first concert? Do you remember how the music was so damn loud and how the bass changed the beating of your heart to coincide with it? Do you remember how for the first time in your life, you felt completely free?

   Do you remember the first time you had a panic attack? You know, the one that happened after you watched It's a Wonderful Life and the scene where the protagonist jumps off the bridge in a suicide attempt terrified you? Do you remember laying on Mom's bed and shaking for over two hours?

   Do you remember the first time you wrote a sonnet? Do you remember how your early teenage angst flowed through the pen and you felt like The Bard of Avon himself? Do you remember how impressed the teacher was? Do you remember how for once in your life, you felt like you could do something and be proud of it?

Do you remember any of this?
No. You don't.
Because they are my memories.
These are just glimpses of the life that I've lead.
These experiences, are what have brought me to this laptop.
Are what have brought me here.
I am here.

Your's wholeheartedly,
Charles Darnell

no. 0

   My skin is my pride and joy. It is so clear that you can see the blood of royalty and poverty pumping through the crevices of the veins laying just underneath. My skin is the only thing that keeps me together, you know, other than societies rules of what I should and should not do or say. My skin has flaws. It is covered in moles, freckles, birthmarks. They keep me from being perfect, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

   My eyes are the window into my soul. The blue grey mirror that lies behind bedroom eyelid curtains shows the glimmering pool of my being that is just waiting for someone to swan dive with abandon into. The closer you get to the pupil, the darker and deeper the pool gets. No one has survived swimming in the deep end of my pool, or at least no one has tried. I put up warning signs of caution to protect the swimmers from the deep and dark ends, yet I don't want them to be scared of the darkness. I want them to embrace the darkness. I want them to find beauty in the black lagoon of me.

   My hands are small, dainty, petite, gentle, nimble, see feminine. My hands are the tools that jot down the mumbling thoughts and the raging rants that haunt my mind. My hands are my humble servants. They have been through hell and back, yet are still able to let me jot down thoughts or scribble doodles. They are still loyal to my cause. My hands bring down the barrier between me and society. They let me write how I feel and let me embrace the people that call me friend, lover, child. My hands, are what let me write this introduction to myself. My hands, are what open the door to be myself in disguise. My hands put on my mask.

   I'm Charles Darnell. Charles Darnell is who I really am. I am proud of myself, and I am proud to wear this dignified name. I wish I could be myself all the time, and not just be myself when I'm on my laptop alone in my room. Charles is who I really am, and who I hope I can someday feel comfortable being. I hope you can learn to love and accept me the way I do. I hope that maybe through my thoughts and jots you can find solace, maybe even resemblance and some answers to questions you never thought to ask. I hope that we can get through this catastrophe together.

Your humble servant,
Charles Darnell