Welcome to my Closet! I was born in 2009. I like writing and I like drawing (Robert is the fattest lizard) and the show Pokemon. I have frantic need for plants and wooden objects, AFK. RPG and raw salmon. Also general weirdness. 

Allen had woken up from his bed one late August night to stare at the moon, and saw how it offered him the same warm gaze back. He was tethered to it in that instant. The moon told him to climb up, climb up back to it. And so he did. He closed the door to his house, and put on his hat. He had heeded the moon's call and now he will force his way to it, whether its inhabitants wanted him to or not; either way, he will make his way to the moon. 

The train was an old creaky giant of metal and steam, dragging its inky black carts behind it, spewing soot from its horn, marking a streak across the sky, and coming to a sluggish stop in the flowing grass. 

He saw, from outside, the red silk and furs that lined the seats and the warm yellow light that caressed his skin. Fog spilled from the cabin, swallowing the midnight air in its mouth of fangs and spit, he wondered, if he should too, be held by those jaws. 

His shoes tasted the strangely human warmth of the train, walking onto the stairs and into the red linen that lined the floor beneath it. The walls and floors were stained a pomegranate red like everything else in the cabin of the bellowing train. Every noise was muted in the atmosphere, in the dust filled stomach of the iron beast but yet he seemed to have made peace with it, although he was never one for quiet spaces. 

“Take a seat.”

Allen turned to the voice, his voice. 

He spoke to him, sitting on the red velvet lounge a distance from Allen. Should he stay? Should he run? He stood there for quite a moment, hardly uttering a thing. The other simply looked at him, he knew Allen would comply anyways. 

As if it had read his mind, the train jolted itself from its alive; frightened awake. It took course onwards, grumbling and screeching as the cogs within it were put to work once more. Allen tumbled back as the train and its cars shook, its pulse raging back on, swinging its iron wheels into sudden life. He watched as the other watched. Cold gazes met one another. 

“Please,” the other him announced, hand gesturing to the cushioned seat beside him. “Take a seat.” And so he did. Allen, balancing his fragile stature in the middle of the fleshy red train, walked slowly towards his own self. He was looking in a mirror, and in the other’s eyes he did not see himself. He never saw himself. The train began to hover, a point upward, somethin a train should not do. Allen felt carsick, hands reaching out to the other one to steady himself, or to find a grip. Outside the window laid a lake of the dusty winter night and the stars she held; and beyond that he saw nothing. He saw the stars, and he saw the moon. It reflected in his eyes and in that moment he knew he had to stay. He was looking for it all over anyways. All the eyes are dead. He knew it, all the stars out there, they are all dead because they are not looking at him. The other him is. The other one, other Allen, Not-Allen, he sat there and just looked at him, looking at him with the pitiful eyes he gave to other people, looking at him like that because he has never felt the look of another set of saddened eyes. “Why,” Allen asked, to the not-him, “why are you here?”

“I just wanted to talk.”

Both sat, facing the door ahead of them, as the train continued its determined flight to the moon. 

“Well,” the other him began, “I wanted to talk about a lot of things, you know, I want to- well, I wanted to talk about a lot of things.”

Allen was convinced now, that the train was lifted entirely into the air. As it sped on, up and up, it seemed to have never left the tracks, the sounds, the rhythmic breathing of the engine, of the gears, seemed to reverberate and echo of every corner, every cushion. 

“Have you ever thought of returning home?”

“What?”

“Just go back home. You’ll be happier there.”

“No.”

The Not-Him looked at him again, gave him that stare- that sad stare like someone kicked a puppy in front of him. He was sick and tired of the Not-Him, of how disappointed he was. Allen grew angry. He did not want to return home just yet, not when home had gotten him nowhere, not when the paths he took everyday always led back to the same quaint little bedroom that trapped him under its covers for another identical day and another identical everything. 

“Please just- just consider what I’m saying here.” The Not-Him almost begged. His voice was gentle, level. Pleading. He was pleading for Allen to go home. 

“Why do you want me gone so much?” He rose. Towering over the Not-Him, towering over everything. 

“Why do you have to reject everything?” 

“Because I don’t like you.”

The other one fell back into his seat, melting into everything else, the cushions, the walls, the steady grinding of the wheels. “You are not a part of this world, you’ll never be.” The train gave a jolt, then two, then it trembled until Allen could no longer gain a foothold on the velvety floor. Allen strained his neck upwards, watching as the other him contorted into a pool of anger and regret. He regretted his action but he was angry at Allen. Anger always trumps over regret. 

His hands struggled to grip at nothing as the train flipped over. Roof became floor, floor became roof, yet still the Not-Him remained in his seat. Allen lunged towards the other, narrowly avoiding the window that opened abruptly, cold air rushed in and the warmth seeped out, he scrambled away from the window, tucking his leg in just before it shutted itself back up, and landed onto the seats on the side. Now he was walking on the windows itself as the train turned once again. Beyond those cells of stars he saw a platform coming up, a grey rectangle with grey benches and grey street lights. The Not-Him was running away from him, his feet planted firmly on the carpeted floor of the train, as if gravity obeyed him. So Allen did the same, he rolled onto the carpet as the cabins tossed and turned, hands grabbing hold onto what he could, dodging the lamps above as they slammed themselves onto his back. 

“Why are you so determined?” The Not-Him called, shadowed by the cries and wails of the glass bulbs as they shattered around them. 

“I don’t know yet,” Allen yelled back, advancing towards the other, both of them hanging upside down, as did the train itself; he didn’t know how he had achieved that, but he did, “I’ll know soon enough.” 

He lunged forward, and tumbled onto the ground, digging into his shirt as both slid towards the door. In that instant a resounding crack rang within the cabin of the train, as everything slammed shut. They were getting closer and closer to the platform above, and he would have to make time stop for himself. Allen pierced his leg through the glass, watching as ruby red spilled from his pants. He held the other one by the hem of his shirt and dangled him an inch or so above the ground. The door opened for him. For the other’s exit; but yet he was struggling to let go. 

Really, it happened in an instant. Allen had no recollection if he had even jinxed his arms so that the other, got away. 

As the Not-Him fell, so did the train. Its fleshy tendons reached for him, as if to expect a hand to catch its fall. He forced his way outside, a moth out its cocoon. Dashing on the metal outside, hands reaching for the platform in the stars, he jumped from car to car, wading through the pull of the stars before his fingers met with the harsh rugged flooring. Allen watched from the platform above, watched as he plummeted and watched as he disappeared into the darkness. A part of him died when the other fell. Maybe because he had looked like Allen himself, falling away from the train. But yet his gaze remind strong, tethered to the moon and its flowing dress of dead-eyed stars. He wanted the moon to be held in his hands. And so he landed his body into the cold, unfamiliar concrete, and looked to the green tunnel in the distance and its open mouth; he walked until it swallowed him, just like the train did.

Conch man

Where are you?

Oh, where are you?

The conch man in the sand

Hidden somewhere

playing with a band.

I seek what you hold

To play and explore

The conch man in the sand,

lend me your hands. 

Let me play with water

let me smell the sea.

Let me carve myself

With your shell of pomegranate seeds.

Carve my body with your slender nails,

Necklaces of red

from your hardy exterior.

Carve me 

until I am nothing but cold, cold gale.

The Murex 

The Murex was lightened by the sun

touched by the fair hands of the sea. 

She was the son of the sand

the daughter of the dirt beneath it. 

An amalgamation of bone, color, and spikes. 

The Murex was dropped, dropped back into her father, despised by all, 

and sometimes,

when it looked back up

it saw itself. 

Lightened by the sun,

touched by the fair hands of the sea. 

She knew of its worth and she knew of her pain.

she knew of her hands and their iron nails.

So she wielded them right, 

and branded them with blood. 

She was the son of the sand and she was the daughter of the dirt beneath it,

so she will lighten the skies and she will bless the seas herself.

The Music Box of the Heart 

Within the writhing hallways of my shell

Lies a mermaid

A stingy creature of golden hair

and dingy pearls

Who sings 

Alone

In her chamber of echoing suns. 

She sits there day and night, humming so like a music box, 

Laying there in the shell, 

My lonely mermaid and her pearls.

My lonely mermaid and her pearls, 

yearns for her song to be heard,

She sings there day and night,

Screeching for a desperate ear 

Grabbing whatever she can find

And adding it to her nets.

My mermaid, the music box of my heart

ensnare the pearls of others.

Bring them to your nets,

and cherish them forever, 

for I can't hold on

but you can, my mermaid. 

So hold on to my pearls, 

And sing your song for eternity.

They bulit a bonfire, a light ever so dim

and bring it at the same time.

She had never seen anything like it.

She was not really sure how to react. 

She never saw.

She was not taught properly, so she penned it up.

Although it oozed out like tar, she never cared.

Moonlit candles and midnight lakes, she was too busy living in the moment.

She never saw; 

she never saw through anything.

When poison reached her, she couldn't stop it.

She raised her arms and tried, but poison against poison can only do so much. 

She became nothing. 

She was walking.

She never stopped.

Through love and lust, through happy and sad, she ran.

She didn't walk;

she ran.

As she finally felt the pain burning hot into her skin that 

she realized she missed.