Identity Crisis: by Ryn Cricket.

                                               



                                                Identity Crisis.
                                        A work from Ryn Cricket:


–Not one of those
when you look in the mirror
and see your mother looking back,
No.
It’s when you look in the mirror
and don’t recognize that person
at all.
This is not the person I grew up with
When My four year-old says,
“Mommy, I don’t like your hair.
I miss your Rapunzel hair.
When will it grow back?
My wedding dress,
My claddagh ring,
my favorite shirt,
my underwear
are all way to big
to even be passable as baggy.
My cheeks aren’t full like a 20 year-old’s
but sunk-in like a 60 year-old with botox.
“Mommy when are your scars going to go away?”
“These don’t go away.
They were made by a doctor’s knife.”
I’m healthy.
I’m tired.
I’m recovering.
I’m cancer-free.
But who the hell is that in the mirror?

Author: Ryn Cricket  

                                   

Where i live: part one. Mark: Story one.

                              


                                What is it like where I live?

　

                     I have been asked this question for many months now.

               What do you see, smell and hear with each day? What?

　

        For Christ sake, people, do you think this to be simply put?

          Here goes: Crack eyed wanting bitch destined to meet dealer on alley’s left. Copters flying across sky, blades slashing the night like one with meaning.

           Cats growing, dogs barking, Zombies walking the alley behind my home. Twisted faces, bending in unnatural sense of bodily shape, threatening.

            Small wonder my lady left me after eight and a half years of living here.

               Smart, far smarter than me. My sisters split this years ago, yet had thoughts of her leaving me.

                 Her and I did not lose contact with her leaving.

                   Do you really want to know what it is like here?

　

                First of all: Sirens BLARE. Just down the road, about a quarter mile from one of the only County Hospital Emergency Rooms, I live.

              Helicopters, blades slicing gentle night air to shards of the dyings grip.



                 In the ER-World: Workers, Keepers of this Realm, nurses, facilities, and security sweat to hold all in place.

　

            Landing on under lighted pad, the Huey touches down, revs slowing, thwacking less gnats with each pass.

               More work for the ground crew.



            Heavy metal, Mariachi, Ice T, copulate like a bad marriage.

　

           Rival Factions embrace. Screaming high above all else. Arms taking in the ugliest of mankind.

         “Watch were you spit!” some jesus freak yells, intense brown eyes darting backwar.

       “this is bloodshed, man! Bloodshed. Hope you got ya shots…..”

        Got them all. Glancing at less maddening skies, concrete parking lot structure, taking in another night.

　

        “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” a child cries into the night. This child not being here from its own pain so much as its lack of parents thought before making it so.

       My world is not so much filled with assholes as it gets visited by the seasons.



     Let’s take this to me: If some totally fucked human asks me for money, by my house, will I give him/them, food. Yes.

      I will give them a listen toward their plight and sometimes fail like I did today.



　

　

       In the last 20 years: There have been over 15 homicides within 1 mile of my home and countless injuries.

         Family home is good and all.

          I want another life and think I earned this.

　

            Mark William Darus 08042012