Gris Lee Stories

I don’t know how to talk about it, beyond the screen. Programming metaphors; weaving in the cries between the lies. Waiting for one reader, to intercept and intervene. Spitting numbers into letters. The inner voice screams at my therapist machine. Pent up pain wiping the slate clean. Banging my fists against the glass. I’m desperately looking at the little lights in green. Seeking some response, before I do something obscene. Come on. One of you must have seen! Did you not get what I mean? My online conscious Is disjointed. Infected by malware. Transferring files in routine. They must’ve been corrupted.     After all, the hardware, my avatar, in flesh and blood, isn’t to be trusted. It withholds information. Whatever’s manifested; Glitches and bugs on the surface, all shunted aside. Error messages: Reconstructed. Unresolved issues: Cannot be deleted. Hide them all unde...

Another night, I couldn't sleep. I didn't weep as the overflow took my hands. I complied to its demands. Just a little chore; Rake the leaves across my arms. Ignore the harm it does to the environment. Numb. Raw. I saw to it to keep going. Sowing seeds of pain. Water them with bloody rain, so they'll sprout fields and fields of attention seeking grain. Weeds I did not want. When the harvest was done, all they did was taunt. Too late now to help. Stayed up another hour, stitching up the scratched up seams. Bandage, band aid, pins and needles. Tuned out to reddit. Fingers feeble. Numb now to the sting. I'd softly sing, guessing if it'll leave a mark. Once patched up with blankets of fake soil, in the bed of dirt for which I toiled, I went back to the dark. Tried again to go to sleep. And yet, I still can't weep.

I broke the vase I was holding behind my back. I could have put it down kept it steady and sound. It’s still at risk of tipping, bodies clipping the edge and causing it to tumble. The risk of fumble is still there. But it’s where we can all be aware, and keep a careful eye. Even just to hold it front, and hold it close if that’s what you chose, then they could still see it. A flash, a hint, covering cracks,  but leave enough so you admit to the trouble you have holding it. But I held mine behind. Stretching arms, shaking pay no mind to the man behind the curtain. Tell me more, about the ones we see, the certain. Those vases need more care. A little rusty, chipped, worn, a flair of years of trauma. I grew warmer to these vases, and I ignored my own. We talked about the edges, sharp and out of reach, through my gritted teeth, as the ones behind my back dug right through the skin. Exhaustion ...