The Archivist

The diary of your latest test object.

Close-up photo of black and white journal
Photo by Min An

What a curse, what a privilege,

Looking through the director’s cuts in my memory,

Playing videos on my phone in an infinite loop

Until I’m sure of your covert treachery.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

I dig through the pages until my fingers bleed.

Your gags come back to me in waves until I choke,

Spiraling deeper, sinking toward the ocean floor.

They said it was a joke.

The panic attacks,

Sleepless nights,

Nosebleeds,

Fights,

Rashes,

Emotional downfalls,

Mascara dripping off my lashes.

…a JOKE?

My eyes were soulless, my skin bruised and ashen.

My friends told me we could outrun the death wish,

But we don’t talk about the winter of 2024 anymore,

At least not since demise herself told me to perish.

Humor.

Revenge.

Picking sides.

Dead ends.

I’m not sure how I found my way to the lighthouse.

The fog lifted one day, yet I waited for the waves to return.

Waited for your words to serve as the anchor.

Even silence scared me, quiet made my stomach churn.

Nothing.

Peace.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Routines kept me alive, ink kept me sane.

The grapevine was quiet until a message came through.

A broken sea creature dropped on my doormat,

And I almost stepped on it before realizing it was you.

Obsessed.

Paralyzed.

Greedy.

Antagonized.

I lock the door to keep you out,

Hoping you don’t turn into a sea monster,

But nothing’s promised.

I’ve escaped dozens of nooses,

Even mine,

But yours was the only one that called me alarmist.

Until the day that you rot,

Until my stomach’s in knots,

We will watch each other in perfect symmetry,

Crowds wondering who deserves the penalty.

Keep wondering.

Guess.

I kept the records.

Kept the mess.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

-Jackie

A Misprinted Poem (The Author Got The Story Wrong)

When did you know you’ve lost my pen entirely?

Did the snake hiss gently,

Swallow the tail in its entirety,

Or glance with a thousand mile stare like it’s tired of me?

The tiniest acts of defiance were punished.

Yet, my trust knew no bounds.

I told you how the stories of my other villains got published.

So I have to wonder—is that how you got the idea?

You decorated my walls in white ink,

Pushed aside my hope and will and slipped right in,

And when I told the others, they said—it’s all blank.

I was looking for hints as my soul sank,

But I couldn’t find them.

My tongue froze over like the Inferno, one in a billion chance,

As the diary pages lost saturation.

Death was reaching out its coldest hands…

You set the books in my mind on fire,

The library was gone in a heartbeat.

The firefighters were calling me a liar,

A child looking for a hint of some heat.

Stop!

A pause, a breath, and I’m out of the door.

Not sure who dragged me, but there are only my footprints on the floor.

Each day I dive into the blues,

Each day I become paler and fainter, and more unmoored.

Your grasp on my neck is so tight it almost feels real.

Then, a day comes where I don’t hear you.

I look forward to a meal.

Healing, growing, almost healed.

I stay close, yet never too near.

The axe drops on your neck, at least that’s what they say.

Maybe my lips twisted into a smile, don’t quote me though.

I get another good day.

Then another.

If I stay really silent on starry nights, I can hear you pray,

But you know I won’t answer until you do.

When did you lose me entirely?

Did you think I had it in me to go quietly?

-Jackie