Have you ever stolen something?

Have you ever stood in the middle of a friend's swamped room, the debris of their life all around you, books like stepping stones to what they do on Thursday nights, a cluttered desk like a hive of bees with their stingers lopped off? Did you watch them excuse themselves, ask you if you wanted anything to drink while they went to get their refreshment — if you say water, they'll feel bad about grabbing a soda and chips, because their weight is always relative to yours, to their best friend's, to the world's, did you notice that passively as they walked off with their arms dangling off stringy, sinewy shoulders? And when they were sufficiently out of sight, did you peer at something, some knick-knack, some pair of jeans, some pencil with a nibbled eraser or a destroyed Crayola? Did you slip it into your jean pocket, your purse, your overnight bag, and did you make up excuses in your head with paranoid energy — what? No, I don't think there was a pen there. What? Oh — oh, that's just some paper in my pocket, some… some receipts. Nothing you'd be interested in. So, what were you saying about your parents?

Or maybe it was in a store? Maybe you were mirrored by two sets of latitude shelves, your fingers twitchy and your smiling sweat, and maybe you checked back and forth for a red-vested clerk wandering around before you wrapped your hand around the stuffed animal, the pair of sunglasses, the trivial and meaningless symbol of everything you've ever wanted when you were five and is returning to you now? Did you squeeze it, hard, watching its eyes pop out and its color fade into your fingers, until you were one with the plushie and the finger-pen and the action figure and the cell phone and the skirt and everything you were holding in-between your palm and closed fist, until that was all you were anymore? And then did you throw it in your bag and dash out of the store, in a mix of casualty, fear, and an illegal-tasting glee, a sense of fulfillment and pleasure you know you shouldn't have?

Was it your grandmother, your aunt, your great-uncle, with his house that smells of alcoholism and tiny glass figurines, a house you can't imagine growing up in because it has no light of innocence, just vanity and secreted grime? A house with blue walls and wooden ceilings, a house made of sanitary pads and dusty wine, a house made of fingernail-furniture and delicate doll hands? And maybe their purse or their wallet was open, on a table with blue-on-white floral-print cloth, sitting there, money unfolding from it like it was tenderly seeping out of a closed fist? Did you grab it and stuff it and breathe the scent of guilty air and pleased nerves into your body, until you could taste it in your throat? When you fell asleep, had you been trying to imagine ways to spend that twenty, forty dollars, but were so ridden with paranoia that all you could think about was the look on their face when...

Did you lose yourself in the moment? Or would you look back on that, stuck somewhere in a cortex and a weave in your head, in a crisscross between what happened and what you're willing to believe, and realize that was the one moment, moonshine hands and wrinkly feet, that you knew who you honestly were?

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Have you ever been in denial?

You are a hamster whose cage is lined with excuses, aren't you? You didn't eat today because you wanted to sleep in a little this morning, and if you had eaten lunch you would've thrown up with all the pressure that comes with a detail-afternoon, and by dinnertime, you had gotten so used to the feeling of hunger that you wanted to keep around, right? And you didn't do your exercises because you had to do your work first, and when that was done, you wanted a shower, and then the Lifetime channel was showing your all-time favorite movie, the one where you know the ending lines by heart and can pull it off seriously and comically, and well, who says "sorry, I have to do some push-ups" to that?

You didn't call your friend back because you woke up late because last night — you had been having these dreams about a man in a purple suit who was trying to usher you into a wedding you didn't know was going on — and then you forgot for a few hours, and when you remembered, you were knee-deep in the plot of a book that would've leapt out and stabbed you if you put it down, and let's face it, your telephone conversations are awkward anyway, yeah? And you could never send out your Christmas cards that year because you lost your address book in that bus stop where you had to sit next to the jean-jacketed homeless man who uses the vehicle as his personal mobile home, and you just can't find a cheap online address book, so you were only going to get a few cards for close family, but then work and school piled onto you until you couldn't breathe, and when you finally got to it, it was too late because you didn't want to pay first-class shipping for some Christmas cards that have the same recycled green-marker smiley faces and red-marker Happy-Holidays, isn't that right?

You didn't wash the dog because you had a personal project to finish, you didn't go to therapy when your aunt told you that you should because you were already getting advice from a coworker (you swear), you didn't go through with the tattoo because you had to attend a distant relative's funeral, you didn't organize your bookcase because you were waiting for your next order of books to come in from Amazon, you didn't pay the mortgage because you were too busy paying the insurance and electricity bills, you couldn't buy Halloween candy for the kids around the block because you were too busy cleaning up from Fourth of July (for chrissake), weren't you?

Is that what you told yourself?

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And — and have you ever deprived yourself of something?

You haven't eaten all day; you're counting down the fragmented blue hours, the hunger winds in your stomach like a snake, a tarantula with furry hands weaving a streamliner web of starvation so thin even your appetite is emaciated, and you can see yourself in your head taking bread out of the silver-plate breadbox, loading meat and cheese and slathering on mayo like a sopping wet tongue, you can picture the beauty of eating, of holding something solid in your mouth like a baby's cradle — but when your friend extends their skinny arm loaded with crumbly-mountain cookies and offers you one, you still refuse, don't you?

You're exhausted, your limbs are creaking like the tousled and tired bones of a rocking chair, you can't feel your ears past your headaches, you want to wrap your head into a small cocoon and let your small body wither, because oh, how small do you feel now! — and you wait, and you wait, and you wait, and the sleep won't come for you, it touches at the edges of your eyelids and won't dive into the pool of your skull, so you wait up for a few more hours no matter how many flickers of a moment pass by when you know that if you just laid in that position, held your eyes like that for three more seconds, you would be dead asleep, dead away, did I get it right?

You finally, finally have enough money for that guitar you were saving up for, the one with the pretty red pick like a bloodied tooth-chip off of a shark, with spider-limb thin chords and a beautiful squeak to it; maybe you pass by the music shop frequently just to watch it through the stained windows, like a prized and prizing lover, like a long-lost sibling watching on in misery; and you can feel the change in your pocket, the dollars crinkling up in your hands, and you watch that guitar all the way as you walk out the door of the shop, empty-handed and heavy-lidded, because you don't buy that guitar for yourself, do you?

And you knew why, didn't you?

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Do you think you're stronger now that you've suffered, experienced? Do you think that God has a tally card, keeping monitor of the progressing score, like your life might be on a screen somewhere, for concerned ghosts and bored saints? Do you think that maybe you're justified in your guilty pleasures, your sadism or masochism, your pedophilia or necrophilia, your fetishes and your disorders, your medical records and your personal files? Do you feel like morals are just something for the weak-kneed to grasp on to when their prayer rug falls short?

Don't those sound harmless, honey, don't those sound risk-free? Don't those just look like ink blots, strawberry stains on your blouse, like a dangerous-looking insect in the bare edges of the room that you know won't hurt you, but looks like he just, just might, if he ever got it into his fingernail-sized brain?

Do you think you really made it out alive?

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Are you prepared for these questions? Has your fearful brain already worked up and out the answers?

Have you ever raped someone? Did you grasp at their hair like the last straws of an issue, was it like holding onto a fleeing bird in a dark alley, were you able to comb your hair afterwards and straighten your loose jacket, did you tell your best buddy you scored that night, did you look at them like a fishing pole and a bucket and a pair of shears and a hammer, moldy and rustic old tools, don't you know rape dates back to the beginning of time? And — have you ever tried to kill yourself? Was it a gun, was it a matchstick, was it opening your eyes and mouth underwater; was it all blood and germs and claustrophobia, or was it quick, so maybe you wouldn't have to look down your elongated body before you went, huh, how close have you ever come?

Have you ever hated someone so dearly that you looked down at their child and wondered that if you just reached out, grabbed, strangled that kid's shoulder until it turned red and puce and bruised from internal tissue-bleeding, that maybe some of that need for revenge would dissipate? Have you ever touched someone like you knew you shouldn't have, with your jaws sheltered at your knees, your teeth bared and your fingers thick, and your hands turned into the earth as you clamped onto them until they couldn't let go; touched someone sexually and violently and like you meant something, when all you wanted was a feel?

Have you ever wandered around your house in the middle of night wondering what the robbers took? Have you ever stared over someone's body while they were sleeping, wondering what would happen if you locked down, if you didn't let them disappear again? Have you ever stumbled into the kitchen in the early hours, devouring everything in sight, wondering if you could ever stop taking it in? Have you ever ran so long that your face and your body couldn't match, that your head was a heated skillet and your limbs, freezer-cold, and you wondered if you'd been temporarily replaced as a human being? Have you ever beaten your wrists and your cheeks and your knees, trying to find the bits of you that might not be going to Hell? Have you ever overheard your parents talking about you in hushed tones, like they mean business and serious matters, like you're a case they're trying to crack, like they wonder if you could be someone else's kid, someone who is messy and deluded and isolated like you are?

Have you ever wondered if, when all the smoke blows off and all of your skin comes undone, you're really, honestly alone?

I think we both know the answer to that one, hm?

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And you know you can hear it; you can hear the questions underneath the questions, can't you?

It's when have you raped someone means could you look at yourself in the mirror afterwards, when have you ever attempted suicide means was there anyone else in the house when you tried, when have you ever deprived yourself of something means was it food or was it air or was it space or was it love, when have you ever been in denial means have you ever gotten out of it, when have you ever stolen something means do you keep it close, after all this time, when have you ever hated someone passionately means did you love them just as passionately, when have you touched someone you shouldn't have means did you see them afterwards or have you managed to avoid them, when have you wondered if you're going to Hell means what was the final straw, when have you ever wondered what the robbers took means do you still miss it, when are you alone in this world means how do you distract yourself from the loneliness, isn't it?

If you're here to tell me that love is the opposite of hate, if you're here to tell me that true love happens at first sight, if you're here to tell me that God has a plan for all of us, if you're here to tell me that you're weirder than most, if you're here to tell me that you're pure and unashamed and beautiful and funny and charming and sweet and strange and intelligent, if you're here to tell me that you should follow your heart, well, I'm here to tell you that your life ended the day the umbilical cord was cut, the day you opened your toothy little eyes and accepted the world for what it is.

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Who do you blame it on, sweetie? Your parents? Were they perfectionists or did they never look at anything you did, were they living through you or did they not know who you were, were they apathetic or were they overemotional, did they keep you in a bubble with no way out or did they expose you to too much too young, were they never there or did they never leave you alone, did they argue in front of your face, honey, or were they so perfect they gave you unrealistic expectations of the world?

Was it your grandparents, who showered you with too many gifts or called you fat every time you came over? Was it your uncle, who abused you behind a closed door or was maybe the father you wished you had? Or was it your aunt, who let your pets you left in her custody die or who came you all of your birthdays when your friends weren't there? Was it your cousins, who gave you cigarettes and alcohol and drugs and porno magazines or who were so locked-up that they made you feel like the bad influence of the family? Was it your best friend who never claimed to love you back or choked you with their constant presence, and turned out to be jerks in the end?

Honey, did it ever occur to you that you could've grown up with another best friend with a different name and face and sex, and you would still find fault? Did it ever occur to you that no one lives like the duos and trios of best friends who sleep over at each other's houses periodically and have puppy-dog fights, who make up with giggles and coffee? That no one lives like the rich-class women in upstate New York, who have a constant and unidentified source of money, who wear poetry like their Sunday's best and recycle men like Saturday's skankiest?

It never occurred to you that no one lives like your role model, not even themselves?

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How will you define love when your child comes to you with white palms and greedy green eyes? How will you define the stars when your best friend gets in the grass next to you and wants to talk about death? How will you define the texture of the world when your worst enemy steps up and takes the praise from under your feet? How will you define the concept of time when you realize that if you said I love you right now, it wouldn't be enough for the full nights and pretty evenings, for the sun-stained mornings and ice-cream afternoons?

Do you feel disgusting? Do you wish that some faucet, some hand-cream could scrape this off the roots of your fingers, the texture of your palm? Do you want to run yourself through until you can't feel your pulse anymore, until the pain grows out of you like a second skin, like a buried person hiding in you all along and just now burst out like a surprise party? Do you fear death?

Are you afraid of me, honey, the secret-holder, the murderer and the victim all in one?

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Have you ever stolen something?