Friday, December 19, 2014

If you love me

If you love me
it is the same as loving fire.

At some point
you will be
burned.

Not because I want to burn you,
   but that is the nature of fire;
to burn.

I can be calm,
unassuming,
like the flicker of a campfire
or
a candle's flame.

But there will be times
where I rage;
  out of control,
  full of anguish,
  of wrath.

It is in my nature
  to burn quietly
or
  rage out of control.

Would you ask the ocean to
stop kissing the shore?
Would you ask the winds to
never whip the trees?

As romantic as it may seem to be in love
with the flame,
you must know,
that someday it will burn you.

Some day it is going to sweep through,
destroying everything in its wake.

And I will try to hold it back.
I will try to never let you see,
but there is a trail of
ashes.

And I am what I am.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Safety.

Her son won't come home.
His new home is decorated with headstones.
He wears maggots as one would evening wear.
He no longer sings.
He no longer laughs.
He longer breathes.
He can't breathe.

Her son won't be coming home.
What should've promised safety,
should've protected him,
murdered him for holding a toy,
a sandwich, his hands in the air.
He doesn't play anymore.

They murder our fathers
and condemn us for our fatherless lives.
They murder our husbands
and mock our single parenting skills.
We can't run for fear of accusations,
justifications, "precautions."

Her son won't be coming home anymore.
Another Emmett Till for a different era.
Another Michael Brown.
Another Tamir Rice.
Another Eric Garner.

We Can't Breathe.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Words

   hurt     wasting    hate     breathless
   heart    time       kiss     screaming
   pain     wishing    embrace  dreamed
   longing  stars      crying   lost
waiting   friend   resolve    alone
hoping    love     never      forgotten.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Would you want me to?

I won't cry.
I keep saying I'll stop.
Maybe I scare you.
Maybe I'm too much.

I blame myself.
Its always my fault...
when I am left.
How foolish to think you'd be different.

They all leave in the end.
Its inevitable.
And I'm always the dust,
settling into the cracks.

I'm different. I admit that.
Was my difference the final
nail?
I won't apologize for that.

I can't help that I love
too passionately. That I'm
crazy. That I long for stars
too far from the earth of my body.

Was it my love that sent
you running? Was it the Cheshire
Cat of my personality?
I can't apologize for who I am.

Would you want me to?

Monday, November 17, 2014

The Things We Claim

Flowers in your beard,
your arms around me,
the way you looked when
you fucked me...

Those are the memories I own.

The taste of your smile,
like a slice of the sun,
dimpled perfection...

Those are the things I miss most.

Tears and burnt love letters,
the snarl of your anger,
spitting venom...

Those are the things I remember.

Sunday, November 16, 2014

New York

Standing on the subway train,
wondering what your name could be.
Looking out at the darkness,
barreling through time and space,
daydreaming sunshine into the moonlight.

Is it David? Jon? Sebastian?
I'm trying to guess from your features;
eyes the color of a root beer float,
lips like Cupid's bow and a darting
tongue like an arrow through my heart.

In my mind I imagine the curl of your
lips tasting mine. You taste like the
color of your eyes and I get high off
your sugared breath. Could you imagine
my arms circling your neck like a necklace?

Is it James? Perry? Geoff?
The train is pulling into the station, you
stand to go and you push the ribbons
of your hair out of your eyes. You step
out into the world and the only name you have...

Is it New York?

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Prometheus

You thought yourself Prometheus;
stealing fire from the gods to warm
the world.
In the end, you turned my bones to
firewood and warmed only you.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Love Poem to a Cannibal

Blend me with all of
your raw fruit.

Shake me together with
your tossed salads.

Mix me into all of you
until I am dissolved.

Add a pinch of salt,
a sprinkle of sugar.

I was never flavorful
on my own.

Bake me at 375° until I
am done to your satisfaction.

I hope I am delicious.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Concrete Shoes

Concrete shoes
sinking further,
falling to the bottom
of your ocean.

The weigh isn't all
      You...
Some of the concrete is
      Mine too...

But what am I to do,
drowning under you,
feet weighted down in
concrete shoes?

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Nursery Rhyme for Astronauts

Ring around the moon,
a pocket full of loons,
spaceships
spaceships
we all fall like shooting stars.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

A Fault in Our Stars

These faults are not in our stars;
they do not lie in our falling in love,
but in how deeply and utterly we fall.

The fault in these, our stars,
is simply that we are made of the
essence of stars and not wishes themselves.

Friday, November 7, 2014

Bathing Beauty

Quiet thoughts seem to whisper,
Your love letters never linger;
who am I to you?
Bathe me in kisses soft,
let my heart never break.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Summer

I'm trying to bleed summer,
pushing sunlight from my veins,
slicing through ripe fruit to
reveal the frozen boughs of
all the winters I forgot.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

The Balloon Letters: Ibrahim

"My father calls me 'youngest son.' He says it with a tone of disappointment, a tinge of shame. His deep voice practically hums with his dislike of me. He won't look me in the eyes and, for the past five years, he won't say my name.

"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.

"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."

Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.

He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.

Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.

He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.

He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Reality

Am I real?

Or is it just the way your hands feel on my skin?
Is it the way our palms touch when you are looking into my eyes?
Or is it the way your lips whisper haiku against the paper of my breasts?

You leave me breathlessly questioning if I exist or if I am merely a figment of your imagination.

Can your mind paint the sky such a heavenly blue?
Can you bind me to the earth as reality?
Are you a God that you can breathe life into my empty lungs?

Am I real?

You say I am only as real as I believe I am.
If that is true than I am nothing more than your will.
I am of simple design, easy tastes and childish whims.

Will I bleed if you prick me?

There are days I don't believe in myself.
Almost mythical, not quite beautiful, a dream wishing to be born.
Will you give me birth?

Sunday, September 14, 2014

I am Woman, Phenomenally.

Maybe I'm just a little girl in a big world full of monsters.
Maybe I can't stop even a fraction of them.

But in the end, I'm standing there brandishing my sword,
screaming the battle cry that is pounding in my blood.

I have big dreams; a big voice inside my head calling me
to something greater than all this.

The monsters may come. Let them. I may die,
but I'll die fighting. No one can say I didn't try my hardest.

Isn't that what courage is? Running towards the monster,
rather than away from it?

Maybe I'm a speck in the endless seas of humanity,
drifting in and out on a tide of relentless insanity.

A ragdoll, tossed into the fray of the screaming waves.
Another pair of breasts in the wriggling masses.

But I was born to be Joan of Arc; the heart of a lioness,
consort to scarecrow princes and ready for battle.

Let the Jabberwockys come, let them do their worst.
I am still standing, a giantess with my soul painfully alive.

There is more to me, a little girl in a big world,
than could ever be imagined by the seething oceans.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "Phenomenal woman, that's me."

Sunday, August 31, 2014

The Dream

They always started the same way.

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."

He didn't know what true fear was.

While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.

The dream always started this way.

Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.

It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."

It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.

"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."

This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.

Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.

This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.

She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.

The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.

She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?

From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.

She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.

The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.

Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.

The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.

Her mother looks at her, smiling.

"Look how pretty you are."

Monday, August 25, 2014

Bubbles

The girls giggled at the parade of butterflies and bubbles.
He worked magic just for them, their eyes glowing with joy.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Shock

He kissed her; quick as lightning and just as shocking.
She looked at him, breathless.
He kissed her again, taking his time.
When she kissed him back, he pressed against her to share the shock.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Scarecrow

She was surprised to find, when she kissed the scarecrow prince, that she loved him.
His amber eyes glint like the wheat fields back home.
Home was standing in front of her, begging her to stay.

Friday, August 22, 2014

Aspen

I always dream of you in Aspen.
Though you are never quite there.
You are always in a snowy dream, muted by the lighting.
The trees cloaked in white, your breath in puffy clouds.
Then the leaves turn. They are gold and red and fluttering.
You always turn the leaves. They blush in your presence.
And, while you are away in Aspen, I am dreaming.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Timing.

Give your grace to me and maybe open the doors to let me breathe. This isn't about right or wrong, its about unity. I am begging you to see, wishing for a little more time to change reality to fantasy, but its all lost in a second's tick.

The clock keeps ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

It never ends. It never stops. Your voice is getting drowned out by the clocks. Could you scream a little louder? Your whispers are too soft. Am I losing you in the ticking of the clock?

I keep screaming.
Scream.
Scream.
Scream.

Do you ever hear a word I say? Or is it all just part of the play? Are we getting older or are we just losing composure? I'm not sure where the meaning is in all of this lunacy, but I'm tired of wilting when I'm supposed to be something more.

You've lost that loving feeling.
Love.
Feelings.
Lost.

And the moment is over. We're done. Its all forgotten, because the clock keeps tocking, or maybe its ticking and rhymes are foolish metaphors for the slow, inevitable, decay of humanity.

Isn't it funny?

Saturday, August 9, 2014

The First Time.

It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?

His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.

I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.

"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.

"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.

His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,
At fifty-three, one would think I was far too old to write you. But even fifty-three-year-olds can have wishes for Christmas.

When you fly into Chicago, this year, could you bring back my husband? I miss him most during this time. He used to help me string popcorn and twirl me under the mistletoe. When he kissed me I believed anything was possible.

He made me feel most alive, even as he was dying.

Please, Santa, if you have any power over death, bring him back to me so we can live another fifty years together.

Sincerely,
Anna.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

The Lie

"Excuse me," said a wiry man, his arms full of parcels in festive prints.

"Oh, of course." replied a, slightly, weathered woman. Her arms were also laden with packages to be sent off. Her snow-white hair hung limply and her gray eyes held no joy. She was tired. Tired of the holidays, tired of the loneliness, just tired. She shuffled a little so that the younger man could reach a mailing sticker. He looked a little like her son, Brian.

The last time she had seen him was twenty years before. Or maybe twenty-five now, she couldn't quite remember. She studied the man a little, pretending to be studying the mailing dates so her boxes would arrive by Christmas. He was tall and thin. A Roman nose holding up John Lennon glasses. His sandy hair was streaked with gray and white. His tourmaline eyes were sad, but they still held a flicker of hope.

"Brian?" she asked, looking at him with open intensity.

"Yes?" he replied. If he recognized her, he didn't show it. He had a patient smile plastered across his face.

"Brian, its me. Your mother; Angela. Do you not recognize me?" She felt a tremor of foreboding. It was him.

"I'm sorry. My mother died when I was twenty." He went back to his packages and she left before she began to cry. He watched her leave before he whispered, "Hi, Mom."

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Shoes

They are black.
Cloth with a sliver of sole, but full of soul.
They cover, but barely conceal, my toes in a gentle rounding.
The inside is leopard print to remind me that there is more to me than meets any eye and, no matter how down I am, seeing that print makes me smile.
They do not restrict me, rather they hold me and let me go with no hassle or tears.

Monday, August 4, 2014

Scarlett

It was her lipstick. It wasn't subtle, much like the wearer. It was bright and loud, proclaiming just as much as her words. When she walked in the room everyone stared, locked on her lips as she passed.

"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.

"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.

She was dressed for battle.

The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.

"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?

He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.

It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Sisters

Taking a cue from Jeremy, I put on my best smile.

This is the most uncomfortable I think I've ever been. Its bad enough that I forgot my deodorant and my hair looks like a rat's residence. But seeing him like this; his arm around her waist and his lips precariously close to her glittering earlobe, could kill me.

I'm over-dramatic, but I can't help the lump growing in my throat. It tastes like regret and vomit.

"You look lovely, Annie." he says. He smiles, again. Did his hand tighten around her waist? Or is that my imagination?

"Thank you." I say, though I accuse him of lying. In the privacy of my head. "You look like you are doing well."

"Well, Pam and I just got married," he says, nonchalantly. As if I hadn't noticed the sterling silver band on his finger the moment he walked in. "We're getting ready to close on our first house, so we're pretty excited."

"Congratulations!" I say, congratulating myself for sounding halfway sincere.

We chit-chat for what feels like, an uncomfortably, long time. I leave them with a chipper good-night before heading to the roof to smoke.

I puff thoughtfully, gazing off and into the night sky. A shooting star streaks through the set patterns. Rearranging more than the cloud patterns.

"Those things will kill you, you know." says a voice. Startled, I jump to my feet and drop my cigarette.

"Sorry." he says, sheepishly. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"What the fuck did you think would happen?" I shout, both embarrassed and scared. Who is this guy?

"I'm Eli." he says, as if he heard my thought waves. He stretches out a hand to shake, looking sufficiently apologetic.

"Annie." I say, taking his hand in mine. "What are you doing on the roof?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"I needed a break from the meet and greet session downstairs."

"Same. Can I bum one of those from you?" he gestures at the pack I dropped and I retrieve one for him.

We sit in semi-comfortable silence for a few minutes before we hear the gymnasium doors open below us. Jenny traipses through, tilting drunkenly onto the football field. Her red hair is plastered to her face and neck, a beer in her hand.

"What's Jenny doing?" I wonder, out loud.

"Don't know." Eli shrugs.

"I better go get her. The last thing she needs is to fall and hurt herself." I push myself to a standing position and dust myself off. Eli also stands and escorts me to the staircase. I give him my pack of cigarettes. He smiles and pretends to tip an invisible hat to me.

Jenny dances in lopsided circles across the dewy grass. She has her shoes off, like always.

"Sis, let's go home." I say, picking up her debris. "You've had enough."

"I've not." she replies. She doesn't even look at me, her eyes locked on something only she sees.

"C'mon, Jen. Its getting chilly."

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Relationships.

At the beginning it was sex and candy,
whiling away all of our hours on Marcy's playground.
We dreamed in disco flavoured lemonades,
pouring all of ourselves into the world.

In the middle we were a year full of ninths,
building crescendos and falling notes.
The ticking clocks became symphonic, symbolic,
dipping down and screaming back up.

At the end the life we built in Eden had changed,
I painted pictures you couldn't see.
You said the angels had shifted their faces,
you'd forgotten the chorus to our melodies.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

All of Her: Prologue (Alternate Version)

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I say nothing. I barely hear anything else he says. He keeps talking, but my heart is breaking. I'm stuck on repeat. The only thing I can hear is my heart, fit to burst from my chest.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I know its true. I'm not blind; anymore. Its as if the gauze has been torn from my sight. How had I not seen the love radiating from her face? How did I not notice?

She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's smiling, glowing, practically basking in the light of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I used to have plastered to my, idiotic, face. Its the same smile I had a week ago. I realize that I will never smile like that again.

How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?

"I'm still in love with all of her."

"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking out the words. David looks back at me, startled.

"I didn't say anything."

I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.

"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "are you alright?"

The gall. The absolute gall.

"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."

Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.

"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a way, comical.

She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.

"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."

He doesn't even hesitate. I guess that tells me all I need to know.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

All of Her: Prologue (Edit #?)

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I say nothing. What is there to say, really? I barely hear anything else he says, not that it matters. He keeps talking, as if this conversation were about what to have for lunch. Or something just as bland. He doesn't even notice that my heart is breaking. It feels like it is disintegrating, crumbling into nothing inside my chest.

His words are echoing in my skull. I'm stuck on repeat. All I can hear is that awful sentence and my heart, fit to burst from my chest. I know that he is telling the truth. I don't even have to look at them to know it is true. I look anyway, because I'm already drunk on the pain so why not? She's smiling, lit up by the sunshine of his love.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

I'm not blind; anymore. Its like the gauze has been ripped from my eyes. How did I not see it before? How could I have been so completely clueless? Looking at it now, I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets; their pink flesh fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. How did I miss this?

Am I an idiot for wishing he was looking at me?

She's standing a short distance away, barely out of ear-shot, and he is staring off and into her distance. She's still smiling at him, practically basking in the assurances of his love. I recognize that smile. Its the same one I had plastered across my, idiotic, face. Once. I can still remember that feeling; being loved and believing his sunlight would always shine on me. That smile, the one she wears now, is the same smile I was wearing just a few weeks ago. How did I not recognize that look before now?

The whole beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. Everything is rolling beneath my feet and he is rocking away from me and into her arms. I just stand there. I try to smile, like everything is okay, but it wobbles with knowing the truth. He doesn't notice. I will never smile, like her, again.

How can I when I am watching the love of my life fall even more in love with my best friend?

"I'm still in love with all of her."

"Stop saying that!" I say, practically shrieking. David looks back at me, startled.

"I didn't say anything."

I look at him, sheepishly. Having no explanation for my odd behaviour, I bite my lip and turn away.

I feel like getting drunk. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My whole body aches. Its all just so ridiculous. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.

"Abra," he touches my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

The gall. The absolute gall.

"Am I 'alright?'" I ask, turning back toward him and shaking off his hand. "Yes, David. I'm absolutely, and completely, fucking peachy. The love of my life stood me up, on our wedding day, and then has the audacity to tell me that he is in love with my best friend. I've never been better."

Dumbfounded, he just blinks at me.

"I... I'm sorry." he stammers. I wave off his apology as if it smelled bad. The thought that I should be nice flits into my head. I mean, you can't help who you love, right? As quickly as it entered, it is chased out by my anger and pain. I feel like I might vomit. I feel like I'm going to start screaming, or laugh hysterically. It is, in a sick and twisted way, quite comical.

She's looking back at us again. Her face is slightly cloudy, concern warring with the sunshine of love.

"Go." I say, turning away. "You're going to leave with her anyway, you might as well leave now."

I turn back in time to watch him walk away and I have to resist the urge to chase after him. I feel like screaming at him, like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. I wish I could slap some sense into them both. Or perform a relationship saving lobotomy. Well, relationship saving for me, not so much for them. I watch them, their shadows seeming to swim off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination.

I turn to leave, again, but I can't seem to make my feet move. Instead, I turn back and see them kissing. Alice and David, off in their own personal wonderland, in love and laughing. They're smiling, that sweet and innocent smile of a first, and only, love. Damn, why did I look back?

I'm feeling like I've just been turned into a pillar of salt; frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got vigourously scrubbed.

The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He's right, of course, even talking walruses can be right. I don't feel like talking. Not to a talking walrus or anyone else. God, I hate Alice so much right now. I never thought it was possible to hate someone so much, but, looking at her with David, I could almost spit acid. I could almost go up to them and wring her pretty, swan-like, neck.

Why couldn't they just disappear as soon as I looked back? Would that be too much to ask for?

Despite my desire, nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I am just standing there. Caught up in my stupid daydreams. If only I had super powers or something, I could destroy Alice and live happily ever after. With David. Like I was supposed to. If only she were my ugly step-sister, who cut off her nose to spite her face, I could win him back with my perfectly fitted glass slippers and my obvious charm. He would realize he is the only Prince Charming there has ever been for me and everything will be right with the world.

Now I'm just rambling.

"I'm still in love with all of her."

Those words are still echoing in the air around me. I have to get out of here. I need distance. I'm not running away.

He didn't even hesitate when I told him to go. I guess that tells me all I need to know.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

A Skin full of Flowers

The flowers are blooming on my skin again.

Angry purple.
Violet-red.
Ever expanding.

They try to flood up, and out.
Growing toward a sunny sky that doesn't exist.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Argentina.

I am off to Argentina.

Wine dripping off my wrists.
Spanish honey flowing from my tongue.

I am wild.
I am abrasive.
I am exotic.

And I fly like eagles toward the sun.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Seasons

Summer
Silver smells like Fish.
Slick, shiny, scales shimmering at the bottom of a plastic bucket.

Green smells like the Earth after it Rains.
Great, gray, giants encircling the sky like lovers entwined.

Autumn
Red tastes like Her skin.
Ripe, rich, every touch like satin through my fingers.

Orange sounds like crackling Fire.
Ocherous, over-arching, flames dancing with shadows.

Winter
Blue tastes like Snowflakes.
Basking, bundled, in the snowy sunlight.

Brown tastes like Hot Chocolate.
Brushing, burning, fingers across her face.

Spring
Pink sounds like Her giggles.
Prancing, pleasantly, from her plump lips and perfuming the air.

Yellow feels like Sunshine.
Yawning, young, daffodils stretching out their arms to the sun.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Coffee Triolet

She sips sharpness,
rich with dark notes,
painting napkins, finesse.
She sips sharpness,
cream colored darkness,
music to a palate floats.
She sips sharpness,
rich with dark notes.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Anchored.

You kept me anchored.
But the time has come to let me fly.
Love me still, please, just know its time.
I can't stay here forever, waiting for the world to let my wings be tried.
You have to let me go.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Friday, July 11, 2014

Child

You bring your birth-marks, your runny noses and your hopping toads to me. Questioning all that the world has to offer because you are new to all the wonder. If only being new to the wonder meant that you would never experience the pain.

Friday, July 4, 2014

The Hospital Room.

The scent of the hospital room clings to my skin like saran wrap to a plate.
Its not too cold or too warm, it is tepid and smells faintly of chloraseptic.
You are lying in the too big bed, your limbs purpled from the needles,
bruises stamped across your flesh like a child's sticker-book.

Your lids are half open, heavy from drugs you would never have taken,
if you were willing. All of you sags into the bed, hidden in folds of too
white blankets and a gown that does nothing to flatter your body.
You look wilted, like a flower in a too sunny window with no water.

Most of what you say comes out in mumbles and indistinguishable
gasps. You are shrinking, but expanding at the same moment. You
look like Death has come to visit you, but has not yet come to claim
you as his. Your eyes speak of fear that he will return.

And I am afraid too. Afraid of the languid look of lost strength in your eyes.
I am afraid of your bony hands, a pale pin-cushion for needles and IV's.
I hold on to you, because you are all the strength I have left inside me.
I hold on, because I am afraid to let you go when you are so calm.

The fight fades from your eyes too fast. The last bit of light fading before
the sun rises. And you are gone far from me before I even have so much
as a moment to say goodbye. Standing in an empty hospital room, your
clothes folded neatly on a too big bed. The smell still clings to me.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Beautiful Merry Oak (fragment)

Her mother called her "Oak." She believed in the power of names and held that when her daughter grew up she would be strong and unbent by the weight of time. She called her "Beautiful" because she had never been called that by her own mother and the taste of it was like honey on her tongue. She called her "Merry" so that she would always smile, despite the pain life often brings.

She called her all of these things and she named her "Melody" because she was a tune to the song she had dreamed as a girl.

Melody was her mother's only child, though her father may have had many scattered across the countryside. When she was just shy of walking, he ran. The arms of another woman seemed to be far more enticing than the love of a scarred teenager and infant girl. Her mother never spoke a word against him; the love she carried for him remained as a silent wish that he would return and she never married.

"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother would say, smiling in her sad way. Melody would touch the map of her mother's face, tracing scars created by hands she would never see, smoothing the wrinkles caused by a treacherous childhood and an adulterous man. Her mother would kiss her cheek and put her to bed with a worn, slightly torn, stuffed lion, a gift from her father when they met. It still smelled of his after shave, ever so faintly, and she would pretend not to notice the smell of lilacs. It lingered from the many times her mother had held that beloved toy to her breast and cried.

Melody never gave a thought to her appearance. She was a knock-kneed child, a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheek bones. She wore her dark brown hair in twin braids, tied with yellow ribbons, and her eyes were different colors. Her left eye was a very dark blue, almost black, and her right was the green of the ocean preluding a storm, silver flecks of lightning lingering in the depths of the iris. Her mother said it was because she had a trace of fairy blood and, alternately, that she had been murdered in a past life.

"When you were born, my beautiful, merry, Oak," her mother would say. "your hair was the color of a rose and your father laughed. His mother, your grandmother, had red hair and she was as wild as daisies in spring. Your father wanted to name you after her, but she had a name that would stand your pretty hair on end and make your toes curl. She was wild, but she was sour. I named you after the song in my heart, because you gave it a melody."

To Melody, her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth. She had the palest blue eyes, the whitest hair, the veins showing pale blue beneath her, almost, translucent skin. She had a heart shaped face, her almond shaped eyes carrying what seemed to be a thousand years worth of sparkling grief and sorrow. She had a scar across her face, a lash from a heartless father years ago, that split her face on the diagonal. It was thin and pink, a perfect slash across her face. On her right cheek she bore the mark of a ring, a ring Melody's father used to wear on his left hand. Now the ring hung on a tiny chain of silver, almost in homage to the face it had scarred, around her neck.

At fifteen, the age at which her mother had given her life, Melody discovered a love for music and the piano. They were quite poor, but her mother found ways to pay for the weekly lessons, even finding enough to buy a small, second hand, piano. It would not fit in their room, a room they rented in the house of Mrs. Garfield, an ancient and coarse widow from Germany, but her mother was determined that she should have it.

"Mrs. Garfield, a piano would brighten up the parlor. We could put it by the bay windows, maybe put a few potted plants on it. She would only need to practice three times a week. It won't be in the way if we push it up against the wall just over there." Her mother wheedled and coaxed until Mrs. Garfield finally gave her consent, somehow turning the story around so that she came out as the advocate of the idea and Melody's mother the detractor.

They took in extra laundry from the other tenants, even taking in Amos Abernathy's dingy long johns for the washing, though they reeked of alcohol and urine. Her mother said it was because he had lost his wife to pleurisy, but everyone knew it was because he had beaten her into an early grave. She never spoke an ill word against anyone, though Melody couldn't understand why not. Mrs. Garfield was cold, at best; Amos Abernathy was a drunk and a brute; her own father had been cruel, leaving the marks of his wrath across the creamy complexion of her face. Yet, she never spoke an unkind word toward any of them, silently accepting the abuses and the circumstances as they came.

Melody could not, clearly, remember when she made the transformation from child to young woman, but one day, seated at the piano, she realized that she had become less gangly and she no longer wore her hair in childish braids. She had become soft in areas, her body ripening in ways she did not understand. She caught herself gazing into the looking glass more often, patting her hair into place self consciously. Her mother had to adjust the seams of her favorite dresses to accommodate her newly developing body and the young men she had grown up with suddenly looked at her with a hunger she did not understand.

"My beautiful and merry Oak," her mother said, dusting the piano as if it were made of glass and avoiding looking at her. "there are many things you must know, now that you are a young woman. There are men, even those you believe that you know, who may try to take advantage of your age and beauty. They will tell you that they love you, that they will always love you. They will flatter and wheedle, but you must resist them, my darling. You must resist until you truly believe you love them in return. You will believe you do at first, flattered is a close feeling."

Saturday, June 28, 2014

The Magic Man: Part I

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake and the morning will no longer be.
Soft, sweet, softly. They'll hear your breathing, but not your heart beating.
Soon we will be swept up in the dark of night, candy colored lights to guide the way home.

Celeste awoke in a cold sweat. Her thin shift clung to her drenched and shivering body. The fire in her tiny cabin had gone out and only the faintest glow came from the coals. Tugging on the tattered quilt, she burrowed into the warmth of her bed and tried to block out the sound of the snow falling.

It wasn't that the sound bothered her, but snow reminded her that Poppa was gone and Momma was sick with the fever. It also made her feel nervous; as if there were a thousand eyes watching her every move. If she closed her eyes tight enough, it was summer time and Poppa was out in the fields. Momma would be in the kitchen, the windows flung wide and the whole place smelling of bread and lavender. William, the butcher's youngest son, would be playing on the floor with the kittens and Susan, her youngest sister, would be banging her wooden spoon against the table legs.

"Celeste," moaned her mother. Her voice seemed to echo from beneath the covers, growing louder against the well of her ears.

"Yes, Momma?" she whispered, curling into herself. She imagined her ribs growing outward to cage her within them. The smaller she was, the less chance of being found by whatever it was that seemed to be haunting her.

"The fire," her mother's voice sounded weak now. "its out."

"Yes, Momma." shivering, she eased out from under the covers. She did not look out the window as she tip-toed to the pile of dry wood. If she looked out she was sure she would see the Magic Man from her nightmares.

Squatting, she gathered the smallest sticks first. If she could get those going, with what little flame was left, then she would put on the thicker logs. Poppa had taught her well. Without fully rising, she moved toward the fireplace.

Sleep now, sleep deep. Soon you will awake, my prisoner you'll be.

She jumped, falling backwards, scattering a few coals and dropping her sticks. His eyes were glowing in the pit of the fireplace, shining like two moons in a sea of fire. A small scream pressed free of her lips and the wind rattled the windows so that the whole room was shaking.

She did not have to look out the window to see him. She knew he was there. His long black cape flapping furiously in the bitter winter wind, his long black hair plaited down his back and his black hat dusted white by the snow. She did not have to look out the window, but she was drawn to it. Her eyes met his auburn coloured ones and his smile, sardonic and mirthful, gleamed in the faint light of the coals.

Soft, sweet, softly. Mustn't let momma hear you leaving.

Gingerly, she lifted the latch on the door and stepped out into the swirling white world. She did not feel the bite of the snow against her bare feet or the sting of the wind as it whipped against her reddening cheeks. All she saw was his face and the edge of summer rising behind his black cape.

Thursday, June 19, 2014

The Meaning of being the Fat Girl

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."

Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.

Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."

Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.

Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.

Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."

Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."

Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."

Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.

Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.

Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?

Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."

Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.

Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.

Monday, June 2, 2014

Love's Own Madness

If all be, but madness, let me stay where I am, painting the roses red and wishing on stars that never seem to come unhinged. Trusting in one's own madness is the fruit of strange dreams and I, alone, have to believe they are true.
If you but spare a breath for love, I'll gladly run the maze. I'll hap'ly drown, just bid me try. Say one word, tell me true or tell me false, I'll believe whatever you say. Do you love me? Or am I just imagining this poison is sweet?
I am hang'd on your every word, wriggling like a worm on a damn hook. Could you tell me, plainly? Or must I falter on, bewildered and bespeckled with questions? If madness is all that is left me, I shall dress in Juno's gowns and dance about Poseidon's floor.
By Jove, do you have no feelings in your breast for me? Swear on your sword, or swear by my heart that you do not love me and I shall let it all go. I shall burn all the words that have touched my tongue; clench my teeth 'til they forget they knew how to part. Please, I beg you, end the agony you are putting me through.
If all be, but madness, let me stay where I am. I'll gladly paint roses red and wish on stars that are never to fall. 

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Tattooed

I want to tattoo memories onto my skin.

I wish there was a way to record every moment;
ink it into my subconscious so deep it will never fade,
never soften with age and time,
never become lost or hard to find.

If there were a way, every place I have ever been
would find a home on my skin so that I might look at it
every day. Renew the memories until they aren't just
moments I remember, but moments that I live again and again.

My body would be a map. A legend to find one's way
around the hard times and the beautiful days. A piece
of roaming landmarks and time. A way to keep track of 
where my soul has left pieces; where I have wandered.

My body would be a story. One that did not need unraveling,
unveiling, uncovering. My skin turned into pages, ripe
for discovery and learning. A testament to my life, to my
paradises, my purgatories, my halls of hell.

The ink would never dissolve, the dreams and desires never
fade. I would sew my heart together with lines from poetry,
tattoo the face of the moon into my chest and make the edges
jagged enough to show the wounds I have felt.

Can you tattoo the scent of the ocean into my nose?
The feeling of the rain cascading through my hair?
Is there a way to imprint the sound of thunder in my veins,
stain the lightning across my chest?

Is there a way to carry my memories on my body?
Give them a physical weight, make them vibrant against the
canvas of my flesh? A way to trail the tears down my landscape
so that they puddle into nothingness about my feet?

If there is a way, tattoo your song into my wrists.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

The Goddess of Storms

The ocean rose, like a salty tongue, to lick the shoreline. The sky was bleached alabaster white, marbled with gray clouds that threatened more than rain. The voice of thunder rumbled as though it came from below one's feet. The beach seemed to be turned to miles of salt, white against the white of the sky against the blanched waves.
It was a perfect day for a battle.

The Mer-king reared up from the depths, seaweed woven into his crown, his scepter glowing a hot red. He roared in challenge and shook his fist at the bleached sky.

As if in response, the clouds darkened and opened to reveal a staircase of swirling gold. Stepping down from the sky, the Goddess, radiant in all her prismatic splendor, looked about, as if to ask who might dare to disturb her stormy preparations.

Spying the Mer-king, flanked on either side by a battalion of mer-men, she laughed. The sound was like the tinkling of rain against window panes, like sunlight jumping off of water. Unamused, the Mer-king raised a haughty salute and heaved a jagged breath. It was all a game. Petty disruptions in prelude to the ultimate conquest; her heart.

Every autumn, before the winter winds twined their icy fingers about his throat, he and the Goddess danced about one another. They raged at one another, fiercer combatants never before seen. The storms they created ravaged continents, broke open the earth, drowned the cities.

And, in the calm after they had battled to the brink of death, he would woo her. Pleading prettily that she join him below the lightning shattered waves. She would laugh, that beautiful musical laugh, and she would kiss him before she would disappear in the rain drenched sky.

This time he was determined. Determined that the destiny he was promised by the Sea Witch would be his. That he would be crowned the God of Sea and Sky, consort to the Goddess of Storms.

This time, when he took her in his embrace, she would find herself within the sea's embrace as well. She would preside over sparkling pearl palaces, gardens of brightly coloured plants glowing in the depths and his heart.

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Waiting for Someday

"Patience, child."

They all say that. They all want me to be content with this lot in life; be content with the speed of scummy pond water.

"Patience is a virtue, child."

They don't understand how impossible it is to be patient when you know that just beyond the horizon line is LIFE. Not the 'life' you've been living lately. Not the 'life' they have planned for you.

"Be patient." they say.

Its just noise. How can you be happy on the ground when you were meant to fly? How is it that no one else can see that? Don't they know that those words are as heavy as chains dragging you under the waves?

"Life will come when it will."

But isn't life what you make it? This life was meant to be lived, why wait to live it?

I'm not waiting for someday.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Imperfect God

I am not looking to be saved.
Nor, am I looking to be rescued.

I don't need someone to come in and die for my sins.

I need someone who is willing to stand by me through the hard times.
I need someone who is willing to hold my hand through the worst times.

I don't need a God that exists somewhere in the ether.
Possibly listening to me,
Maybe answering,
Maybe not.

Maybe forgiving,
Maybe hateful,
I don't need that.

I need someone who can be God in flesh.
Someone who forgives me,
Someone who loves me,
Someone who takes care of me.
And who is willing to stand by me no matter what happens.

I don't need omnipotence.
I need closeness.
I don't need foreknowledge of what's going to happen.
I need... I need vision.

I need vision to look forward and say,
"Maybe this will happen and maybe it won't, but, no matter what happens, I'll be here."

And the God in Christianity doesn't give me that.
The God of Islam does not give me that.
Buddha doesn't give me that.
None of the Gods give me that.

None of the Gods are FLESH.

I need someone who can hold me when I'm crying.
I need someone who can wipe my tears away.
I need someone to be in love with;
Not just metaphorically speaking.

I don't need righteousness.
I don't need blessedness.

I need fallibility.

I don't want perfect.
I'm an imperfect being.
I want an imperfect God.

Its so much easier to love a God who has fallen short,
than it is to love one who has never fallen at all.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Writing Exercise: The Statue of Liberty

Phil stood on Ellis Island taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty. It was a fairly
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.

"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.

"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.

"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.

"Wondering if you would like,"

"Yes, if you would like to,"

"Join us for a tour!"

They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.

"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.

"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.

"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.

"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.

"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.

Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.

"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.

"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.

"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.

"Hey!" he cried, struggling.

From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.

Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.

"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.

Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

No Rhyme, nor Reason

In my, brief, lifetime there have been many battles lost and won; over hearts come undone and rewoven; over stories that have yet to be spoken into being; over blessings and curses, tears and verses.

Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.

Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.

Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.

Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.

Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Female Liberation: Part 1

In rolling red script
the declarations proclaimed that a
woman's life was profane. With
sadistic glee they began the purge,
chortling in delight as they
raped, pillaged and purged.

Some they kept alive, for how
else would their population thrive,
but it was decreed that no
female babies would be kept
alive. Mothers, sisters, aunts,
daughters and friends were
each dragged away for no
other sin than that of being womankind.
The smoke from the pillars
let off a dark and foul stench,
tangled with cries to "burn the
wretched wench!"

The gallows bowed under the
weight of so much female weight.
The ones to be kept were corralled,
collared and caged. They were
given numbers instead of names.
The were fed, but they were
starved. They were kept healthy for
breeding and when a woman was
deemed infertile she was
executed with no remorse.

For a century they were enslaved by
the men in power. For a century they
struggled. (All the centuries of female
liberation and female power shattered.)

One night, in the quivering darkness, a
woman, once named Amira now called
number 27, prayed to the goddess, her
tears pleading.

"O great and wonderful goddess, please
send a one who will save us from this
hell. We are faithful to you, please be
faithful to us as well." That night
the Goddess heard, as if for the first
time, the cries of the harmed. She
wept at the chaos caused and the
cruelty of such caustic laws.

So, when the breeding season came,
she caused a soft rain to ensure
feminine seeds. Her magic was gentle
and pervasive, calming even the most
hostile of the delegates.