Friday morning dream

The blue skies in front of me were misleading. Calm and quiet. It seemed like a normal day. A cold gust of wind runs through my hair like fingers, leaving me to peer over my shoulder to get a glimpse of a black sky--black as night. The trees were in the distant shaking like a scared dog. All of the autumn leaves whirl around, a delicate dance--leaving the trees bare and skeletal. Everything I had was disappearing behind me, swallowed by the black sky.

Ahead of me was a rotten wood shed. Sunshine yellow paint flakes would peel off if you brushed up against it. Each step I took towards the frail shed for safety was like dragging a hundred extra pounds. The wind behind me, not like soft fingers anymore--but like rough hands pulling me back. A grain of sand would hit my cheeks, feeling like needles.

I wasn't going to make it into this shed. If perhaps I did, every fiber of the rotting shed would get sucked up into the sky and I'd be along for the ride.

repeat

lonely girl who stares down an empty glass.

barefoot, stuck at home, and sitting on her ass.

dreams too big to swallow
so she closes her eyes til tomorrow.

Brain Storm

My naked body lies in the porcelain white tub. Knees up and head on the hard cold bottom. Staring up at the window, the steam from the hot water blurs the outside world. Hot water crawls up my back and reaches my neck while my hair delicately dances on the surface of the bath water. My skin turns pink from the hot bath while the water gently swallows me. The sound of the faucet water filling the tub slowly muffles then disappears as it creeps inside my ears. I stare at the white ceiling, taking shallow breaths. The thoughts swirling in my mind are for once quiet and numb. The water seeps into the sides of my lips and in my mouth. My eyes fill with the hot burning water and now not only can I not hear, but I can't see. Shallow breaths out of my damp nostrils, soon I wouldn't breathe. Just as the water slides down my nose, burning the back of my throat, I slide my foot over to the plug and pull it. Slowly my sight comes back and I can hear the water being sucked down the drain along with my heart. I watch the condensation on the window roll down like tears and I get up. I stare at the foggy mirror, where my reflection would be, watching as the steam slowly disappears and I can see myself again.

the birth and death of love and lust

My veins rotting with lust and taunting desire.
My heart, unfiltered, pumping pungent incurable passion.
Devouring every molecule of my flesh,
Like a drug dragging through my blood.
Conceiving thoughts of your soft lips trickling down my neck.
Our legs tangled together.
Our hearts racing like hummingbirds.
Feverish face turning pink, breathing as if each breath were my first.

We have become but only rotten fruit,
To the touch we fall apart.
No reviving.
No resurrection.
Just a mess of desolate decaying matter that was
Once a fresh ripe
Savory decadent ecstasy.

Now there lies our dead weary plod of unity
Like a corpse under the floorboard.
A nervous havoc.
The stench of our dead future still
Haunts me as I crawl into my cold empty bed
Where once your warm body welcomed me.

Indulgence of your venom.
My heart seems to ache for you, to be an empty vessel
Yet I can see the gleaming end of this murky tunnel.
But still look in the other direction in disbelief.
Compulsively tormenting myself.

Brick By Brick

Brick one. My father thought I was a lie. Here was my mother impregnated and he had eyes for someone else. He was through with us. He was tired of looking at my mother's bruised face and hopeful eyes. My brother was three at the time and I was a little egg fertilized by mistakes in a womb of disaster. If I was just a lie like he thought, I would have saved my mother and brother from years of misery. But there I was. Implanted in a whirlpool of love and hate, expected late august in a belly that brought everyone back together only to be haunted and buried in fear for the rest of our lives.

Brick eight. I remember the days we did chores and got a few bucks at the end of the week. I think I emptied the dishwasher and fed the cats, set the table, you know, the things little girls are trained to do to be prepared to be a pregnant and barefoot housewife cleaning her home with dinner on the table. Which means my brother did the boys stuff like mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, feeding the dogs. But at the end of the week we'd get those few dollars that made it all worth it. My brother would burn holes in his pockets while I saved every penny since the day I could count change. My eyes have always been clouded by hopes and dreams to buy my escape. It was my little secret, my way out in that glass piggy bank on my dresser. Sometimes my piggy bank would get so full and I'd feel so proud and hopeful and then my father would empty it out, every penny and promising to pay it back one day. He'd return later that night, stumbling in drunk and belligerent looking for my mother. I'd lock myself in my room, in my closet or under my bed and try to make sense of what was going on outside of my room. I knew. He had used my money, which were my hopes, to poison his mind with whiskey and place his hurt into my mother's face. He emptied my hopes into his wallet for several years after that.

Brick 14.



Brick 27.



Brick 39.

Time Travel

Staring at a photograph of myself in my early teens... long blonde hair, a cross necklace. I was innocent. I was sweet. I was full of hope. Then I look at myself now. I won't step foot in a church. I chopped off my long pretty, blonde locks and colored my hair a black noir. I've made a lot of mistakes. I've smashed a few hearts. I've done everything I said I would never do. I can't help but stare at that girl, and the girl I am now and wonder how they could be the same person, pump the same blood through the same heart. I can't help but think about that girl, buried and gone. I am but only the weeds growing out of her, growing and forming into nothing but a plant to be ripped up and tossed away.

Hunting a hunter

It wasn't you I couldn't let go of. It was me. I was just like you. I was always going to run the other way too. I was always going to slither away without trying to wake anyone. I was always going to be the unattainable. I wasn't the cat. I'm the mouse who runs. Not the hunter, but the prey who runs for dear life.