It's a creeping painA slow patient pain The layers thicken Before they flake
Her hiding place dissolves The past becomes now Her hands become putty Weakness cradled by pain
She is numb Held hostage by unconsciousness His want replaces love Her love replaces anger
An inebriate coupling A black mark on a porcelain surface Giving in giving up As hope melts to softness
She sleeps in the bosom of regret But upon awakening Her hands are strong again Recovered by night's forgiving embrace.
I'm still learning who I am
A woman
With boyish handwriting
A voracious appetite
Nothing is ever enough
I want to shake harder
Sleep more but lie supine less
Do more
Be more
Dare I say have more
Know more
Write more
Back when I drank
Drink more.
A woman
Open to womanhood
As a map
To joy.
For more modern life poetry please follow this blog or subscribe in a reader.
Written for Trifecta. Quiet little Kat had 16 years of living under her cinched belt when she caught the eye of Rory Reynolds. The boy who ran the popular crowd with a toss of his shaggy blonde bob. The teacher had assigned Rory and Kat as partners in Food Tech. Together they burnt the creme brûlée and over-salted the croissants and devoured shiny cinnamon rolls. He got frisky and grabbed her wrist to lick stray icing off of her pinky finger, no thicker than a pencil. The act of wrapping his rugged hand around her childlike wrist aroused desire in an unnatural place. He could snap her in half by flexing his football-enhanced arm. He wanted to know how small every part of her would be.
"There's a party on Saturday. At Chuck Fisher's house. You should come."
"I don't know him."
"He's my buddy. I can invite whoever I wanna."
"I'm not much of a party girl."
His fingers continued to encapsulate her wrist. He turned her hand around and began tracing the creases on her palm with his finger.
"You can bring a friend."
"Maybe."
He scribbled his number on the back of her hand, blue pen scraping blue veins.
"Call me if you want a ride."
She enlisted her best friend to tag along, a heavy girl with greasy bangs and thick glasses. They sat in the corner like spies, like mice so tiny they were invisible. Until Rory took her by the wrist to an upstairs bedroom with yellow walls. He pinned her against the bed, his breath severe with stale whiskey. He kissed her and she kissed him back. When he started tugging on her jeans, she asked him to stop.
"Let me go!"
He grunted. She thrashed.
"Stop!"
Moans converged, pleasure festooned by pain.
"You're an animal!"
He looked up and growled.
"You better believe it."
Errant words of wisdom mosey through my mindStrutting like rhinestones, sparkling but weak I kiss them hello with lips that will curse them Roused by sincere reverence that fades by tomorrow.
I am no hypocrite. I am someone with dreams Smooth and supple on the inside, pretty on the outside Lungs crimson with blood rather than charred with Smoke and fire and tumors stocked with poison.
The church says to confess and repent and be healed But God already knows every heart I've broken, so I tell them to go to hell, they say I'm going there soon I say we might be here already.
There's no escaping destiny when it's contained by Sagebrush and juniper trees, tumbleweeds and desert breezes Stale motel rooms where a companion costs extra Even the pizza man if he comes in and shuts the door.
God does not want me to heal, God wants me to Bruise and bleed so I can slip out of this body and Into another. Maybe my soul was not ripe enough for now Maybe this valley leads to a mountain with a view.
When I climb out from under my skin, the scars will stay Dissolving with the defiled flesh of a hypocrite A liar, a thief, a charlatan, a childless mother. Everything temporary like this body I never learned to love.
It tugs on your lapels like aNeedy child needing you and only You, traveling through brain mass Finding new spaces to fill, breaking Your life into two neat pieces. One for the addiction, another for Everything else, everything that matters. You hold the pieces together with your knees, Careful not to move your hips, gambling on The outcome, the hit, the blow, the shot. You reel, you breathe differently, you feel The new space where the cracks have widened And the vapor rushes in like epoxy or Super glue, which always does a better job sewing Your fingers together than the fractures.
Black coffee sweatArmpits moldy Whisky shit Eyes varicose gray
Wrinkled knee caps Nits clinging Scabby lips Nose drips red
Bones protrude white Cavities hungry Purple nails Crescent-shaped spine
Nappy curled sweater Underwear cut Soulless shoes Shit-stained pants
Stomach scraping whining Fingers fumbling Cracked toes Fissures pulsing pain
Mind body numb Spirit fighting Choked heart Hands stretched searching.