The Way We Built Bridges"You waste too much time on your words." You once told me.
"No," I replied "you don't waste enough time on words. Words are a tool to you, not a treat. A pragmatic means of communicating, bargaining, exchanging vital snippets of information. Calm down. Stop speaking so fast. We're not fighting a war (not us, not here). You don't prune and select your language. You've forgotten how to roll it around on your tongue, or try it on for size. Revel in rolling Rs, or the sweetness of a string of vowels and consonants, arranged in such a way to create more beauty than you ever thought possible.
Language can be a delicacy to contrast your paltry recital of data. You should try it."
she was everyoneshe wrote useless phrases on her wrists andshe was everyone4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hipbones because she wanted to be
she would count her ribs under the
sheets wondering what she might do if there was suddenly
one less than the night before.
she wanted to find meaning in the smell of rain
and the darkness of her room but
the only place she found truth was at the bottom
of the beer bottle and the space
between his hands and inside of her thighs.
she was bitter that it was only beer she could stomach -
it seemed she could not even be beautiful in the
destroyed lost sense of the word.
she couldn't get to sleep before
scabs that were prone to bleed appeared on
her knees and feet.
she was afraid of dying then, when she bled and
no one noticed.
she became sick of veiled comparisons, metaphors for
symbols that did not explain what she was seeking.
she wanted to tell someone that when she said
she felt like burning down her house,
it did not mean
i am angry at my parents for raising me poorly and
this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting:this is about forgetting3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
For weeks you bury your face in the clothes you wore when he was near and the smell is a comfort and a torture. You decide that the torture is not worth the comfort so you leave them draped across the back of a chair and place things on top of them to stop yourself until one day you shove your hands through the pile until your fingers wrap around the fabric and you yank it free only to realize it was pointless. Even his ghost is gone.
The next thing that leaves is the way his voice looked in the dark. Those few sentences become blurred and rough around the edges. What you remember drops in your stomach in a different way.
You run your fingers over your
Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.Elegy Of A Lost Season4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tiny beads running down my neck;
hateful, so hateful - ignored, as you ensnared my senses.
You were summer, too
cradled in the branches of oak,
bright enough to burn my eyes and scorch my skin,
but never close enough to touch.
Until in your arms, I became summer,
and the sun could not outshine us.
But now I am winter -
numb and cold, faded, stripped and desolate;
people are peoplei think sometimes we forget that whenever we say goodbye to someone for the night and they go home, they don't just fold up in their cars and lie dormant until we see them again.people are people4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
they go home and get into a fight with their mother, make a peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich and only eat half of it, and toss the rest in the trash. they flip on their favorite cd and pretend that they are in another town, far away where people see them as a person and not just this two dimensional character cut-out of wood and existing only to tell stories and smile.
and then they fall asleep and dream about flying and breathing clearly without a catch in their chest that can only be fixed with a strong hug.
we keep forgetting that people are people and that they are full of colors and feelings and thoughts, because any other day they are just gray faces only highlighted when we need them.
a stranger in the car across the intersection is only that, someone we don't know and don't really care about u
After TuesdayElizabeth,After Tuesday3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will not live like this anymore.
There's a small Universe to the West,
that sits idle in Autumn,
I will be there.
Hinged on all sides,
by suicide maples
that fall from the trees like droplets of blood,
and that old Raven
(the blackbird that taught us Canasta
on the lawns by Cedars Lodge,)
he hovers quietly above me there, in the azure sky
like a guardian,
and those two shining moons Elizabeth,
the ones we happened upon
through the windowpanes,
between our screams and shouts last Tuesday night,
in this Universe, those moons weep misty vanillas
across a falling horizon and I am free,
yes, I will be there, in the West.
And when I am there, Elizabeth,
you cannot hurt me.
they blame the snowthe snow falls angrily here, fat flakes frosting the world in white around his boots. his name doesn't matter. it isn't important that he fell in love at seventeen; that it's been a year since he first wrote about her mint-tea eyes; that he's now staring at the clouds wishing his heart could be as frozen. it won't make any difference, tomorrow, that he'll open his eyes to a room filled with portraits of her and still be pained by her laughter in his head. it's snowing, and she's missing, and all he wants to do is melt with the frost beneath a seven a.m. sunrise because he might not be awake enough to remember. and maybe he'll blow-pen her smile into the snow and tell the world that for one second, an angel touched down beside him and lent him her wings.they blame the snow5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the snow flurries lazily here, a cold sleet of mixed feelings and unresolved goodbyes as she stares at the rock in her hand. her name is coral and it matters, because he
SWS 28 - Modern ReadingBookshelf full - bought e-Reader.SWS 28 - Modern Reading4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
quiet'horricos' was the first word to pass her lips. she wrote long before she could speak and her parents were afraid she was mute. they didn't care that at a young age she was able to write- simply that their child was different; wrong. after she spoke her first word they inquired to what it meant. she looked at them with wonder and a sadness not to be felt by such a young little soul and did not say a word. they got angry at her and stormed off, spewing hurtful words that meant little to her. after she spoke her first word she did not speak again for a long time.quiet4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
'horricos' was the only word she spoke at her fathers funeral. she was now in her teens and the fact that she never spoke put people off more than before. as a little girl her parents brushed it off as a phase to all their friends. brushing her off. however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that she was different; wrong. her writing was now polished and eloquent and her teachers wondered how it was possibl
My six-word memoirBorn in a snowstorm. Still cold.My six-word memoir4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Two Pennies and a DimeTwo pennies and a dime sit at the bottom of the wishing well. The well was an ordinary well, until the pair decided this should not be so.Two Pennies and a Dime6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She declared that she had never visited a wishing well and that logic insisted all unclaimed wells were to become wishing wells, and he was inclined to agree. It was decided that only very important wishes should be wished at the well, lest the power of the wishing well be drained (for who knows how much power a previously unclaimed well holds?).
They went about their chores, homework, and other such experiences, and never once forgot about the wishing well. It was a full year, to the day-and-a-half, before the first wish was thrown into the well, and he was informed that he must stand at least twenty-three feet away while she made the wish, because if anyone but the well heard the wish go in, it might never be granted. The same secretive process occurred six-and-three-quarters years later, and he stood quietly behin
love is coming home--i don't write about God.love is coming home--4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's
eleven oak treesits funny, the things you remember when someone is taken away from you.eleven oak trees5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
you hold everything you loved and you try so hard to stop it slipping through your fingers but it eventually does, and all that is left are the snippets the snapshots of all your memories horrid and lovely, compiled like a montage
it is three am, wednesday morning, and i'm standing, watching my mother, half sitting, half lying, sprawled out with her arms above her head in the darkened hall way, my father towering over her. I don't really remember what he looks like. He was tall, with dark hair and deep set eyes, shrouded by thick eyelashes and adorned by the beginning of crow's feet. he had a crooked smile that i used to love, with slightly yellowing teeth and dark stubble that grew from his jawline and made me laugh when he would kiss me goodnight. i remember her distorted, screaming face and my learned helplessness as tears graced my smooth, seven year old cheeks.
a year earlier, i remember s
stuck like glueit started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.stuck like glue4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.
but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.
and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to each other [maybe because he always slept right through the lesson]. but late at night they would spend hour upon hour talking to each other, and she would struggle to keep her eyes open so that she wouldn't have to say goodnight, because she knew, after not very long at all, that he was special.
and for months they were like that - best friends, talkin
MemoriesI remember lying in bed with you, longing for a deeper connection. You would always sleep with your back to me, in an almost fetal position, as if you were physically guarding your heart. All I wanted was to touch those scars that ran down the center of your chest, but you told me you were not okay with someone else's heart beating within you so I let it be. The look in your eyes when you woke up in the morning; the sleepy surrealness of a dream playing at the corner of your lips, and the early morning light goldenly surrounding your messy hair like a halo was enough to quench any thirst I had for you. It was enough to resonate in me for a long while, and I saw through your eyes, at least I believe I did, for a split second.Memories3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I remember how much you loved to drink and make sweet tea. You always told me that the more you add to a recipe the more love it would reflect. You would always warn to only add equal amounts of cinnamon and nutmeg because it was vital that one not overpower the ot
bad timing.you sat next to me on a crowded bus. you told me you were in love with a girl three thousand miles away but she didn't love you back. you told me she could of but you had bad timing and told her you loved her too late. you were a stranger then and you are still a stranger now. i told you one time i was in love and now because of it i cant listen to certain songs and i cry myself to sleep some nights. you told me that i should find a new person to love because it eases the pain.bad timing.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
you asked for a phone number to call me at. then you asked me to be your friend. i told you i wasn't good at that. you told me you would call me despite the fact.
you called me three days later at six oh three in the morning. my alarm clock had just gone off and i answered the phone to a voice i hardly recognized from our ten minute conversation. you said 'hi, my name is andrew and we met on a bus.' i told you that my name was stella and asked you why you were calling so early. 'i thought of something funny, a j
Ghosts on Magnetic Tape And you know that I love you,Ghosts on Magnetic Tape1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
here and now,
but never for forever;
The future is not, and it never will be.
What We Love
When I was born,
I opened my eyes.
I said, “I am value in a world of appreciation.”
Thine Sanctum, Darkness
There are two kinds of people in this world,
black and white,
Those terrified of darkness,
Who scurry to shoo it away with the sob of a lamp,
As unable to cross their boundaries as they are
Unable to see beyond them.
His Big BreakAssigned a non-speaking role.His Big Break2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Something Like a :Love: PoemThe day I knew,Something Like a :Love: Poem4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the air smelled like stale paper
and abandoned classics,
and the sun, pulsing
with the pain of a summer
rushed too soon,
shriveled our skin
The week was probably
with a snail,
melting into oblivion
as we attempted to rearrange
soaring through our neurons
into something resembling
Perched atop the varicose
vein of a tree-shaped
you surveyed our
plastic while grumbling
about current affairs
and the sorry state
Your feet were
of mud pies
and I could
the asphalt's uneven kiss
against your sole
looked a little
I couldn't know for sure,
since I'd never
until a slippery Wednesday afternoon
drenched in destiny like it was
when you dragged an
from a warm down-
and flung her into
To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady greyTo His Coy Mistress[es]2 years ago in Letters More Like This
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astringent, fine-boned cheeks seeking nothing less than perfection. your tiger soul knows your worth, seductive and mysterious; in the autumn, you remind me of leaves ripe with color, falling from my desperate touch: a distant lover.
you are the sun's daughter birthed by soil, a celestial soothing who blooms
Burning In The Morningi feel like being angry andBurning In The Morning4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
periodically i get
flashes of a heat that
singes my split ends and
makes it hard to breathe because
i don't do well with madness
although i'm always mad [in a
sense, my darling] but
anger? anger? i've never
felt this anger, not like this
usually so complacent so heartfelt
so soft i'm so soft, i'm
i'm pathetic and i'm tempted to
kiss embers into your esophagus.
i'm pathetic and i'm temped to
murder you with my fiery love/hate.
oh, but hate is too strong of a word
to be used on a firefly such as yourself.
my body is a funeral servicethis morning i emptied your ashes into the sky, hoping to watch them sift through my fingers like an eagle taking flight. but the wind carried them backwards and my face became an ashtray for memories. you came back to me, like you always do, like a kiss or a reoccurring dream that i can never forget. i became cloaked in black grain, the remnants of your body. your cremated smile was caught somewhere between the stinging in my eyes and the ash on my jacket.my body is a funeral service3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
in that moment my body became a funeral service. my lips preached your names to the trees. i forgot what it was like to feel anything but hymns pressing down on my back like the heat of the sun. i smelled of incense and bones burning in a fire people are paid to create. it was more than i could bear. for weeks, i obsessed on how someone could lift a motionless shell of a body into an inferno, watch people die a second time and accept their paycheck at the end of the day.
i wanted to step into that crematorium and pluck pulses like f
FFM 7I don't approve of your new lifestyle. I know they say couples need separate interests, but you like opera and I like pop - that's enough. I know you're a strong, independent woman. I don't even object to the serial killing, really; just the vital organs in Tupperware containers in the fridge. It's not hygenic.FFM 74 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Six Words, Six WivesScrewed.Six Words, Six Wives4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Yours ConditionallyLook, this isn't what you were expecting,Yours Conditionally4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What you wanted, what you asked me for.
This isn't about you and me and us and we,
Or about how I simply couldn't survive
Without you in my life (because I have
All these years before), or how I couldn't
Breathe without you near (once again, I've
Done just fine thus far).
There are no cliches to be had,
I admit. There is no symbolism,
Dying roses paradoxically representing
Our undying love, or archetypes in which you,
The knight in lackluster armour, save this damsel
Who is quite distressed by your quixotic notions.
This isn't filled with secret strolls under the
Milky moonlight, dancing under the stars, and
Showing each other our scars to bring us closer.
This paper will not be scented with my perfume
Or your indefinable scent, nor will it be stained
With bitter tears to the point where it's almost
Illegible- in a romantic sort of way, of course.
It isn't about how I spend my nights looking
For you where you can't be found,