this is about forgettingThis is the thing about forgetting:
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
SmokeYou smoked, and everyone hated that. The cigarette would hang loose between your knuckles, tendrils of smoke mimicking the tracery of veins and tendons that stood out along the back of your hand. You could do the most graceful French inhales, and sometimes you'd lean in close and grab me and kiss me, blowing warm smoke into my mouth. The scent would always cling to meI'd drag it back home with me and there would always be a fight over it.Smoke2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You were sparrowlike, all taut pale skin and prominent bones. Your hipbones jutted slightlysharp elbows, sharp knees, a sharp jaw softened by cornsilk hair. When I ran my fingers down your back I could always feel every vertebra in your spine, a steel column anchoring you down. More smoke. More fights at home. You never belonged here and never would.
Lay back. Relax. Anythinganything you want. I'd close my eyes and forget to breathe because I knew you weren't mine. If anything, I was yours, a toy that trembled and kissed back.
Bedroom HymnsHer heart pounds as he takes her,Bedroom Hymns2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And his back arches as she takes control.
It’s a deadly spiral,
One that will lead to angry words and violent hands.
For now though they’re an endless tangle of limbs and emotions.
They say love is the cruelest poison,
And others whisper it’s the kindest venom.
He knows it is slowly killing him,
And she has already accepted the misery.
So she rakes her nails down his back,
And he leaves ink like bruises upon her hips.
Her hair tangles in his crushing grip,
And she draws blood from his neck.
They move fast,
She seeks wicked retribution,
He inflicts angry words.
When they finish,
They fall silent.
Breath is stolen,
Hearts are pounding.
She leaves first,
Just like the rest will.
And he never looks back,
poemhere i lay beside youpoem2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gazing upon you bare before me
and in the curves of your body i can see my future unraveling
every pore in your skin a new adventure
every other centimeter calling out
waiting to be touched
and i cannot resist
i cannot withhold
the desire within me
to embark on a voyage through you
filling every crevise
until i can recall each piece of you as if it were my own
and end my journey
resting my head upon the peaks of your breasts
able to hear your heartbeat
like a song that only sounds when we are together
telling us that in this moment
it is only us
and will remain that way forever
B e a u t i f u l.Tears roll down her cheeksB e a u t i f u l.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and he kisses them away lovingly;
she flinches warily from his touch.
He takes her chin between his fingers,
turning her face up to his own.
Don't look at me.
Her beautiful blue eyes swim.
He is confused.
Why not, darling?
A sob wracks her body,
along with a fresh wave of tears.
His eyes fill with loving concern.
You're not ugly.
He leans closer -
a soft gasp escapes her -
their faces inches apart.
You're beautiful, baby.
He kisses her soft lips,
and for the first time in her life
she feels utterly beautiful.
Lie to meWanting you even though deep down I know I can't have itLie to me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Ok lets pretend this never happened
Like I never spoke to you
Like I never had a million thoughts about you
Lets make-believe I did the things I knew I should
I knew I could have been good
I could have been right, and not encouraged this mess
Now I sit alone and watch lost in distress
Walked away and I cant stop thinking
I try not close my eyes but I can't stop blinking
You're everything and more
Never felt this way before
Loving you doesn't seem to be a possibility
I wish I could take advantage of this opportunity
Always on my mind, you could make everything all right
And I want you too, but you could move on with your life
I couldn't look away when I walked through the door
Had a taste now I'm begging for more
love letters from jesus christjesus christ told me once:love letters from jesus christ2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sweetheart you should be a virgin because your body is a temple, yeah
keep it pale and keep it covered so no one can see your flaws
keep it covered because no one wants to see those insides, sweetie
no one wants to see your kneecaps or your stomach or the scars on the insides of your eyelids
so stay clean, have some fucking self-respect, baby girl
stay better than all those sluts
keep telling yourself this
repeat it like a mantra
but i like to think that i am more naked when i write
when i show you the songs in my head
when i'm sitting in the car with you and i tell you about all the times i've wanted to die
how i'm a slut in a virgin body, how that's all i want to be
the way the words sex and fuck roll off my tongue
like a fucking prayer
like a lord deliver me before i go insane in here
there's a verse in the bible that says don't get a fucking tattoo
i don't remember the logic behind it
but i'd rather be covered in art
than in scars
LW 00: Shadow Heart“Only the dead have seen the end of war.” –George SantayannaLW 00: Shadow Heart3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
No one knows why the wars started. Or when. Or why. Just that they are.
I have been to every part of this universe. My feet have made the ice fields of Ilazki sing. I have felt the burn of the sun on Chromandae. I have spilled blood in the arena of Gegenes and washed my hands in the seas of Icaunus. I have haggled with traders in the bazaar on Adur and felt the thrum of the steam engine trains on Atarrabi. I have even stood on the steps of the Academy of Lugos and heard the hum of the electrified defenses mingle with the quiet chorus of night city sounds.
But, before this, all I remember is waking—
The last remnants of something beautiful had faded away, and then I was abandoned. I was betrayed.
My knees against icy ground, I tried to rub away the red stains on my hands but they were too thick; they
Cursed.You draw me closer, putting your hand on my lower back. I jump at how warm it is. Your other hand reaches up my shirt.Cursed.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I can feel your heart beating, your temperature soaring. Your breath becomes quicker over my lips. You're so close now. Somehow this isn't right, but we keep going.
Our lips press together, a shock passing through us. I loosen, but you tighten. Your hands reach back and undo the latches of my bra. Our lips stopped as yours run down my jawline and eventually to my neck.
We lose our footing, falling onto the bed, you on top of me. You put a leg on each side of my body and start to undo my shirt. I put my hand on your thigh and slowly go up your hip. You shiver at the touch of my cold fingers.
You rip the shirt off of my cold body and stare down at the scars across my torso, silver and glowing. It mesmerises you, which is all that I need.
I grab your hips and throw you on your back. I sit on your stomach, pinning you to the bed. You look up with confusion in your eyes, mi
The Science of Icebergs (working title) It was dark by the time I had made it back to my apartment. The nearby streetlight had long since gone out, and I attempted to open the door with my post box key several times before realizing my mistake. Good thing I only had two keys, not counting the one to the horrible pale blue '98 Camry that managed to occasionally get me where I needed to be. I finally fidgeted my way in and left a trail behind myself—shoes, bag, coat, keys—before collapsing onto the couch.The Science of Icebergs (working title)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It failed to yield to my attempt to sink into it, my body bouncing against the hard cushions.
After a few moments with my hand over my eyes I attempted to sit up but fell back against the arm of the sofa once again. The bulk
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.Memories2 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
the girl with love in her bonesHer lips are a smoky colorthe type of chapped things with paled, cracked edges and words hanging off, clothed by the least incessant whines and the most liberating cries. They're somewhat extended and exemplified through the cigarette in her moutha thin figure held between the sticks of her fingers with filtered lips of its own, ashing edge, a paled body, and a slow burning with every breath. The grayed portions fall off in a dirty, snow rubble on the sidewalk, burning into it, leaving small holes by her feet.the girl with love in her bones3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"I don't understand," I say.
She sighs, breath coming out white, warm in the icy air. "It's a human thing." Her eyes are red, raw around the skin, and her corneas glint blue above the thick smoke, like a cat'sexcept it wasn't darkness, but the exhaust of flameclouds before morning rain, the lights of a city blaring through the smog of night.
"I still don't understand."
"It's liberating," she says, and I can see her eyes on mine. Her nose is flushed red lik
The Way We Built Bridges"You waste too much time on your words." You once told me.The Way We Built Bridges3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
"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."
CharlieI had a stalker.Charlie2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
a confession1. in eleventh grade, our teacher told us disney was fucked up. she showed us some video where all these little girls said they felt bad for belle, but if she had listened to beast, she would be okay. she should let him hit her so they would be okay. so they could get married. but then all i could think of was how i remembered ariel gave up her fins and her voice for some boy. and all i could think of was how fucked up it was i would give my legs up for you, too, like i was used to strapping them to your thighs. that i learned not to speak, but move and wail. and that’s what love was.a confession2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. meeting you was kind of like meeting that part of myself i had forgotten. like i’d dropped you when i was walking to class one day. then i came back to you, through the arbor of the rain, soaking wet and on my knees, begging, my hair and eyes a collection of weakness and water. and you were a new kind of jesus, complete with blue jeans and a crooked smile, nailed to the bed, your halo a pil
power of jesusshe wore a cross on her neck that fitted between the cleft of each breast, woven down her sternum, even though she had fucked every ungodly thing in sight.power of jesus3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
any time you saw her, moll's hands would be found grasped along its shape, hand pressed to her heart like it was her fucking duty. but she didn't believe in jesus. no one like her could have. you can't have premarital sex and still be loved by the catholic church. from then you are disowned like an unwanted wart; removed, terminated. but she still wore it, and it would irk me to my very bones.
take that thing off, molly.
I think it started with jimmy. he loved her. or we thought he did. he fooled all of us with that whole "you are my love" bullshit. she ate it up. even I did.
he gave her a necklace of the cross jesus was once pinned to, and tortured, proclaiming his compelling love. but when she bounced jimmy upon the pelvic, lying horizontal in her virgin-child bed of pink sheets, wrapped in tangled confusion, he didn't want
The PatientEric sat alone in the sterile white room, humming a tune and tapping his foot in an attempt to pass the time. He looked around the small room for a clock. Finding none, he frowned. Hadn't there been a clock the last time he was here?The Patient5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The door opened and a man walked in. He had black hair and a starched coat, the same pristine white as the walls. Eric looked up at him and smiled.
"Ah, Dr. Chang!" he said brightly.
"Mr. Eric Fleming. You look well. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, I've been having trouble sleeping," said Eric, his grin fading. "I've been feeling alright physically.... I figure it might have to do with stress at work."
Dr. Chang made some quick notes on his clipboard and nodded. "Yes, stress is a common cause of insomnia. Remind me, what is it you do for a living?"
"Accounting. The work just keeps piling up. It seems like I never have enough time, y'know?"
The doctor nodded again. He crouched down to Eric's level and pulled out a stethoscope. "Breath in deep," he sai
Why Peter is not a poet.Cole is eleven. Age matters in October, when twelve is the only difference between the haunted hayride and the shelled corn sandbox. Age matters when a boy says the word "shit" in school (and Cole does). But age doesn't matter when the same boy has both sneakers dangling over the edge of a 250-foot grain silo, his hands sweaty on the rungs, the state of Nebraska breathing vacant and honeyed and infinite below him. For the first time in his life, Cole can't be quantified by the candles on his last birthday cake. Cole is young, but today, he is worth saving. Three facts about Cole:Why Peter is not a poet.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
1. His eyebrows are the most expressive arches his body has to offer.
2. He's so terrified that his very expressive eyebrows are threatening to take up permanent residence in his hairline.
3. He does not have suicidal tendencies, and later understands--for the sake of his mother's heart and Officer Roy's bladder control--that his strategies for
TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.Teatime3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hallan unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door. We're pregnant! White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals and champagne. The last caffeine for the next eight months. Elsa let her keep the cup.
In May, Steve bought a carseat and a crib. Elsa helped him carry it inside. Flat-packed, but heavy. Sturd
always half finishedi can tell you how much i loathe anyone or anything that lingers, even when they're beautiful. My anxiety disorder can't handle any of that. Yet it's been 1 year and 1 month and i'm still stuck in reverse.always half finished2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
nauseated is the prettiest emotion i've felt so far cause for once, i can see an actual physical rejection, rather than these invisible strings snapping on the inside, but never showing even a blemish on the outside.
my screams have begun to ferment as they remain bottled up in what i imagine to be gruesome-colored vials within the shelves of my intestines. each vial must be carrying individual, heart-straining yelps, yelling and sobs from different moments in time yet all having been filled from one source (you).
i have paint swatches in stuck in my journals that i try and match with each of the aches that i can feel from these vials. this blue, is your eyes and this off green is the way they made me feel. color coded aches. maybe then you would have seen this coming.
love is coming home--i don't write about God.love is coming home--3 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
a painting hung all wrong.in a dream.a painting hung all wrong.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
we find him strung up in our garage
washing line taut. neck bulging.
i covered someone's eyes.
stopped them from remembering,
almost familar features
and blue blue blue blue wide open eyes.
where's someone to cover mine?
i mirror you with swollen throat
my voice thick with blood and screaming.
a painting hung all wrong.
This PlaceThis PlaceThis Place3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Something about this place
She's been here before
But with a different face.
They say the world is always changing
So does that mean
It's all about the same?
The blue of heaven
The buildings of men
she remembers the amazement of then
She came for its greatness
He found her in the thick of it
They came with hope and went with tears
Now there's a ring on her finger
And lipstick on his cheek
But just like that, they're here again.
Another game of cat and mouse
Another history lesson to relearn
...Have they not learned?
There must be something with this place
The scent of the air? Or maybe the drink?
Or maybe it's all the same anyway
So hold hands, familiar strangers
Because here, in this place
It doesn't matter to you two anyhow.
stuck like glueit started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.stuck like glue3 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