CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.
The Only Thing Missing Is You7:55 PMThe Only Thing Missing Is You1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
you would have liked today. we went upstate like we used to, to the woods. i know it's been a while since you've seen the trees but they're as pretty as ever. they're just starting to fall. i wish you could have been there.
i always wait for a reply from you, haha. then i remember
anyway, we took a walk down to this lake too. there were rope swings hanging from a tree nearby and we froze our asses off swinging for nearly twenty minutes. i swear it felt like we were floating.
hell, it was everything you used to love
it's funny, on the ride home i was practically falling asleep, but now i can't even shut my eyes
it's just... it's not fair
whenever i skipped a rock i remembered the first time i taught you how, and how excited you got. every time i said i was cold i remembered the way you would call me a baby, but give me your hat anyway. we even walked on the same paths we used to take, and everything is the same. the trees are st
32:3I poked holes into my palms32:31 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
when it came time to pray.
Hoping that maybe some of the holy liquid
into the cathedral floors
and into bones holding up sinners &
saints. I thought
God would understand my sentiment of knowing
departed people and the segments
that drove them mad.
The Sundays that stood churchless
in the yard, outside by dad's
always told me stories of the whale
that swallowed the man that swallowed
his pride that ate his faith
and ended up a new whale with hands
as big as baskets.
To this day he hands out bread
in his fresh-baked book of poems
and waits for me to poke more
tiny holes into my tiny hands.
Half-praying a please.
every chance i didn't take IIYou tell him about your cancer on a Sunday,every chance i didn't take II2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
in the shower of all places, in between brunch plans
and speculations about whether or not the weather
will ever get any colder - hasn't it been the strangest November?
Just the strangest.
You casually mention that somewhere
deep in the secret space between your hips
your own cells are proliferating uncontrollably,
whispering treason and passing down forgeries,
teaching each other the steps of mitosis with alarming intent.
You don't miss a beat as you drop survival percentages
mixed in with tomorrow's rain forecast
and predictions about the game later that afternoon -
easy as breathing, even as counterfeit armies
shred through the soft tissue just below
his favorite place on your spine.
And as you stand there
calmly making conversation
and sharing the last of the soap,
he watches the water
run quiet rivers
through your hair.
the center of the universewhen i die, the earth will remain unchanged.the center of the universe1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
mountains will still soar above the plains, and
the moon will stay in control of the oceans,
repeating its orbit around our planet.
when i die, cities in africa will remain the same.
buildings will not tumble to the ground, and
the citizens will go about their daily lives,
repeating their orbit around the sun.
IntensityCoffee: two creams, one sugar, one Sweet 'n' low. Pancakes: short stack. Side of bacon. Every Tuesday and Thursday. 9am.Intensity3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The order never changed, though sometimes he would ask for extra syrup, but it was only on the mornings when he came in with unkempt hair and stubble on his high-boned, ruddy cheeks. Those were the rough mornings, the mornings when caloric intake was not on his mind. They weren't often: he was usually very meticulous. Only the occasional day would arise when you could tell the morning had not gone as it should have. My heart ached for him on these days.
He only ever came on Tuesday and Thursday: he didn't have to be in the office (he worked for a mortgage company) until 10am on those days, instead of the usual 9 o'clock. He took the extra hour to have a proper breakfast, even if there were days when he clearly could have spent more time on his morning hygiene practices rather than rushing to a diner. The vainer part of myself thought that he always showed up for me,
Raven and the Dove ****** MY FIRST DD!! ******Raven and the Dove1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Cry mercy, and remember
(though locked with a key)
in this place, called memory.
Where truth is bounty, thou can'st not run
yet it be born unto misery.
The dove flies with the raven
dark with light;
together, they shant exist...
As the wind in the hand, face answereth to water
and the sands spill forth of the fist...
If life be like unto love without thee
than rather, I'd die this day;
my only true love, for whom I am born
through wrong choice my heart knows the grave.
As a firery arrow pierced to the heart
by this, my love awakened
to witness the cruelty engulfed in his soul
by essence, we are forsaken...
Be thou forever therefore, vigilant!
With a steadfast eye;
Give thyself unto, 'her' care.
Let dove behold dove - through the heaven's light
THE CRYS OF HELL
should the raven be there.
VerbatimOn June seventeenth at 2:33 PM, Jacob Fantana falls off the roof and hits his head. This is the approximate time that Cory later gives him. It is a particularly nasty fall: The house they had been roofing is two stories, built on a hill. At the hospital, the doctors wreathe thick gauze around Jake's head and subject him to a series of tests. Rachel cries as Dr. Dubey explains that x-ray computed tomography has revealed a mild skull fracture and bruising on his inferior frontal gyrus. Jake stares without interest at the diagrams and fiddles with his bandages. He attempts to console Rachel, but he is embarrassed, and worried about his insurance copay.Verbatim1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
They keep him overnight for observation. As Rachel drives him home the next day, she repeatedly reaches over to touch Jake's hand on the armrest. He smiles politely and grasps her fingers in return. Through the window, he watches the bland streets of Sandusky pass by. The brakes on Rachel's Lumina whine quietly at every stoplight. Ja
Foggy-HeadedThe rattling breath of the air conditioning unit lofts chilled gusts on my bare arms, ignites a chill in my heart. My eyes glazed hours ago from the stark mixtures of ink on vellum and pixels glowing angrily, incessantly on screen. My mind is fogged and unfocused and days like today I doubt whether anyone is actually talking to me, so I listen only to the scrawl of my pen on paper and my joints popping their applause for choice movement.Foggy-Headed1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
letters on leaving.i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.letters on leaving.1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
and i was never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
but i'm finally learning a different kind of bravery-
the kind it takes to
i learned to wear death
like rope burn my junior year
my senior year we became friends
but i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrists
when i finally realized death never arrives on time,
i started smoking when i turned 18
to speed his arrival
because somedays, 15 less earth rotations around the sun sounds like a blessing.
2 years later I'm still learning to let the self destructive habits go
I stopped smoking again
threw the knife away and closed the toilet lid.
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchinfive.1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
Best Damn WomanWhen I was younger, my home life wasn't really conducive to having friends. My only friend for most of my life was my cousin. We were only a few months apart in age, but we felt like twins. Finished each others' sentences, would text the same things to each other at the same time, could sense when the other was in pain or just needed a pick me up. We invaded each others' lives and were the last person we each said "I love you" to at the end of the day.Best Damn Woman1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
A little over a year ago, she was killed in a car wreck along with her husband. But there are times I still get those feelings. Still want to grab my phone and send a text. Sometimes, I've actually sent the text and then I wonder who the person is on the receiving end. They've never responded. Not sure what I'd do if I did get a response.
I miss her more than I've ever missed anything. Even her faults. Like when she'd take over my house and force me to do something I didn't want to do. Joining dA was one of those take overs.&
words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,words to say to your reflection2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.
Mo (1,315w) The first time they met, Mo smiled. In her head, the girl knew that smile was one that the world would call “ugly”; however, she was still a child so her heart was bigger. Her heart smiled back.Mo (1,315w)2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was a wintry Friday in February. Beth was almost thirteen—possibly the worst almost in a girl’s process of growing up, the almost of never catching a break from her own mirror and wishing her body would just make up its mind already. She poked at her soggy corn flakes and plucked at the itchy new strap of her bra. Wished her breasts were either big enough to actually make some shape, or small enough that she wouldn’t have to bother. Her parents lounged their way into a late morning with black coffee and yesterday’s crossword puzzles. This was a typical family snow day: nothing out of the ordinary was supposed to happen in t
The Sum of InfinityI don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.The Sum of Infinity1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
until you came along.
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
and I'm still not sure if we have.
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
and hoping you'll return.
Never intending to fall in love,
we were an item
before you knew my name.
She reclaimed you,
you still belong to me
by virtue of the ampersand connecting our names
in the mind of every person
who watched us walk,
tall & short,
monochrome & kaleidoscope,
yin & yang,
through the winding, leaf-littered pathways
that are our life.
Glass MemoriesDearly Beloved,Glass Memories2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Hey, love, it’s me again. It’s winter now – the icy wind throws itself at these stained cinderblock walls but to no avail; a wall works both ways.
A year has passed since I last spoke with you – a year already! No, I’m sure it was yesterday – a Monday.
I never did like Mondays.
I remember where we met. In the subway. You were the last to board a crowded train, I stood up as the wheels began to creak, glancing at you as I did so and nodding ever so slightly towards the empty seat. You laughed and called me a gentlemen, tucking those few strands of honey-colored hair behind your ear. Your nails were painted blue. Light blue. Like the sky.
The mass of people gradually thinned out as we neared the end of the route, until you and I were the only ones left in that car. We sat awkwardly next to each other – you twirling your hair and I fiddling with the buttons on my shirt cuff. I don’t know why I didn’t get up and move.
longdead leafa longdead leaflongdead leaf1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
burnt brown in the depth of green
cups a handful of fresh water
a leaf left behind
holds something of worth
forgoing death with its dead body
five hour energyi supposefive hour energy2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
GraphonomicsHe fell in loveGraphonomics1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
with her handwriting –
the way her dribbled g’s
gallivanted into corkscrews –
the way her s’s
would caress the ends of the letters,
lapping at the plurals
and ever so softly
conveying graphite sibilance –
the way her a’s
had jaunty tails
the apexes of lowercase –
the way her commas
and the pencil point would press
into the filaments –
the way her cursive
flowed like a landscape
(and they say that pictures
are worth more
than the masterstrokes on her looseleaf) –
the way her hand
had crinkled the paper
as she scribbled a note
on a dog-eared flap –
the way she looked
when she was deep in words,
brow lined reflecting the rules
of the mockingly mesmerizing meter,
wisps of frowns
echoing the creative scratch,
diamond tongues flickering
in hazel eye-glasses –
the way she wrote his name,
the sinuous care
she brought to the lowercase
preceded by the forceful
Cold CoffeeThere’s a cold cup of coffee on the table by his hand. He can’t stop picking it up and tasting the liquid within, only for it to slide out again with his breath. The man sitting across from him wrinkles his nose at this, but won’t stop talking about the very important Paper in front of him and how everything would be so much simpler if Mr. Staden would just sign, thank you very much and enjoy the rest of your coffee without me.Cold Coffee1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Mr. Staden just looks back at the man and the papers, feeling the pen that he holds loosely in his left hand. It’s heavy, but looks cheap. He scribbles it against the napkin coaster and it doesn’t leave a mark, moving it faster back and forth just tears the paper.
“This doesn’t work,” he says, and he watches as the man—the lawyer—reaches inside his bag—his briefcase, where the other Papers are—and produces another pen, this one lighter, blue ink instead of black.
“Here, try this,
Watch the World BurnWhen I was young, I was told I’d live to see the world end. I believed it to be true when the earth was split wide and began swallowing everything in its path before closing over it, sealing us in the soil.Watch the World Burn1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When I was free, I assumed that was that; my world had ended, replaced by one of men who feared the unknown and an unknown that feared man.
I did not expect to find people and a place I could call home, didn’t ever imagine how attached I would become, how much I’d grow to love this odd little group of creatures. So when I watch a girl who I have thought of as a sister begin to spiral towards the dark as did my true sister, I can feel the earth begin to quake once more.
And I cannot stop it.
HowlTHE GIRLHowl1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
On the porch, she felt safer. The warm light high on the wall, next to the rocking chair that was cradling her seemed to tell her so, with its golden reassurance.
Imustnotthinkthat, she repeated in her head, pressing her eyelids shut. Daddy will be good, hepromisedhepromised. She'll be all right.
She hugged her legs as a scream and a bark came from inside the house, making her flinch. Daddy?
"Daddy?" she called out, already forgetting that he had asked her not to make noise. The silence extended until she could no longer stand it. She stepped down from the rocking chair and went inside the house, walking slowly, her steps and breath on a single beat.
The living room door swung open, her daddy coming out of it and hurrying to close it back with a gasp once he saw her; he didn't want her to see, even she understood that. He's scared. "Daddy, are you okay?"
He sighed. "Yes, sweetie, I'm fine."
"But - but I heard you scream..."
how to tell me my scars are beautiful.leave roses with thorns on my stairwell, the kindhow to tell me my scars are beautiful.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that would entice me when i was fourteen but now
serve as silent irritation—when we eat steak, use
your thinnest, sharpest knife to cleave the meat
into tiny squares and let me watch you wash it
and put it away when you’re done—open your
packages with your trusty pocket knife, peter
pan boy scout, and when i move in, let me
borrow it; don’t question the t-shirts i order
in winter and the sweatshirts i order during the
sweltering heat of summer—when i lay beside you
at night and talk about the state of the universe
that day, nibble on my ear, scratch my arm, slap
my rump until i giggle and push you away, finally
ready to fall into the quiet abyss of dark and sleep
A Victim of CircumstanceWhen one is with friends and is asked, “Do you know any stories?” one usually has a particular tale prepared for such an occasion. This tale can act as an icebreaker, lead to good conversation, or simply garner a satisfied “Can you believe it?” reaction. This is one of those stories:A Victim of Circumstance1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Paul Edwards, a man nearing his fortieth year, was still a bachelor. He was a barrister, and quite brilliant at his job. Flawless, even. In his entire career, he had not lost a single case. Impressive, no? Unfortunately, his unblemished record was to be tainted on the twenty-second of September, ninety-seven. Paul did not appear at the trial, an omission previously unheard of by his family and friends, because on the twenty-second of September, nineteen ninety-seven, at eight forty-seven in the morning, Paul Edwards was hit by a train.
So how did Mr Edwards QC come to such a quick, but nevertheless tragic end? He was not pushed or shoved or thrown or tripped. Instead, Mr Edwards
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.Poetic Psychosis2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.