I could make a list,but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,I could make a list,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"What is it you're thankful for?"
How could I tell her
I was thankful for this heart
that beats a thousand times over
when I hear her speak?
SwallowI swallowed stones for a girl once,Swallow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tethered a daughter to my arm,
raised her with my own hands,
and pulsed so much blood
through the wire
it became a vein.
Eventually I fell,
slammed to the floor,
like a marionette savagely thrown
against a wall.
My guts were full,
of sediment and
my stomach swelled too much.
I breathed dust and ants,
swallowed as much as I was able,
and tried to get up
with my daughter in tow.
Clumsily falling back over,
with bruised hands and
forced, rough, breathing,
I felt tension
from the other side.
The line pulled taut and hard
and dragged me from its end
across so many splintering boards
I bled from my fingers trying
to fight it.
it frayed and snapped.
Admittedly, I cried for it
and I shoveled debris and carted blood
swearing the whole time
I'd never swallow stones for a girl
Then I met you.
John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,John at 3:163 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about JohnJohn who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
Twilight : Rewritten"You aren't still mad at me, are you?" Charlie asked.Twilight : Rewritten5 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I could not look at him. Instead, I pressed my nose against the truck window and watched the trees rush by. I wished that I could roll down the window so I wouldn't have to look at his reflection in it.
"I did it in your best interests, you know," he said, turning back to the road. "Your mom wasn't doing well."
"That doesn't give you any right to take me away from her," I said, fiddling with the lock on the door.
"It was for your well-being, Bella," he said. "I know you love her, and your devotion is commendable. But you can't keep putting your schooling aside for her interests. She's better off where she is. Full-time care, nurses at her every beck and call "
I couldn't speak. The lump in my throat was too heavy.
"Besides, it'll be nice to have a change of scenery," he said in a faux jovial tone, that tone that parents use when they're trying to fool you into thinking everything is fine. You know, that tone you stopped b
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.Yellow5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that
WhitewashWhen you're five years old you set a promise in the dark, your sister's ice-queen eyes witness. Millie is sitting straight-backed against the headboard, face wide and earnest, and it seems as if the world has heaped itself on her shoulders, or maybe it's the strangeness of midnight.Whitewash5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"We can't make our wills or anything like that until we're eighteen," she says fiercely. "But I might forget this by then."
In later years you will find time to reflect that you're not as whimsical as Millie; young, you only think then that you could never forget something this important. But you can't argue with the three-years-older she holds above your head (the wisest bestest elder sister in the world.)
Your love for her borders on hero-worship, and looking back, you sometimes wonder if that's healthy.
The door bangs shut. "Jodie!"
How strange, the way it works: your hand is frozen to the table in the way it should have been on the phone, but that was minutes ago and maybe it was delayed-reaction, becau
The Softer side of Loki contest Part 1This is based on the What If story where Jane Foster accidentally received Thor's powers instead of Don Blake. At the end of the story Odin grants Jane immortality, and proposes to her without a first date or anything! (yeah he is the universal pimp!) Thor meanwhile had hooked up with Sif, so Jane turns to Odin as he is something like Thor was anyways... yeah, creepy.The Softer side of Loki contest Part 13 years ago in Drama More Like This
Chapter 1. Breaking the ice. (or ass)
Jane Foster gazed out at the breath-taking view before her. The impossibly vibrant lands rolling out greenly under a blindingly blue sky. The pristine towers across from the one she currently stood. The solid stone of the fortress that spoke of eternity. As the wind blew across her, lifting her long dark hair and billowing her rich green dress Jane wondered again at how she had become a part of all of this. Sometimes it all seemed so surreal. The archaic place, people, and culture constantly reminded her that this was not where she was from despite how comfortable she had become here.
To Write of HorrorTo paint a scene of mythic horrorsTo Write of Horror3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Take dim lit room and darkest corners
Find a child huddled there, cradled tight in his despair
Silent here for not his murmurs,
murmuring out a prayer
He asks the keeper keep to keeping
While all his guardians tucked in sleeping
Ignorant of the shadows creeping
Slow across the hallway floor, standing now outside his door
Somewhere near the sound of breathing,
breaths too heavy to ignore
Then just outside there raised a howl
A distant boom and monstrous growl
Envisions he a ghostly cowl
Afloat across the yard in prowl
Come to steal his soul away, curtains hold the fiend at bay
With scrapes across the window scowls,
scowling out in its dismay
The shutters joined the fray with flapping
Hard against the walls their rapping
While all around began a tapping
With no relent unceasing clapping
the pitter-patter's endless lapping
Solace to the boy then came, raptured from this fearful bane
Slowly drifts his mind towards napping,
napping through a night of rain
The Slaughtered Children.Why? Why? They were children! Children! How could someone strip a child, multiple children, of their innocence! How could someone strip them of life?The Slaughtered Children.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Children are one of the few good things in life. Always learning, not dispicable liars or haters or cheaters like the majority of adults, not able to commit horrendous crimes, not aware of the greater scheme of life going on around them. Believer's they are. In a child's mind, the characters of stories such as Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny are alive. Magic is real and all around us, commanded and cast by the fairies who were blessed by the mighty kings and queens from far far away. In a childs dream, there is no deception, no hatred, no confusion. There is only light and happiness and love, and their imagination is never as strong as it if in childhood.
It is for those reasons, and many more, why I believe children should be treasured. For their beautifully bliss minds and perfectly balanced ignorance. For their imagination, raw and i
The Art of Consent: BurlesqueHowever,The Art of Consent: Burlesque3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
i can use the rounded corners of
sullen eyes, too-short fingernails,
magnanimous hips, and frosted lips
pressed crackling against the
porcelain dream he
so blackly freed against me.
i am four inches envy and
six inches will,
and completely engrossed in pursuit of
And he, still violent and violet, is there,
unconvinced and scared, and so perfectly
He finds me tied, vaudevillian, to his
falling from mind to mouth,
from mouth to spine.
Where contact confuses
sexually transmitted attention for
sexually transmitted affection,
there is not time to obscure the view that
condemns him to what is malign
and otherwise known as misunderstood.
And i felt his eyes eating up where i stood,
felt my heart burning up what it could,
dropped a flatline to
pick him off my hemline, and understood
what it meant to be in control.
i love the heady derision provoked
simply by the act of undressing, no smoke,
except for that of the opiate crowd and
no mirrors, ex
I Am SchizophreniaShh.I Am Schizophrenia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"Are you okay?"
Turn off the light.
"What are you doing?"
You can't fight the shadows.
They'll kill you if you tell.
Rip your hair out.
Cover your eyes.
Cover them again.
Lock the door.
Now you're trapped.
Lock it again.
Don't take the medication.
Don't drink the water.
Don't eat your dinner.
"I don't know you anymore. Who have you become?"
I am a nobody.
I am Schizophrenia.
I am death
"... I don't know."
When your hands can mimic birdsWhen your hands can mimic birds,When your hands can mimic birds3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
you lose the need for sound.
A flight of words that bear no chirp
are none the less profound.
They don't perch on a pitch.
They don't possess the need .
They fly until you've seen their song,
then silently recede.
No one could find more freedom than
the freedom granted flight.
No one can see more beauty than in
words passed left to right.
Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.Starving sleep and apologies.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is shivering sweat like snow
across my shoulders as I sob scream
after scream against your skin;
"sorry, I'm so sorry,
go back to sleep."
I am sad
and struggling to stay
together but you slump
against my sickness
and hold me
I would love to give upi.I would love to give up2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
'there's a second hand that holds mine, and stuffs the words back down my throat.'
her voice a crack--
sticks & stones breaking
between her teeth
but when she tries to find the sound
her pen runs dry
[can someone flip the switch to 'yes' or 'no'
i've been so de
& my head is saying 'maybe']
(i would ask myself,
but i don't trust liars)
she tries to string the words
down a thread
but they always c r u mb l e
(& the cinders burn
with the same old questions)
but when you turn
she'll be gone
there are rocks in her throat when she asks you for help.
the words grind to sand on her tongue.
smoke in her head
smeared across her hands
her fingers are broken;
o k e d
she reaches for some kind of
at the corner
& turn of each & every page
RatsWhen I was a little girl, I went to church. Our church was an illegal one: the building was unregistered.Rats3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We would sit on the benches made from stolen floorboards and listen to a man dressed in black as he read us tales of angels coming to save righteous men from evil, their swords clean and their trumpets blaring.
The man dressed in black was old. He was sick. His Bible was missing pages.
One day in March, my mother turned to me and said clearly, "Masha, I want you to remember something for when you grow up." Maybe she knew she was dying. "God loves murderers."
I just looked up at her, thumb in my mouth. My mother was still a beautiful woman. She was young when a man at an after-riot party had given her a child inside of her, a bruise on her face, and a few kopeks for her trouble before running away forever.
So I watched the dirty gray sunlight washing through her sickly blonde hair, watched it illuminate the dark hollows of her eyes, watched her face, and asked, "Why, mama?"
PilotI woke in a nest of wires, my arms pulled off to either side, my head back and my eyes fixed at the ceiling. There was a man standing above me, straddling my form, perched precariously at the mouth of the recess I was tucked away in, one hand gripping the frame, the other feeling around the back of my neck. He moved by touch alone, certain in his movements, and his fingers closed over the knot of the wires that resided at the base of my skull and pulled, steadily, drawing it out of the socket and I inhaled sharply at the sensation. Like something had been taken from me, or that I'd lost sight of something important. A piece of me gone. It was a keen sense of loss and my eyes went wet with moisture even as he dropped his hand lower along my neck, almost to the shoulders, and pulled out another plug. The wires by my eyes were thinner, and when he pulled these out my vision went black for a moment and when it returned I felt the world was less clear, like a gray haze had been pulledPilot2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Ever TrulyYou'd have to slit my throat and kill me,Ever Truly2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Detaching my head from its enabled body,
To spill my thoughts and experience my dream world.
Only then could you ever truly paint
With all the pigments of my imagination to recreate
My fantasies and bind them in a book to finally read my mind.
You'd have to take a saw to my chest and cut me open,
Separating skin and bones from my soul,
To hear the broken beat and know my heart.
Only then could you ever truly see
The imperfection that is my genetic makeup
When all you've ever known is my flawlessness.
You'd have to crush my hands and smash my fingers,
Unbuttoning my joints, keeping these capable palms
From my will, never again to get a hold on my thoughts.
Only then could you ever truly feel
The empty weight of your hands hanging at your sides,
Knowing that mine no longer carry emotion.
You'd have to break my legs and unscrew my feet,
Leaving me without means of escape, so I could lay on my back
Forever, searching for lightless points on your po
This is My VoiceThis is my voiceThis is My Voice2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
It wasn't my choice
I never learned to... be quiet.
Graves are only boxes
I'm not dead yet, but who's counting?
The clock is
Time doesn't exist-
I don't cut my wrist
I'm not pissed
But I'm sad.
I want to be a writer
But instead, I'm bitter
Down comes the rain,
pitter patter pitter
Against the window pane
I don't really know how to rhyme
But if I had a dime
For every time
I crumpled up a piece of paper,
I'd be rich.
But I'd have to give it all back for wasting trees.
You can't win against society
They don't get that people come in variety
Causing people anxiety over their body
And the way they look.
They bring out the book
I say, "What book?"
They say, "The bible."
Is it really that reliable?
Christians are undeniable
Chapter 1: Odyssey into 2012It's static --Chapter 1: Odyssey into 20123 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
trapped between her fingers, buzzing in her ears.
A heartbeat lost in the echoes of her rib cage.
And yes, of course: the intermittent pounding, the thundering, the rush of blood through her veins.
Was that fear?
She'd once been foolish enough to believe that no one could lure her in to this. A ribbon of smokescreen smiles, flashes of deceptive lies, and she was sold for the price of forever. As the cold air smacks into her face and turns her hair to tangled strands, she struggles to maintain her hold on the tattered calendar. It's ripped from the wall, December 2011 in bold Serif typeface filling the upper left corner. Eight dates circled in red. Eight trials, none of them easy, and her mouth runs dry at the thought. She folds the calendar and slips it into the right pocket of her jeans.
The scribbles of "Zephyr" and "Tokyo", etched so hard onto t
This Sums It UpHere is aThis Sums It Up5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about broken hearts
Some imagery (let's use rain and moonbeams and
the smell of baking cookies)
an extra paragraph break and
A thoughtful simile
Two spaces (I wrote on the third)
a super serious poem
about some relationship
that didn't work
I should receive
The Jake I Chose to RememberI want to humanize you,The Jake I Chose to Remember5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
but you were
never very good
at letting people see
past the poet.
You were too busy
setting your legs on fire,
masturbation works for a while,
the realization that you’re in
the same sheets
And you know, Jake,
they’re legalizing marijuana now.
Turns out it’s not
just the people
who did it were.
or maybe it’s accurate;
you did always teach me to go
for the better word.
It’s accurate that
my first and only tattoo
I ever wanted will have been
written by me, revised by you
I am not what I've worn;
I am who I have worn down.
griefmary sleeps beside me, it is morning; we aregrief3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dream-sunk and tangled in her quilts
honey warm and bathed with sun, we are berry-stained
and slow-breathing, lips purple
from last night's wine -
it is morning; we are softened creatures
and the light has come to hold us.
mary's phone is a wasp, a bramble, is a vaguery that
we cannot be bothered with. it is morning and
mary's phone is wrathful, insistent, needling us
into a sluggish consciousness. we break the
surface without grace or tact and
it is morning, and he was just here
he was right here and he was breathing but now
he is gone; he has passed through, passed on,
passed into the other, the ether, the endless,
the place we cannot follow, has passed
away from mary, from the green and the gray,
from the earth that bloomed when we
were not paying attention, from the sky and
the hearts of the trees.
mary, it is morning; it is morning for mary and
she is disassembling before my eyes. i place my palm
flat on her spine and feel t
People are not medicineI will thaw out myPeople are not medicine10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
frozen ice box of a chest
I will pump and resurrect
the dead tissues
so I can write about you
I will write about your
drug store Romeo smile
and the way you
hold your hands behind
your head like its the only
thing that will stop it
from rolling off your shoulders
I will write about the way
your eyes crinkle in the corners
and the way your dimples are uneven
when you laugh
I will write about the
tiny vampire footprints
you leave on my skin at night
when we're sat outside
on the sidewalk
contemplating Aristotle and Cobain
Like bleary eyed philosophers
I will write about the way
your fingers flex when you're excited
and how your knee
jitters when you're nervous
and how you like
because they're so much more
than movie theatres and shopping malls
I will write about you
until I run out of words
and I'm sorry
I'm not poetic enough
to cover the breadth of
your firecracker soul
but I hope you know
this is the best
I can do
and I hope