Georgia and her DemonsGeorgia had exhausted the hinges of her closet, jolting as she opened to a vacancy and bolting it shut; but, it wasn't enough to imprison the monster there, as she'd tremble into bed and watch the darkness swell between the folding doors. She would cry and twist in soiled sheets until the creature would slink back in.
Ten years ago, the doctor prescribed Georgia unnecessary medications, and Georgia promptly flushed them down the drain. She lost herself that long ago and had grown spindly from hiding. No one would find her in this house in this forest in this little cover in her little world. No one, but sometimes she would hear her husband knocking on the windows.
"Georgia," he would coo. "Georgia."
"Save me," Georgia wrote in painful letters to long-dead friends. The ink bled like her throat when she screamed or her arms when cried too much while cutting through her dirty clothes.
"Why am I alive?"
"I dare you to go into that old woman Georgia's house, Buddy," Mack said while turn
Cierra, 2005seven year-old preyCierra, 20057 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
for juvie girls
eleven and thirteen
with sloppy hair
and sloppy clothes,
bragging about broken noses
bloody faces, and the places
they were forced to go
as though it even mattered to me
in the wake
of a seven year old crying
because iron plated hearts
don't know how / don't care to stop
forgotten little girl
i took her in at 12
when the nurses and the techs
could not break us apart
little girl with a broken heart, she
told me that her parents
didn't want her
why are you so nice to me
she asked when i talked down the angry giants,
and i said aloud, i said to her
because you're still worth caring for
Churches Are For Raised Voices1.Churches Are For Raised Voices10 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
she was white noise and an exit strategy
a cold stone hurtling towards Russia
she was everything he never wanted
and when she crashed into him,
there was nothing he could do to stop her
from turning all sorts of heads and heels
the wrong way around.
I was 8 when I learned
how a song could lift
boulders off of backs
effortlessly bear twenty three prayers
right through that solid white roof.
I was 9 when I put my esophagus to work
stringing notes into bridges
and it wasn't till 13
I learned to start pushing my own growing stones
up the bridges I built
let each carefully annunciated syllable
begin to straighten my spine and fill every empty space around my ear drum.
it was a planned relapse
a destined coming together of things that
or turned uninviting
as time etched away at flesh and her ability to sit still
his black slicked back hair
ebony hands stretched palms up
always open for her
and on the days when they weren’t
you could stand there and watch her re
for all intensive purposesi am accused of beingfor all intensive purposes9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a category five--
but i will not excuse the way my skin aches.
i want storms.
i remember the way Katrina screamed &
if you press your ear to my chest you will hear the same.
the moan turning into a pitch, the pitch
screaming until the throat is too raw to be
more than a whimper.
the way it stops
silently racked until it bursts forth once more.
i will not apologize for being demolition.
scars exist on every woman
too powerful to contain herself.
lemonwe walk down the streetslemon9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
of a city named after an emerald.
a breeze floats by
and for a moment your hair lifts off your shoulder.
the way it doesn't touch you,
i want to touch you.
there are traces of lemon in your light,
a vague sense of mint on your fingertips.
the way honey tastes
drifts inside your shirt.
entering the city
walking calmly while the light falls
is like listening to your voice,
like waiting at the bell by the river
for a clamoring to do justice
to the patterns on the water.
the way the bells never end
i want to brush my hand against yours.
the way you drop lemon into your water
i want to live.
In the Death of Winterelusive daylightIn the Death of Winter1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
humming low instead
split-cracked breathing patterns
rasping through a respirator
(her blood whispers in a hospital bed)
8. somersaults in snow,we
wintered in imagination,building
igloos from the residue of storms
18. i slipped on ice, and you cradled
bruises in your arms you cradled bruises
you cradled bruises on my arms
28. rattled loose locks and fear of bleeding
i love(d) you and it hurts,broken bones
we are not made of stone,she
said, and with every ounce of all his being
he said time and time again --
"i love you" reset, reset,restart
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,A Poet's Romance11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
SimbelmyneThere is silence here, uponSimbelmyne1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
stale skull tombs
these everminds are stilling...
(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)
Euphrosynedawn.Euphrosyne1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.
footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.
the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.
her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.
when the sun grows weary,
she tucks it into bed with her brushes
and crimson-golden paint.
she sings songs while the stars
roll and tumble down the edge of night.
the moon wiggles in her teacup,
she sips carefully, pensively;
the man in the moon plants warm honey kisses
inside her mouth.
and they grow into peals of strawber
Four Things She Thought About Before She Jumped1.Four Things She Thought About Before She Jumped2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She thought about her sister and how the shape of her face
became foreign in certain light, as if carved by the hands of a man
who had spent too much time on oil and canvas
to remember his own skin. Her eyes began to resemble chips of ice
as they filled with rainwater; the world like a river
that runs over them and
She thought about her sister
trying to talk in her sleep
the way her tongue flapped uselessly
about her mouth, a coil of smooth muscle pinning itself
to her teeth. It spat syllables
like broken stones. She thought about her sister spread across
the bed sheets, palms turned upward, saying look, it isn't so bad,
as the night came and took her body in waves, glowing. She thought about
her sister making a lantern of herself, illuminated
from the inside. She thought about stillness.
She thought about the brook that wandered
a little way beyond their backyard, where she had once seen
the small, ragged body of a fox spr
lukewarmshe had the kind of voicelukewarm1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.
there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
she could do.
long springs and
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
and bury themselves
LiliyaBright-eyed,Liliya8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
mistress of light.
water-colour emotionsyou can't buy happiness, but you can buy tea, and thats kind of the same thing. i've been told that i have a knot inside my chest,water-colour emotions1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
like those of the inside of a tree truck, eternally circling and looping. thats kind of how it feels, heavy and unstoppable.
if i have a tree inside me, then maybe that could explain the shaking, its just the westerly winter winds blowing and
making my far too fragile limbs bend but never break. i soak the tea leaves into the roots that are deep within my
fleshy heart and hope the capillaries will carry to wherever the aches are most ingrained and unnatural.
mother told me three winters ago that she could read the leaves and tell me how my skin was going to grow
and how my head was going to think six summers from now. she told me that my precious head was ever tired
over nothing and my chests storm will ease after one final hurricane, that despite its best efforts will
not destroy me, simply leave my skin a little tougher and my m
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;the arrangement of astral cords8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
stars trapped in the linings of my
the regurgitation of meteors
the chambers of a heart--
deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stained
This is the reason why my throat
bubbles like witch's brew--
the insides of my body form monsoons that
scratch my lungs and
decapitate my windpipe,
an off-pitched dissonance
like wind chimes
whenever I try to shout or speak or
(and they tell me that you could sing
the moon to sleep when you cast
you faithful nothings on a star)
[and, no, I'm not some kind of genie
trapped in an expanse of dust
rather than a lamp]
Darling, I was never caught between
a collision of star-crossed galaxies,
nor an accident between the big bang
and a black hole.
I was born a star-child.
and, no, they could never be beautiful.
Yet, I could never be as graceful.
I could never carve my face the way
gods do, and
mountain-womanmountain woman, mountain woman,mountain-woman2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
won't you come down to the river?
where bears sing falsetto groans and wolves stripe their fur in cranberry;
you are bare-footed climbing the grandfather trees, wild-bird paint in your
eyes, prickles under your toenails, and thunder drowns in water below.
raccoon-children with their mischief-hands sleep in your hair and crawl
down your slate-rock nose; skeleton-men along your gorge beneath your
upper lip where sirens would ride their horses along your jawline,
and grey is your wisdom with empty caverns. mountain-man paws his
gravels, sits against the lightning where war-husbands eagle themselves.
you are an eastern fire; lonely stags occupying themselves in harpsichords,
their antlers resting on your breasts until wind moves them down meters
below your abdomen.
but you are a falconer owl with ancient eyes. whisper winds in your fingers
dance along deer-legs and hoof; you whither the moon under your eyelids,
where the wolfman barricades himself in your in
Mollusca1.Mollusca5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Find whatever it is that is your treasure.
Bury it alive.
I wrestled the guardian angel for my birthstone,
just a pearl like some full moon risen from a mollusk's growing pain.
I counted the sheets of nacre like birthday candles,
peeled away each one until I at last remembered
that what I treasure is an infection.
It was a gentle kind of wrestling,
not Biblical, not even assertive,
more like the way two sprite wolf cubs play,
a light lunge, a jovial snarl,
a fight over nothing in particular.
The guardian angel renounced itself
as a guardian angel, said
I am a siren.
I lie in the tunnels of nautilus shells
and sing until I collapse with the echoes.
Then it hurts, like a shard of the wrong song
embedded in my skin.
It never healed the ache of adolescence,
just buried it under a fall wound's nacre.
Said one day, it'd show up in my smile.
On the day of the dewinging:
bury me alive.
I want to see what I can agitate the earth into.
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizetell a lie8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
they tumble through sharp mountains
but they never, ever stop
ii. i can rush and pick up sediments
and disperse them where i wish
iii. i'm lying -
i knew you saw it anyway,
there's seaweed in my fingernails
and salt on my breath
Contradiction TWShe leapt from a window to fly for once, naked as she landed on the hood of a moving car. She had relished the secrets of every suicide attempt, slitting her wrists in a quiet sadness. Overdosing in a quiet sadness. Climbing the stairs to hotel roofs in a quiet sadness. Something haunted her in an unbroken breath of shadows; a perpetual deep inhalation that burned a vacuum inside her.Contradiction TW5 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She leapt from a window to fly for once. I said, she leapt from a window to fly for once. She caused a crash in the middle of Times Square and died out loud like she never lived. Miseries grew heavy in her head and the pit of her stomach, and the volume inside her seeped through her sand swept skin from her hot, hot veins.
She used to cry often when she was alive and dug her skin open and sometimes she screamed with her head against the wall, and
she leapt from a window to fly for once, but she didn’t see the mistake.
cleanif all doves are pigeons,clean8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
then pigeons are doves too--
tired lips, run the blade
across your hips and carve in words a better father wouldn't say --
tired lies on tired lips, you
trip and fall and bruise your face
break your wrist
crack it open like an egg
you beg the blood, you beg it
make me something dry and empty
i'm a body with too many fatal flaws
tired life of tired lies on tired lips
years of one-night long-term nightmares
you don't have to keep on doing this --
you see them in the magazines and on TV
and you keep thinking, run me dry and run me empty
as you take another shower
years and you still smell him:
blood and bruises on your bruised and bloody skin
but you see, you've got a human body --
and that means you are still human, and you
don't have to live like this.
Slutit implodes on the walls of your skullSlut1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and slides, sickly
off your tongue
like the body of a slug.
when it hits the floor
it is not quiet,
but sharp as a slap
and totters out of
they are disgusting
and you are ill.
there is no more room
washed away by the slime
coming out of your pores.
the fault is yours
ToddThere was a big fanfare when Todd came back. Even a couple of newspaper reporters showed up. It was only right I guess, what with him being dead for a year. At least I think it was a year. I mean, he was gone for eight and I'm pretty sure if a person is missing for seven years the government declares them dead or something. I know that his parents bought a tombstone from the place on First Street a while ago. They put it up in their family lot at the cemetery, next to his grandparents. I went to visit it after the funeral. It had his name and a little inscription. They left the dates off though. After that they took him off the missing persons list too. I know because I used to check it.Todd1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
I'll bet that everyone was real pissed when they found out the truth. He got into town on Tuesday but nobody said a word until Friday. Then on Satur
Brain WaspsBrain WaspsBrain Wasps7 months ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I am on the verge of tears. Why is this so hard? I think furiously, twirling the cylinder of Chapstick around in my fingers. I shut my eyes tight and try again.
I reach out to set the Chapstick on the nightstand beside my bed, but seconds after I release the tube I have to grab it again. Wrong, the brain wasps tell me, you have to get it just right.
I briefly consider hurling the thing across the room, but I know that I’ll just have to get out of bed to pick it up again. I am trapped in my own compulsions.
I know it’s stupid, and that’s part of what’s bothering me so much. Why can’t I just put the Chapstick down? It’s a simple mindless task, but as I look at the clock it’s taken me a full five minutes. As soon as I put it down, I have this need to pick it back up again and move it, almost as if two pieces of a puzzle don’t fit quite right with each other and I have to try again. And again. And again. And again until i