tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48469978010926353792024-03-13T03:47:01.956-07:00Drop that StoneAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-13418036767513513982015-10-21T13:05:00.001-07:002015-10-21T13:07:56.077-07:00Compassion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At what age did you learn your compassion? I learned mine young, and he worked his entire life to unlearn his. Compassion is a poor man's wealth, don't you understand. And he didn't want to be poor. So he gave all of his away, and my feet hurt from its colossal mass. How poor this man had to have been, burdened with such riches.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-89969092259272994602015-10-21T13:02:00.001-07:002015-10-21T13:03:40.841-07:00Dreamer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I will never meet the man of my dreams. I don't dream, you see. And my men all seem to live in nightmares.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-51048636227043962072015-09-08T23:50:00.003-07:002015-09-09T17:33:01.638-07:00sunflower<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I imagine his love the way sunflowers imagine the moon;<br />
a cruel reminder that, "in the dark, the sun is still rising, just not for you."</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-40555027385633873322015-09-08T23:38:00.003-07:002015-09-08T23:41:53.536-07:00armor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I always found it a little bit strange<br />
that he's both the armor and the blade.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-23965956739371717652015-09-08T23:24:00.000-07:002015-09-08T23:28:18.547-07:00packet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I tried so hard to make him understand; I tried to nail down the ether of my feelings, to packet the little electrical sparks between the words. It was never enough, never enough packets, never enough words. in the end, i lost more from the process than from the pain.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-19119743998146882952015-09-08T23:21:00.000-07:002015-09-08T23:21:01.725-07:00teeth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
on a cold hard sunday, i realized<br />
my scars looked a lot like his teeth.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-42204379413525467222015-04-27T16:04:00.001-07:002015-05-17T10:07:14.623-07:00selfish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Selfishness. That's what
I'm struggling with. I have been accused of being selfish. I have
been called icy, hard, and volcanically self-contained. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've been
called cruel, and unforgiving and unavailable. I've been called a
butcher with a surgeon's touch—apparently I cleave hearts with
practiced precision.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I do not mind being
called cruel or clinical in my decision making. I know that I am
clinical in my love, and diplomatic with my intimacy. But I do not
want to be selfish. There is, I think, a distinction to be made
between those of us who love completely, and those of us who want to
save some for the next one. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm oscillating between the two—on one
hand, I want (I want I want I want) to be all glass and glowing
bride; to blush red-gold under someone's gaze like I've swallowed the
sun. On the other hand I am afraid of my own transparency—all glass
breaks and all that glitters was once whole.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But to save some for the
next one is to, inevitably, keep some from the one right now. The
force of pulling back doors that say “push” is only going to
break them. I don't know what's worse: pulling or pushing away. It
all seems to end the same way. Reckless abandon or cautious
dispensary—either way, every person I've loved is asking to barter:
how much for one night of intimacy? How much for a decade? I'm no
less of a prostitute if you pay me in gilded whispers.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How much of myself do I need to mine to become selfless? If I give you everything, if I excavate my heart strip my body down to the bone, am I then selfless? </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Call me selfish, call me cold. Call me miser and call me shrew. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Call me crazy, but I'd rather die warrior than martyr.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-6265672065019084092015-04-21T15:56:00.001-07:002015-09-09T13:23:00.066-07:00Eleven steps to your girl's heart.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Good
evening, class. Today's lesson is: Eleven steps to your girl's heart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
My
professor told me that the easiest way to a girl's heart was the path
of least resistance.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
one: find out what she likes. My girl likes fighting with boys
and shooting beer cans out back. Wrestle with her, and make her
shotgun those beers.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
two: Tell her how much you like her hair. Down or up, she'll ask you.
Tell her you like it braided into a hangman's rope; that you would
happily die in the mouth of its noose.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
three: Take her dancing. She'll tell you she doesn't know how. Tell
her it's just like fighting. God knows you know how to do that! Make
sure to play spar on the dance floor. Shock the pearls off the little
old ladies behind you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
four: Call her by her full name. She's wince and tell you you sound
like her dad. Smile down at her and say, "call me daddy".</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
five: Run your fingers up and down her ribs. Tell her she's your
xylophone, your angel harp. Your little harpie. Laugh when she looks
confused.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
six: Tell her you're going to cook for her. Meat is for the men,
remember? Eat your vegetables. Call me daddy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
seven: Tell her you can see your xylophone through the little white
dress. Tell her to wear black instead. Take her dancing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
eight: Play spar on the dance floor. We've done this before, haven't
we? Take her home. She doesn't want to. She whips you with her
hangman's hair on her way out. Take her home anyway.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
nine: Kiss her. Hard. Tell her it's just red lipstick on her teeth.
She whimpers when you hug her—your little harpie. Someone broke a
string on your angel harp.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
ten: I don't want to fight! She wheezes. It's just like dancing, you
tell her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Step
eleven: Slip the noose over her head. Feel the fight go out of her.
She didn't want to fight anyway. The easiest way to a girl's heart is
that path of least resistance, remember?
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-62510899458164995492015-03-22T23:22:00.003-07:002015-04-21T16:00:16.708-07:00seams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
To
those of us who could not keep it together she said,
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
“let
the seams break, the lattice snap. We were never friends of the
gatekeepers, and forever on the wrong side of the gate. Who cares
about the fallout? They were fools for trying to cage storms.”</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-55721045788568152015-03-05T09:08:00.001-08:002015-03-05T09:08:18.612-08:00february<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was the month of thawing, everything fluid and slipping under slick glass-ice. It was the melting season, a revolt against opacity. Shadows moved behind eyes, everything rose to the surface. It was a welling season, a swelling month. Everything that once was frosted surrendered its belly, let translucence bleed into transparent. It was an entire nation suspended in white amber, clear and distorting and bulging. It was the season of pregnant waiting, the month of held breaths and suppressed desires roiling. We cannot wait for June, you and I. I'm already swollen with waiting. It's the middle of February, and I'm tired of captivity.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-65132372333097670502015-03-05T00:19:00.000-08:002015-03-05T06:26:11.503-08:00Flint stone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We ate flint stones, he and I, hoping that it would calm the yawning, cavernous hunger we had for each other. Sometimes, when we make love, I imagine the flint sparking in our bellies, filling us up with wet fire--the thick, miasmic smoke of a burning house.<br />
<br />
My mother ate stones for a man once, and waited for the burning. I can see her in my mind's eye, stomach fat with flint that had nothing to rub against. I can see her now, swallowing gasoline instead, waiting this time not for burning, but for explosion, for burning down.<br />
<br />
This is what we are now, loaded and incendiary. We are the war children, they keep us away from the wax museums, from hairspray daughters and beer-bottle sons. We are a bomb State, we wear grenade pins for earrings. Highly inflammable, handle with care. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-77836905853435846662015-02-23T10:35:00.001-08:002015-03-23T08:21:19.790-07:00Demons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Most people's demons are metaphorical.<br />
Mine is real<br />
and I happen to be sleeping with him.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-30488306276202251632015-02-19T17:35:00.003-08:002015-02-19T17:35:33.610-08:00Firefight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Is it still betrayal if you knew it was coming?" I asked.<br />
"Have you ever looked directly at the sun and tried to close your eyes against the light?<br />
Have you felt your eyelids betray you; feel them try to fight the fire and give up their opacity? Did your skin heat up despite you willing it cold? Did you become paper over candlelight, thin-screen clear and suddenly naked?<br />
That's what it means to hold back from love. You thought you could swallow the fire instead of letting it consume you.<br />
Well, dear. All you managed to do was to burn from the inside out.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-12766710835648014072015-02-06T16:46:00.002-08:002015-03-06T11:16:34.972-08:00inadequate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had never felt like this, so hopelessly inadequate--<br />
he was holding a glass of whiskey older than I was, wearing cufflinks that could pay my entire tuition.<br />
And here I was, hemming apologies with smiles and tears with apologies; my god, could you imagine coming undone next to a man in a hand-tailored suit?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-43931655906550422282015-02-06T15:26:00.001-08:002015-02-06T16:38:54.920-08:00moon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you look at her in the moonlight, you can see blue river ribbons under her skin.<br />
<div>
she had gnarled hands, like I did, but mine were hard and brown and sun worn tree bark...hers were crumpled paper and blue-pulse pounding. There is not the smoothness of youth in her face, nor the wisdom-laden parchment wrinkles of the old. Only the gaunt craters of her cheekbones, the valleys of her eyes--she was the moon, this woman. Plain and white and inoffensive, until you got close; and then suddenly she was a conquest to be made, cratered and valleyed and virgin. She was the moon, and men fell over themselves to touch her, to be the first man to mine her, and to say that for one glorious moment, he walked all over her.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-51078893358255734072014-11-05T20:38:00.002-08:002014-11-05T20:38:59.825-08:00Momentarily<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I taught myself to live in the moment,<br />
to love the present. It's stagnating, this satisfaction. Stale. Reversing, even. I find myself rolling backwards down the slope, no desire to move forward. It's time to climb--to fear the fall instead of welcoming it.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-71865614930574567252014-10-15T17:11:00.000-07:002015-05-16T23:17:05.307-07:00Fallen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We
are falling women, falling in love, falling into people, into arms. I
don't want to be fallen. Pick yourself up, woman. I am Lucifer read backwards;<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
make me float
in love with you.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-61108476813989112902014-09-23T13:20:00.000-07:002015-02-10T12:30:16.952-08:00Hurt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I nurse my hurts<br />
like a mother would her child.<br />
Maybe one day when they're old enough,<br />
they'll leave.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-1342417286195906522014-08-11T23:18:00.001-07:002014-08-12T21:27:38.639-07:00gunpowder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div>
You wasted, devastated man</div>
<div>
you said to me <i>I love you</i></div>
<div>
and I reached for the razor</div>
<div>
out of habit.</div>
<div>
There's nothing soft </div>
<div>
or safe</div>
<div>
in your voice</div>
<div>
it's not love as in lovely</div>
<div>
or hearts as in Valentine's day</div>
<div>
or flowers as in first date bouquets</div>
<div>
it's love</div>
<div>
as in tennis</div>
<div>
as in zero, as in nothing</div>
<div>
it's hearts as in the cadaver cardiac</div>
<div>
flowers as in deflowered and repotted with gunpowder </div>
<div>
irrigated with formaldehyde<br />
and black-eyed tears<br />
Before I met you, I used to wear skirts<br />
now I fear the cloth<br />
that lets me move too freely<br />
that pretends both at freedom and at modesty<br />
but never commits to either<br />
like you<br />
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve<br />
and let my legs do all the hugging<br />
until my mother banned me<br />
from wearing skirts<br />
or anything with sleeves.</div>
<div>
you said to me</div>
<div>
<i>I love you</i></div>
<div>
and my eyes closed in a moment of silence</div>
<div>
for all the casualties</div>
<div>
of the war<br />
that you're about to bring down upon<br />
my gunpowder garden.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-88893439037690585462014-08-11T20:50:00.002-07:002014-08-11T21:08:49.427-07:00Prayer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My mother accused me of being un-religious<br />
and I was too embarrassed to tell her<br />
that just last night I was on my knees<br />
before you<br />
drawing out God's name<br />
with my mouth.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-35620892692379482092014-08-11T20:28:00.000-07:002014-08-11T23:24:14.025-07:00Sandpaper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You sandpaper woman<br />
with your broken-glass hands:<br />
Every time you touch me, I bleed.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-34102963129169589392014-08-11T00:52:00.003-07:002014-08-11T14:21:28.950-07:00Burning up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sometimes, I forget to breathe.<br />
I only remember when my lips start turning blue<br />
and you ask me why I feel icy<br />
in June.<br />
Once, you told me you loved me<br />
and I watched your face fall when I said nothing<br />
in return.<br />
What I wanted to say was <i>I love you so much that there's a burning in my soul and there are "I love you's" dancing in my body in smoke-ring banners</i><br />
but I had no air<br />
not a single breath left<br />
to voice it<br />
and in that moment, I was afraid to breathe<br />
because I learned in science class<br />
that oxygen only makes the fire burn hotter<br />
and I was already a furnace--<br />
only one breath away<br />
from burning up<br />
completely. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-88157074765787334582014-05-19T13:17:00.000-07:002014-05-19T13:37:21.940-07:00Happenstance <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am terrified of when I will happen.<br />
Not of what will happen to me, not<br />
of what I must endure<br />
but of what I am going to inflict<br />
and affect.<br />
I am going to happen to someone.<br />
I want to happen hard and fast<br />
and be lasting<br />
but what if<br />
I am soft like water<br />
and happen like mist<br />
without the hardness of rain<br />
without its stinging insistence<br />
what if I happen<br />
fleetingly<br />
like dew<br />
like vapor<br />
what if I don't happen at all?<br />
What I know is that I can survive.<br />
We default to survival, to endurance.<br />
I am terrified not of defaulting<br />
but of not happening --<br />
of being embryonic<br />
and unrealized.<br />
and I am terrified of happening also<br />
because I know<br />
the effects<br />
of being happened upon.<br />
Perhaps the most terrifying of all<br />
is living<br />
with the intolerable pain<br />
of paradoxical wishing.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-16862011583149551672014-05-04T01:48:00.004-07:002014-05-04T01:48:48.974-07:00Namesake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The way I say your name is different<br />
from the way I say anyone else's.<br />
It sounds fuller, rounder...<br />
as though my tongue and teeth are<br />
trying to ball it up and push it<br />
towards the back of my throat because<br />
your name belongs inside me, not exposed<br />
and in the air<br />
where anyone can use it.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4846997801092635379.post-23721297280636801412014-04-28T21:01:00.000-07:002014-04-28T21:48:42.942-07:00Post War<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My body is a post-war wasteland<br />
there are mines that explode when you run<br />
your fingers over my skin<br />
and there are graves of burning men and women<br />
planted in half-moon craters across my arms<br />
and on Sundays when I wash my hair<br />
my knees are suddenly wet with red<br />
John Frieda said the dye wouldn't fade for two weeks<br />
but really, who could ever predict<br />
sudden death<br />
or stop gunshot bleeding<br />
John Frieda didn't know shit<br />
nor did any John ever who said<br />
"It'll be okay"<br />
You asked me why I don't talk to you anymore<br />
I won't tell you<br />
because telling means talking and talking<br />
is not something that dead people do.<br />
I always wondered why I could never<br />
bear to hear you sing<br />
and then I realized, yesterday<br />
that no one ever appreciated<br />
sing-song cruelty<br />
Who ever wanted music<br />
in a gas chamber?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01870319033544625837noreply@blogger.com1