Hot Chocolate and Redemption"Because I'm a bad person, that's why."Tammy's words stunned Ryan into silence. They'd had three good dates, and now this was her reason why she wouldn't go out on a fourth date. She'd been nothing but awesome, and this seemingly irrational rationale for rejection had him curious."I've seen you do nothing bad. You've been great with me." He leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of the coffeehouse's mocha hot chocolate. Her expression had hardened in a way he'd never seen before."That's because I don't let you see that side of me, Ryan. Listen, you were really sweet and persistent which is why I went out with you, but I'm cutting this off before it goes too far. I don't want to hurt you, and this will hurt less than you finding out what I'm really like." He noticed her hardened expression and flat tone shifted slightly during the last sentence, and they both showed him some pain. He decided to play the card she'd just handed him."If you're so horrible, why be ni
dwindletown night trainexcruciatingto dwindle unconvincedseeping in minutestowardsradioactive peaceful slumbertragic-laced sweetenerswhipped in icingfrosting the filial pillushered down a throatupon father fatality'scall to communionall cry to this momentreleasepossibilitysomberunknownwith every waking motionon every single sunriseall accomplishmentsmust be inked indeliblein the nowno blossomflowers the sameafter snowfallinevitable tracknon-stop masterwe let the fearwind usto heavens too farprayand enjoythe whistle
Peaches and LemonShe was unrecognizable.I knew exactly who she was, but only because I knew her back before she decided not to be just another unrecognizable girl.For a long while, everyone knew her. She couldn't set foot in this town without a 'hey', 'how are ya', or a 'great to have you back'. Now it seemed she rated more of a glance and dismissal.But, yes, I remember when she decided that it was all about being known and being popular. We were just kids, mind you, barely teens, when she came into my yard."Artie?""Ya, Peaches?" I called her that ever since I caught her taking a peach off one of our front yard peach tree a few years prior."I don't want to be Rachel anymore. I want to be Raquel." She always had a dramatic way of saying things, and she added a lot of, I guess you'd say, flourish to the way she said her new name."Oh, okay, Peaches. I'll let everyone know.""You're no help and no fun."She was wrong on both counts.Well, maybe not on the second count.
petaled memories of a younger dreamerI miss the dayswhen I thought girlsfelt like roses,and the rainwas my worst enemyI thought I'd neverunderstand a soliloquyin all its purpose andadulthood still loomeda distant thundering possibilitythe open roadwas a hobbyflipping cassettes in a carthat's no longer madeon a longer mountain roadthe time of lifewhen you believe finallyin what you never knewyou believed and friendslived wide hung closeI miss those dayswhen getting olderfelt new and whenI anticipated my firsttouch of a rose
Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either. Eventually, though, they did.Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me. The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.
stay upnight flies over landsleeping dreamsworries aspirations uncertaintycurled up under coverssome survive in darkkeeping wheels in motionor haunted by memoriesa graceful odd collageprelight awakeningsjumble the dim peacebringing electricityto silent linesthe night closes shopdelights hidden by sunmajority risingthe magnificent go to slumber(dedicated to all of us who would choose to live after the sun sets)
she shall inherit"Your meekness is sensual."The words caught her off guard, especially since she had been lost in her normal reverie: the imaginary world she lived in while walking, shopping and eating among the throbbing crowds of citizens that packed this city from wall to wall during business hours. But they caught her off-guard in another way, and it took her a second to realize it. For some reason, she wasn't offended at being called "meek" by a complete stranger. It was true, but that doesn't mean a stranger should address it. Maybe it was because of the suave and confident way he delivered the sentence. Maybe it was his Ivy-League good looks and high-end business suit. Maybe it was the calm, slightly smiling expression on his face. She didn't know. But she wanted to hear him explain what he meant.So, she put down her paper cup of tea and just looked back at him through her slightly too-thick glasses. He started to look somewhat familiar, b
I, (a creature of night, with knife) wouldstab minutesto slow timeslice demon fleshto bring heatpuncture decencyto flush out truthreflect dawnlightto find homestrip willow barkto drink tearscarve a hollow in herto store lovesacrifice a heartto bring favor
Living AnticipationWhat she craved was hunger. It took a semester for me to learn that.She was an exchange student from Italy, a college sophomore, and I was a grad student assisting her ESL class. The class was mandatory her first semester in the States, but she didn't need it. She didn't need a tutor, either.So, we were lovers.Every Wednesday, in my far away apartment in Brooklyn, we met and made. Every Wednesday, she would arrive on the N train from Manhattan and let herself in. I left the door unlocked all day, because she would never give me a time. Answering her phone was her lowest priority. All the world could wait for her, it seemed to me. When she arrived, it was always with a kiss. There were hardly any words at first, just her on her toes and me leaning down to meet her. She was 5 foot tall and all of nothing in weight, and never would I call her beautiful. She was pretty: olive skin and brown hair on youthful frame. Her ac
depressivesdeep pocketed realitya bottom only we seethe evil in innocencethe beauty in darknessa world where we arebottom center, looking up at allself-worth undefinable, worthlessand priceless in one breathindefatigable weariness of carryinginsatiable disdain.the silver screen holds not a candleto our terror and fearand we see you, your silly secrets, notas evil as the things we dreamyou will know us by our eyes,look in to see how deep we've been
if it were possible to do so...If it were possible to do, she walked with a lisp.Did she drag one foot across the floor slightly with a ssss from the smooth sole of her shoe sliding across the cement and stone? Perhaps, but I could never catch her doing it. As we worked at the old church on Saturdays, helping put together the archives of one hundred years of parish records into some reasonable order for shipment and storage in the new building, she would flit from room to room, shelf to shelf, not noticing her telltale sound that let me know where she was at all times.She focused on the packing and planning, while I cataloged and indexed. We worked as a silent team, just two volunteers working in the service of our community, organizing a past we both surely knew no one would ever review.Maybe it was the silence and solitude of the old building we enjoyed so much. The walls were tinted with tradition, and sounds of the outside world hardly penetrated the stone. Perhaps t
Every Angel Deserves a Child"I can't feel the unfurling of my wings, Daddy."I was not her father. I had entered her life when she was two years old, and she called me Daddy since she never knew her real father. Her mother's death two years ago made me the sole, living parent of an thirteen year-old, and I never felt like I was the right person for the job."What do you mean, Asrin?""Mom always said that when puberty started I would be the swan that emerged from the ugly duckling. She said I would be able to fly gracefully towards my dreams. But, I don't feel it."As much of a woman as she was becoming, she was still a child. I wanted to answer her question, but I really had a hard time discussing her blossoming womanhood in the middle of a laundromat. Her pretty eyes were pleading with me, but I told her we'd talk later.Janet had told Asrin a lot of things before she succumbed to the cancer. The last week or so of Janet's life were morphine-induced fantasy, I think.Janet and I had met during
Like Cartoon LoversHe strums his guitaroutside the art shop, waitingfor her as he singsabout lost country roadsand crucified thievesfinding redemption,his mucked boots scuffingthe sidewalk.She comes outduring her smoke break—skirt fluttering about her legs,head haloed by a red bandana,sandled feet displayinga pentagram tattooabove her toes.Her fingers go to the beadsaround her neck and slip thembetween her teeth, rollingthem with her tongue,her lips curving intoa slanted smile.He stops strumming,and they head to the backof the shop.His kisses fill her up.Bubbles erupt inside atthe sound of his Southern drawlas he tells her thathe’s stopped going to churchbecause all he does is stareinto the stained glass paintingsand drift off into his ownversion of heaven.That’s funny, she says,because lately I’ve beenthinking of going.He leans forwardand clenches her beadsbetween his teeth, tasting her,and she places his cowboy haton her head.Someday, he
list(en)out-of-tune guitar stringsthe pad of barefoot feeta tickle of calloused fingerslaughter lostin a maze of sheetsthe smell of morningand silence in ceilingsinterrupted thoughtsby softsleep breathingand the yawn of a curtainless windowthe sky in the eyes of a comforter-warm room, fresh blueholding all precious thingsyoudon't you dare leave mealone
tense intentionsiv.you lurk behind my sternum andlace my uneasy breaths withdoubt and self-deprecation, Ican't breathe. Iguess I didn't need to sleep.ii.I am smudged in between the lies,an asymmetric astrology chartmapping misguided dreamswhen you make a wish on me,I sell away another piece(I wish I were my own)v.it was always me, it was alwaysthe blood clotting in my heartand words coagulating on mytongue – I swallow cyanide tovomit up my narcissistic tendenciesiii.it was nothing that ever matteredwhen the dust settled and youcould finally remember my name(and you settled down into my bonesdeciding I was hollow enough for a stay)vi.I will never leavei.but I warned you my poetic dedicationswere never pretty
What about thisI'm going numbI'm losing myselfI think I'm losing my mindI'm feeling dumbBut no longer careEverybody thinks I'm fineIt's just a phase they sayIt'll fade awayBut what about this, what about meI want to be left alone, can't you seeThat you think it's a problem, but I know I'm fineWhat about this little way of mineI'm looking aroundAnd taking it inBut in no time it's outTrust me it's not wrongJust my way of dealingWith everything aroundYou think I'm not okjust listen when I sayWhat about this, what about meI want to be left alone, can't you seeThat you think it's a problem, but I know I'm fineWhat about this little way of mineI just don't knowWhat to sayWhat to doHow can I satisfy you?What about this, what about meI want to be left alone, can't you seeThat you think it's a problem, but I know I'm fineWhat about this little way of mine
Do You Remember?Do you remember that poem you wrote me?Well, I found it the other day.It was in my jacket pocket.I didn't know one piece of paperCould bring back so many memories.It's amazing how long it has beenSince you gave it to me.I am thankful thatI had you in my life.All the good and bad times,They made us that much stronger.Thank you for coming into my life.Thank you loving me.I couldn't have asked for anything better.So you see what a simplePiece of paper with words on it can do.It made me remember why I cared so much.It made me remember you,So thank you for writing it.
Always YouYou're always the one,That people want to be around,And people want to talk to.You're always the one,That people talk about,In a good way, of course.You're always the one,That gets what you want,Whenever we're in an argument.You're always the one,That's never getting picked on,For the music you listen to.You're always the one,Getting invited to places,And hanging out with people.You're always the one,That gets all of the luck,But why do I care?
You Forget.Doors close and sometimes they don't openand you might be trapped in a dark roombut that doesn't mean that there isn't any light outsideIt's a shame to see you go, I don't want to forget youBut everything's forgotten in the endthe feeling fades and soon you can't remember the dayor the monthor the yearmuch less the moment.You forget, and that's humanity's tragic downfall.You forget.You forget.You forget.It won't be long now, it won't be long until you're gonebut I'm begging you not to goPlease don't go, please don't leave before it's startedYou're floating away and it's not fair,nothing about this is fairand my heart is shattering and splinteringand I can't grasp the pieces quickly enoughI can't gather them allBut maybe a piece will get stuck with youand then you can take care of it from wherever you are(I hope it's nice there, please let it be nice.)so I guess that's okayIt won't be long now, it won't be long until you're goneAnd I won't forget youI w
They FallYour eyes melted into the skyas jellyfish illuminate the night,cosmic bodies, they fall to earthbecoming alien beauties.
icaruslast nightI found the curve of a lunar eclipsein my spine, indentationsleft by Daedalus in my shoulders,the constellations wired stitches(dead ends)for my broken wrists—I've always wanted to see a sunsetfrom the sky, watch the cloudsfade, formless,(my fingers are too rough tocatch them in my palms)they roll over each otheras mortal oceans,if I can see the worldblacken when I'm in the sky,(incantations)I've sewn on mechanical wings andwe're just waiting for the sun to melt us to wax.
IfWe candraw lines and give them nameslike elementsas they are discoveredOr etch into our skinsthis soloecal desireuntil it is impossible to tellwhere words stopand life begins.I wouldFind a common rhythm that includesyou in my arms, my handsand lungs and thoughtstracing the outline of youentangled with mecolliding like two lost particleslocked in a shared gravitydrifting through the vacuumof space. I could.Exhale, andremembersentence structure.
A Thousand Needles"Don't you think you're taking this a bit too far?"The corner of Will's mouth curves into a contemptuous smirk. "No, doc, I don't," he says."See? He just won't stop!" Nina's face is flushed and sickly from sleepless nights and crying. She's a pitiful imagewasted, tired, desperate.And Will laughs at her, unable to control himself. Dr. Willoughby looks down at the piece of scratch notebook paper before him, once again observing the gruesome image of the mutilated infant doodled upon it with the words "mommy no love me" scrawled across the top. He leans back against his cushioned chair, removing his glasses and touching his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. Then he sighs, weary. It's easy to see he's on the verge of giving up. After six straight weeks of morbid artwork, obscene language, sardonic jokes, and nightmares, he's about ready to seek a doctor himself. "How you can laugh at this is beyond me," he finally says."How you can say I'm taking this 'a bit
This AfternoonFall in love with me a little. And we'll spend the rest of our years in this afternoon.My eyes will meet yours and look away. My hand will run through your hair and stop. My fingers will find yours and pull away, and then find yours again. We'll drink coffee and sit on stairs that end too quickly. The sunlight will highlight your profile a little too well. My skin will look a little too luminous.I'm not a poet, my darling. Poets are decievers through refrain. Instead, I'll read you speeches from Shakespeare and enthrall you with my ancient eyes.I'm not a poet, my sweet. Poets betray themselves in lyrical verse. Instead, I'll tell you stories and make you wonder with a voice that will make you drowsy in the winter sun.You're not a poet either. Poets sing too soon with no music. Instead, you ebb your emotions through your musician's fingers on methodical frets.You're not a poet either. Poets layer emotions through hollow words. Instead, you amaze me with your wine rich voice and eye
Look Into the Lonely MindShe sits alone,Her thoughts chasing one anotherIn an endless game of tag.Connections, Understandings,Things no one else can grasp.Music and movies play,Repeating themselves over and over.Books have been writtenOnly to be forgotten.Names with pictures,Words with no voice,Art that cannot be shown.Communicating with words that make no senseAnd trying to fit in,Resulting in failure.Admired by many,Refused by them all.Forever Alone...A lie.Beautiful and she knows itBut doesn't believe it.A touch to liven,A word to kill.Confused by the answersTo the questions she asks.Then it all comes back to...Why?
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho--somatic, dear;the ocean has swallowedme whole.hay una guitarra bajomi almohada, ysueño de música cuandoestoy solo.you came here withcity smoke in your lungs,and iforgot to breathe.
Palliation"She looked hot, when she wore skirts, but the thing is, she never really knew that she looked hot... which made it so much sexier."He took a long drag at his cigarette and squished out the butt as the paper burned into the filter."So what happened?" I asked."Oh, she got married. I came to know about it from a friend of hers. Her friend's name was Richa, but I called her Bitcha... God, I hated her!"He chuckled and took another swig of his beer. "She called and told me that Swarna won't be returning, with much relish. She knew that it would leave me heartbroken. Ugh, she was such a bitch... her friend. Funny thing is, heartbroken doesn't even begin to explain it. She never even told me that she was going away to get married."He paused and pursed his lips, as if lost in thought, gazing into the depths of the shimmering golden liquid in his hands as if trying to pour his memories into words."How do you describe that feeling of complete and utter hollowness? You can say
If you love her...lookpasttired feetand the hop-scotch marksof timethrough binding fearsof the last loverto wrong herunderbrilliant layersof preservation appliedin mirrored morning tasksintothe little girlwho wants to ask youto hold her good-night