Tag: napowrmo

Poem

 

Sometimes I feel allergic to his touch,
like when he grips my hips when we’re
twisted in sheets.. that his fingers
will slip to my throat to hold
until I choke. There’s something about
that first man. Oh men. I’m a recovering
addict. My model of love is barbed
wire wrapped tight around
a crumbling orchid, a rose
shoved through the holes of brass
knuckles. I am ripped petals bleeding
pollen, a broken womb. He’s trying
to repair these lips but I’m not
having any of it. I’m just buying time
to run away
and taking every inch of his skin
while I can.

 

Stumps

 
He didn’t even try to save me.
He cut a gash in my life boat,
pulled the string that strung
together my wooden raft,
amputated my legs that kicked
my body closer to air. &He
drank the blood that drained
from my stumps, then mocked me
for being unable to swim.
&Waited for me to get over it.
He’s still waiting somewhere.

 

these seem a little more raw and less “wordy” or language laden than usual. fascinating. ]

Cotton Mouth

 

This is only temporary. He ought to know it
but the way he holds me when he thinks I’m sleeping
–I just can’t.
My tongue crawls into the corner of my cotton mouth
jaw, grows mothballs, and I just smile
and kiss him back.

 

Obituary

 

I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t
survive.

 

Rêve de Fleurs

 
When I lay my body down to rest
flowers will reach out the sockets
of my eyes, wrap tendrils around
my cheekbones, and suck the breath
from my throat.
In my dreams I still sleep neck deep
in someone else’s hate, drinking
his self-loathing, cloaked in the silt
of his misery. He should have but
he never could have saved it.
He rots in my memories, feeding
the flowers that suffocate me
in my sleep.