Category Archives: Pain

Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Deference

No baby, I don’t think it’s that you are incapable of being happy, I think you just have more receptor cells for sadness. The little molecules of joy float away from you. The reason it hurts is because your threshold is low, and you’ve built a tolerance for sadness.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

Memory’s Marrow

206, and yours were in the lower lumbar, I lie in the slumber of codependency, and when the nurse walks in on me, curled fetally near your rib cage, she assumes I’m your daughter, no use in bothering that it’s 4 a.m., as the old man in room 12b calls for more morphine. Without each other there’s the great depression, you’re the haploid cell in my gene expression, I’m like the repression of two faulty chromosomes along a y-axis, which really means nothing, except that I was the girl who risked death for you. You were the sweetness of tea where the drip of honey diffused viscously between warm thighs. Deeply is how I break in your arms, where they fused steel on epiphyseal lines. I ask God why I’m so easily fractured, and she says it must be love, love like warmth spilling out. They drew lines across your body, where the scalpel wrote poetry from your inability to keep normalcy. Faithfully we love, though the heart could mend or break us. Like natural selection, you ossified and died, as I went on to evolve beyond the collagenous glare of these scars. When the doctor sketched the image of your shattered spine, I thought of majestic butterflies lining the trunk of a tree, as the first harsh breeze of autumn tore them away from each other, and I felt some day, I’ll make my way back and pour my heart out in a cup and you will drink yourself sober, wake up without balding, without the wrinkles dissolving youth, pale skin in the morning, the sputum from toxic lungs, God knows I need a way out of this.

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Filed under Cancer, Coffee & Tea, creative, Death, Depression, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Battlefield of Music

I am your song, bury me in the coffin of your guitar, then once you come to the end of the bar, strum me hard. Strum me through the streets of downtrodden, strum me where the spiritlands are, in cedar and bark, in the steel echo of heart, strum until your fingers bleed crimson, strum me slow, strum me imprisoned, then when you find yourself at the end of loving, strum me free. Strum me the wings of ravens, strum me eagles and vultures. hawks in all cultures, strum me Hispanic, strum me black, strum me exotic on islands where girls wear dresses made from leaves, strum me electric, amplify my soul, strum me hungry and full, with a handful of change and some tea for the tillerman, strum me like a busker who plays for his favourite shot of rye, strum me high baby, strum me high, then bring me down a key, like a Southern comfort melody, lay me on the grass slow and melodiously, in the oppressive summer heat, play me through all seasons, play me without reason like I’m going to die, because every song has a refrain, refrain from touching me, leave me alone, then let me vibrate in the carpal memory of your bones, where splinters and marrow record the solo pitch of my soul. Coda, codine, codeine, crave and despise every chord, but the one that takes you out of this world, honey that’s the one you gotta find, find it and hold it, cradle it from neck to navel, then strum it alive, strum it like neurons sparking through dark, let it resonate like a scream, like the death cry of a warrior on the battlefield of music.

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Filed under Love, Music, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

S’agapo

Dear Mrs. L, I do and she does too, but we are careful not to let ourselves slip in front of you. Your face is kind, somewhat shy, demure, and pure. Your hands hold the wheel as though you’ve always known which turn to take, in the mad rush of seasons in a city full of malakes, recession, and malaise, your kindness is a palpable presence that one can not articulate. The many lives you guided and led into this world, a rehearsal for your own girl, who would for a time be my girl, my cat, my kitten, my angel, my baby, my sweetheart, my joy, my madness, my agony, my pleasure, my ecstacy, my hurt, my love, agape mou. Thank- you for all your quiet and generous suffering. For the kisses on the cheek, for the Christmas sweets. For the sun and the absence of it. Dear Mrs L thank you for my heaven, and thank-you for my hell. S’agapo.

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Filed under Break Ups, Broken, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Greek, Loss, Love, Malakes, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, travel

Time

Is a river that rushes onward
Is a vein that ruptures inward
Is an emotion that stagnates
on the cuff of bloodied sleeve.
Is all those who leave me
Or allow me to leave.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Rupture

The day love turned abiotic is the day my corpse lay in bed and did not move for a century. In that century a sentence was written, that contained the entirety of what I felt. The simplicity of a ray of light, wherein all the sun was contained lay in the secular shadow of the curtains that hung like death waves over my window, each time the wind blew, the tide of my life pulled out, then in, then back away from me, and as some wish to recover this, I did not. I slept for a moment, one could not measure, yet in that moment, eternity, and with it all hope, all desire or need of ever waking. The velvet box in which my love lay, they shoveled upon it the earth, on the outside, metal latches and mahogany, within no scream, no dream, no vision, simply velvet mouth where words never fell, velvet tongue, where thoughts dissolved like acid, turning the light into sharp particles of memory, of a time when we walked near the ocean together, and your hand, as I reached for it, became black molecules of star dust fading. The earth, which I used to revere suddenly seemed absurd for being here all these billions of years. Why did it go on regrowing, regenerating all that dead mass of emptiness and decay, If you were only going to go away? Go away, then return again, as this blade, cutting into me, in the center where my heart once beat like the wings of a bird flying home. I’ll stay here clutching my head, my heart, my body, all these things you wouldn’t hold, these things too big for this world to contain. I’ll choke and hemmoraghe, I’ll convulse, my eyes will grow weary where they once shone. All this will take place in a moment, and in that moment each part of me will surrender and retrace each part of you back through time, until it’s as though neither of us were ever here. I’ll erase those parts you said were forever young, replace them with wrinkles and routine, the carefully constructed silence of these walls, this depth from oceanic to a measured distance of six feet, of a life compacted into fragments and unwanted bones. I’ll do all this alone as I walk and breathe, smile and attentively seem to be here, the world won’t know otherwise. It will be my secret. One day a patient will say, those nurses are all so jaded, it’s as if they’ve seen life, watched it fade away day by day, but never cared to make it stay, and I’ll say nothing, I’ll smile and donate my blood as if I always loved and never knew the feeling of a heart break.

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Filed under Freedom, Hypocrisy, Loss, Love, Pain, Poem, Repressed, Sorrow, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Synesthesia

On a red Wednesday far away.
How far must one feel before it is real? The smell of vanilla reminds me of the creamy sky when the shape of a dinosaur floats by, reminding me then of old caves deeply unearthed, vapour clouds and the reach of Everest the cataclysm of continents drifting and shifting. I think of you who existed in the same world where eggs were fertilized. The time when our species made the great leap, structurally adapting our homologous bodies, from wings, to fins, to the epic void of these empty arms that never held you. We breathed the same air during the same era and yet it’s as if you are a character in a book that existed in a time I can only imagine. So it is that blue is synonymous with the mountain crest where the roaring Pacific faultline pulls like two magnetic forces, an entire separate continent into the arms of another, that time when cultures collide and adapt into common ancestors of different origins, and you smile that orbital smile as the ozone of your affections protects me from the radiation that threatens complete eradication of our species. I love you duplicitous flower, love you black tar highway whose deceit makes the sky appear deep.

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Filed under Earth, Environment, Evolution, Geographical Cure, Heroin, Ideas, Identity, Illusion, Immortal, Indigenous, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Overdose, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Sea, Self

Disintegration

The latte scalds my tongue ,
hot as the tears that flow from
somewhere untouched,
somewhere unseen,
somewhere you are ,
somewhere you’ve been
somewhere disintegrates
somewhere evaporates,
like steam.

When you vanish I disintegrate
When I stay I disintegrate
All life disintegrates
into nothing.
Burn my heart out
like the flame
of the candle,
whose dark
phantom
dissolves me.

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Filed under Loss, Love, Pain, Poem

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing

Sorrow

My mother is glacial. It must come from eons of emotional tundra, no antifreeze to keep from the below thirty arctic breeze that blows over this country. In winter I wrap my body in a coat of down, the geese have shed their warm feathers for my survival. It’s them or me. I liken myself to a polar bear whose padded steps crush the compacted snow and leave a trail for the others to follow. We get blinded by white when visibility is cut to zero, it’s flailing arms and falling flakes of crystallized beauty, it’s albino city. The skyscrapers are lighthouse beacons in a sea of snow, scrape the windows, scrape my heart, peer out at the drifts of accumulated sorrow, it falls heavy, we’re up to our necks in it, buried 6 feet under without a shovel. The highways are treacherous with black ice, driving is not advised, there’s a windchill warning, less than 3 minutes and your skin will form ice crystals and die, it will blacken beyond repair, like your arms were never there, they break off like chiseled bricks of empty onyx.

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Filed under Arctic, Canada, Canadian, creative, Emotions, Ice, Loss, North, Pain, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Silence, Sorrow, Winter, writing

Aversion

Little girl is wolf running, deer escaping, the frost on window panes, creating flowers. I touch, melt, watch the slow trickle of who I am dissolve in her hurt.  She is a ghost in my hands, she haunts my bone, tendons, sinew, fleshy, red paralysis of broken winged sorrow. Can’t keep up with the flock of the dying multitudes.

This sunken ship of drinking, eating,  sleeping into common order. Non- compliant with.

Smile on the executioner.
Food on a plate for the hungry.

Anchor in my stomach eating out desire.

Force fed by the masses.

Metal crushing through skin, new outlines of how to lose what’s sacred,
to the ever gaping machine,

digesting me.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry

Incongruity

Look at me, the armless statue, the gaping silence, the doom daughter. I called to leave a message, told you I was going away to a place where you couldn’t find me, and they called out my name in the streets, stared down into murky water under bridges. I lay hidden in a boat, a broken mess of unsailable hope. I was covered in my own poison, utterly soaked, and no one ever found me, until I awoke sober and ashamed. I walked barefoot through traffic towards my home, wolf breath, the bully blowing smoke, laughing me black like withered ash, dark resin, the scrape of a ghost over glass. I want to be the Woodswoman of daily syringes, walk detecting steel in my blood. You enter me endlessly, a stranger,  a lost mast, what the wind blew in, what the comets dropped. Starchild, black hole, cyclone. I unwill your fluid gaze from the body of ice, my mother, the antichrist. Screaming walls, screaming falls down tubes not meant to hold. The kicking, the kicking, the termination. I bleed it out of me 12, 20 and 6. It breaks even, no placenta, only this warm gush in the morning, in the moon tide, unwanted. My arms are my arms are…look what I hold, this is not yours, this is not mine, this will not keep,  a thousand emptied syringes, a highway leading out, high tide, low sun, afterglow of spent agony. In bed with a stranger again, father, the water, the sky, the hell fire, a triangle of incongruity.

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Filed under Addiction, Alcoholism, Borderline, Depression, Pain, Poem, poetry

Amnesia

Dinner tray left in the hall,
the twisted serpent at your side.
What if we collided with stars?
A blood filled bag lies next to you
and a slow drip of morphine like the drizzle over this autumnal day.
They stapled your spine and when you woke you told me you had never dreamt more vividly,
but it was the morphine talking,
your
anaesthesia,
analgesia,
amnesia.

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Filed under Bleed, Memory, Pain, Poem

Jesus Christ of Urgent Care

Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.” 

Stripped down,
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,
distasteful.

I.V drip,
sanity slip,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.

Heavy nod,
intercom
paging God,
white lights,
fluorescent glare,
Jesus Christ of urgent care.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing

Anhedonia

Being sober is like waking up in a dry desert after owning the sea. I must’ve sold a million waves in my days just to find the shore again. Put me back in a trance, it’s the only way I can feel the music, everything else is just the discordant cry of black birds in a grey sky of clouds, this absence of pleasure, this terror of crowds.

I’ve been thinking of silver and grey, they are nearly the same, except one sparkles and the other is dull..reflective of how the scars of our past are what sharpen us against the darkness..

“..the silvered piercing which leaves a hole that’s sometimes a wound, sometimes an aperture through which we fill ourselves with light”

C.B +
L.A.R

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Filed under creative, Memory, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Silver, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul

Too Sober

Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold. 

Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.

” But I will turn my eyes from you  
 As women turn to put away 
The jewels they have worn at night  
And cannot wear in sober day.”

C. Barthelette 
S. Teasdale

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Filed under creative, Desire, Grief, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Sex, Sexuality, Sobriety, Sorrow, Stars, writing

Transference

I’d long ago escaped impact,
using anybody as selves,
wants opening poems into a very
structured form of other,
war, blood, rose,
stilettos on whores under
the electric lights
of Europe,
yes
that.

Then love got in my blood, and they said my type was so rare, it might not exist in the veins of any living other.

So I sought out the corpse of words, ashes of tongues entering other mouths, long ago erased from history.

The Anglo- Saxon and Roman bred with Greek and Latin, to invent English and enforce it on savage lipped strangers from other shores.

Somewhere in a hidden cavern under a Spanish night, the one person who held my secret laughed reckless off the edge of a cliff into nothing, and they could never find a cure for this thing that lives in my veins, I tried to bleed it out of me, I tried to make it fly, but it never fled, as much as it bled, it never escaped me.

I only learned to lessen the blow of it as it trailed behind me on the wind, always with a newly transfused smile of joy and a fresh cut of agony.

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Filed under creative, Longing, Love, Malady, Pain, Poem, poetry, Unwanted, Verse, writing

The glaring sun , my heart

(a contre-blason)

To her because her silence is like cowardice.

To her who is powerless or is it her prowess that makes towers gleam?

We share the same dream, plunging like swans in unison, to a broken melody.

Cooing into the vaporous clouds.

Whitewashed wonder child, beguiled bitch of palaces, lend me your fist, so I can make beautiful bruises in place of love.

” the east can’t purple” she said. So I turned red and smashed out this rouged vessel, the glaring sun, my heart.

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Filed under Bird, Bleed, Contreblason, Doves, Pain, Poem, poetry, writing

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

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Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

All passion spent

They thought we might be the death of eachother. I could hardly stand to breathe without her body. We tried to abstain, I tried to keep her away, at arms length, but she couldn’t obey. One night her partner lay sleeping in his bed as she read poems to me, and something in the seriousness of her expression made me unable to resist her. We were on a cast iron bed in the adjoining room, every muscle flex caused the bed to creak. I put my hand on her mouth to silence her, but her moan escaped and awakened him. Just a look from her was enough to make me cum, the anticipation of her touch sent comets shooting through me. By the time her skin touched mine they exploded into the night like a million beams of light, blinding me with stars. Maybe it was the fear of being caught that thrilled me, or the way her eyes were etched with green flecks of brilliance and her mouth seemed carved out perfectly to fit mine. One day his relatives were visiting from America and they stepped out while she was cooking dinner, promising to return in time to eat. In their funny Chicago accents they said “dinner smells mahvelous, see you soon.” The moment they drove away I couldn’t keep my thoughts at bay. She was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of red wine, wearing a white apron, stained with the blood of a wild animal. She leaned into me and whispered that her loins ached as she ran her hand down my leg, I felt the earth break and tremble. She took my hand and led me in the bedroom. Our screams filled the small old house as the potatoes boiled over on the stove and the windows went foggy from the steam. We lay gasping by eachother’s side as the car pulled into the driveway and we ran to make ourselves more presentable, less mangled by desire. They were so honoured to be eating a traditional, Aboriginal meal. As they commented on how delicious it was, it took all my strength not to laugh at the situation, their accents and serious faces, her messy hair and legs lined with scratches, as though she had fought and killed this massive beast alone. I always hoped we hadn’t left evidence of our passion anywhere, but if we did, they seemed to overlook it.

Another time she came to see me at the apartment where I was staying. She held the keys to her truck in her hand as she stood in the hallway explaining the situation. She was carrying crates of books from their house and lining the back room with her possessions, promising to leave, to come be with me. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, her tightly toned legs shone from the force of her effort, and she stood there with a slight smirk, eyes shaded from the sun. I walked up and claimed her lips, grasping her wrist I told her to stay and she chased me as I pulled her keys away. She fell on the bed, wrestling me down as she tried to pry my hand open. Her sex pushed against mine and I dropped the keys, she stared at the keys, then back at me while I kissed her. Our clothes were unnecessary restraints that kept our skin from eachother. Later as we lay covered by dew and lust, with laboured breaths suddenly we heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The door opened and we struggled to dress, it was so obvious. My brother walked in with my cousin and they found us that way, completely ravaged. The entire place breathed sex. It seemed to follow us everywhere; at all hours, in open spaces, behind bathroom doors, at the homes of relatives & friends, everywhere we went got marked by our undying passion for eachother and our inability to resist. Her hands belonged to my body and mine to hers. It took more than a decade to kill, but we outlived it. Others weren’t so fortunate.

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Filed under Bondage, Control, Dance, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Infatuation, Intimacy, Longing, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Sexuality, writing

The deepest form of hypocrisy

If a whore is the worst a woman can be is that not inequity? But that she crawl cave-ward, face veiled by niqab and pray for mercy? But that man crawl from cave to cave lunatic raved taking as many precious jewels one can claim, should be his manly fame?! Were woman to submit willingly, she would be bathed in scarlet shame and marked unworthy for eternity. That which makes man idol banishes woman to hell. He sees woman’s body his right to take and conquer, something over which she has no power. That by man she could lose face and be so disgraced is the deepest form of hypocrisy. Men remain ageless in their power and sexuality, yet women fade from the sky at the high tide of their maturity. She has no worth outside her youthful body, which she never had mastery over by such base and backward standards as these, but to please man. Condemned to death in old days for being the king’s unwilling mistress, her body became a hindrance, worthy of praise only in the gaze of lust, a cat call, leading to her downfall. In modern days, the countless cases of women in places where red lights glow with sirens as blue flashes immerse, she is locked away for selling her only worth to the men who are spared their part in the crime for which they pay. Even in this day and age we live in an outrage against love all the more because real love cannot exist where such dominance breathes down the neck of a whore.

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Filed under Abuse, Bondage, Control, creative, Feminist, Gender Issues, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Love, Niqab, Pain, Poem, poetry, Prostitution, Rape, Repressed, Rhyme, Sexuality, Verse

XIX

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

Emily Dickinson

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Filed under Emily Dickinson, Pain, Poem, poetry