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Tag: life

The wolf cries boy cries wolf

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The wolf cries boy and no one comes running. Not the first time, not any time after that. Every full moon an empty howl fills a sky darker than the bottom of his feet.

He’s been running for too long – dirty and distant – running wild rings around the haunting.

Night descends in a furious wash of colour. Not a timid shower but a flood of blood and violence. His solace hides in a sympathetic sky and his pleads become the wolf.

The boy cries wolf and everyone comes running. To point fingers and to watch the fight.

Nobody puts baby in the corner

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Nobody puts baby in the corner. But he did. And it wasn’t the first time. And it wasn’t the last time. And it wasn’t the worst time – she’d been through hotter hells than this a thousand times before. He thought he could save her – pull her up by her hair – help her escape from the flames. So he buried her in water. A daily funeral where her blood became part of the rush into her lungs, her mouth, her emptiness. He could never fill her emptiness. No one could. No one can. No amount of pills or drugs or sex or rock and roll me another joint.

Get me off. (Get off me.) I need another hit. (Stop hitting me.) Let’s tie the knot. (Untie me please.) I love you. (Leave me.) Don’t make me beg for it. (I’m begging you not to.) You enrage me. (You rape me.)

She lives like this. She dies like this. Broken ribs. Bruised lips. Limbs out of sockets. Torn ligaments. No treats, only tricks. Stupid bitch folded into a paper bird and thrown from the sixth story. Someone else is writing her story. Bound ankles and wrists. Hoisted like a crucifix – her head bowed like a flag at half mast. A mourning that can’t be missed though she’ll hide it as best she can. Windows boarded up with black eyes and long sleeves. Trips to the store like he doesn’t treat her like a whore. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is falling apart. A fine line between being teased and being tortured. Pins and needles thrust into skin – a sickly voodoo – threading through flesh he tries to stitch her up again. She doesn’t even flinch. Her skin knows needles like the back of her hand. The marks, the scars, the car going too fast to get away from here. Anywhere. If only she didn’t have to ask. He guards the keys like she’s the last prisoner to leave. He keeps her. He keeps her in cupboards and behind closed doors, in confined spaces of his clasp-grasp-gasp for air, love. If you fight it’ll only be worse. I don’t want to but I’ll force you to.

Do as you’re told. Let me hold your hand, waist, throat. Don’t you dare scream. If you open your mouth you won’t eat for days. For weeks. He will starve her soul from her stomach. He can’t fill her void but he can make it his own. Make a home in her spine. He will call himself a god – divine. He pulls the strings, the nerves, the ending. He stops the clock. Get up. Get up. Get up. Stop. Walk. Go. Come. Come. Come here. Get lost. She is lost. She belongs to him.

Will she ever win?

 

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars

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She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?

Come with me and we will borrow time

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I fell asleep looking at a photograph of your face – your eyes like a slideshow of our lives. Together, we are not awkward like chalk against steel – the squeal of metal.

Rather, our bodies are turn tables scratching at the grooves in each other’s skin – a symphony played by an orchestra of pleasure. The strings pulling our hips; percussion making us swing.

Our tongues as two crossed fingers – folded around each other like tubes of brass bearing the weight against our lips. This beauty-full bassline belts a love that no one will understand.

There is air pushed from our lungs slowing down the clock; seconds match the rhythm of our breathing. Your breath: a fingerprint on the atmosphere conducting ructions when our bodies shake in perfect time sparked by what happens if I did this longer-harder-faster.

And there’s a fine line when it comes…

to borrowing time, so we lock thighs and grind. You sigh as my hand that knows the curvature of your spine guides the glorious climb till we are two tightrope walkers taunting the fragility of notes.

We are high up, but deep inside. Think and jump. Thrilled and terrified.

If you look for us, don’t look up for you will find us below, buried between each other like sheets. This is where my dreams sleep. And I will wake to you like waves stumble effortlessly upon the shore. We will sway day after day – an endless ocean waiting to sink its teeth into the Sahara.