absolution

at least
in the end,
you were polite
about it.

your hand
rests gently
on the back of my neck,
nails rough and worn
as you trace your way
down the length of my spine,
turning each knob
with a definite crack and caress
until you reach the curves
of my hips
and dig in.
sorry. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.
i'm sorry.
my name, something other
than a curse, the words
just hovering
between the space of your lips
as one of us, i'm not sure who,
starts to cry.
we are left with
your hand on my heart,
knife on my gullet,
lips pressed softly to my cheek
in prayer
as you apologize once more,
and the moment
where everything pauses

and i brace myself
for the impact.

How to Ride a Bike

Right hand, left hand on the handle bars. Stand to attention. Listen. Your father is yelling again, the sound drifting through the screen door. Your brother is playing video games in his room. You cannot hear your mother crying. Wait for the wind on your skin before you step through the frame of the bike.

Balance, hands on the handle bars, bike between your legs. Strong. Capable of things your father says you are not. Stand up on your toes and raise yourself onto the seat. Admire your control over the bike. You are only getting started.

Place your right foot on the pedal. Lean left with your other foot on the ground. Hands straight. Scooch your butt around, maybe back a little until you're comfy. Do not worry about a helmet. It will not be needed where you are going. Straighten up. Look forward at the road. Ignore the house behind you.

Push forward with your right leg on the pedal. Raise your left leg and place it on the other pedal. Push your left leg forward. Move.

Keep pedalling around and around, into the wind, sun bright and sticky on your skin. Down the road. Forward into possibility. Away from that house and all the screaming.

bit by bit

bit by bit

even
beneath the grasp of your hand
against my neck        the pull
of my hair against my scalp
and the burning gasp
that is wrenched
from the confines of my throat
i will build it
bit by bit
stick by stick
pebble by pebble
and bone by bone
this city        paradise
stretched along the length of my back
a river flowing between
the blades of my shoulders
white fog along the edge
of my skin        blue
and purple flowers blooming
deep within the spaces
of my ribs
while the red crunch of autumn
dries clean and crusted
between my lips

and in the end
this is perfect        regardless
of your absence i
am still building
and growing and
constructing and colonizing
and reclaiming the land
you took
away from me

bit by bit
i'll pave over
the remainders
of your presence

hot tonight

it's hot tonight

almost too hot for talking

your fingers a shadow of a trace

along the base of your glass

in the dark

as the wind flutters gently behind

the curtain

almost like a butterfly 

just beyond the reach of my hands

as i lean in and try 

to wrap my fingers within yours

it's hot tonight

too hot to talk 'bout fucking

the sweat curving down

the length of my brow

salt in my eyes as i blink

once twice hard enough

to try and clear my thoughts 

as you cup the side of my jaw

and lean in

just far enough to break me

without falling

it's hot tonight

too fucking hot for love

it's just cold enough though

to press the pads of my fingers 

against the molting bruises on my neck

until they hurt to the point of freshness

as i face my reflection in the mirror

the temperature in the apartment

slowly rising until 

we reach boiling point together

and are finally finally

done

Ice Cubes

It’s not as if it was an easy choice. The marble was cold against her skin as she huddled down within the ice cubes overflowing the bathtub’s oval curves.
Wine flowed down the counter and frothed into the corners of the room, blooming like mad flowers along the floor.
She couldn’t feel her skin. It’s not as if this was a suicide attempt. That would be too easy. She didn’t need to feel anything, though. She was waiting for him to open the bathroom door.
He would enter the house as he did every day. He’d hang his keys up at the front entrance, leave his wallet on the chest by the door, and throw his jacket over the banister. She could almost taste the black fabric of his clothing. She should know it. She’d peeled it back from his skin enough times.
It was a stunt. It was a desperate affair. It was all and neither of these. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the tub and staggered over to the mirror. The pale bruises and blue kisses left by the ice were the reminders of each night, reflected back slowly in the light of the moon.
The window was open and she loved the breeze. She couldn’t laugh, though. She turned back and slowly doubled over, almost falling head first into the tub. The crunch of the ice covered the sound of the door opening.
She knew it was him, even in her delirium. She always did. It was one of the gifts she had developed in their relationship. He’d managed to carve himself in deep, so that she could always feel him echoing from her memories. The curve of his hands dug in, twisting over her skin as he picked her up and extracted her from the tub.
The wine slowly sloshed up against the walls, staining itself in patterns against white paint, the cold tile of the tub, the glass broken in two and shattered on the counter. Ice trailed across the bathroom floor and out the door toward the bedroom.
The door closed with a click, and then the screaming began.

The Suicide Garden Part VIII: Blood

She lay in the snow, whistling. She gave that up soon, though.
She knew she would die before he found her. It was just a little thought she had. Her supply of cigarettes was gone now, and she had nothing to keep her going.
She thought of the poppies she’d collected every time and placed in miniature lakes, swimming across the apartment on the waves caused by her movements. They were such a beautiful red, almost like a smile, curving in the grimace of an unshared secret.
Poppies on the water, beaching themselves behind the hidden screen of the floating world, tangled in the images of the jungle growing along the apartment.
I wonder who’s going to water the plants now.

The Suicide Garden Part VII: Fire

One second and it was over, careening into the snow banks on the 97 Northbound.
She didn’t know what it was. Maybe the age of the truck. Maybe the damage she’d done to the engine as she sped away on the asphalt.
She had a feeling it was him, though.

The Suicide Garden Part VI: Theif

She can’t breathe. The cold ice burrows itself deep into her throat and makes it difficult to think.
She’s got a coat hanger and one bag filled with personal belongings. The life in the city at night is haunting her, the imaginable presence of a cat, a bird, an unknown person following her down the back alleys of her mind. She quickens her pace as she maneuvers the hanger, attempting to reach the lock.
The keys are in the ignition, the window is slightly open, and the truck is parked behind an abandoned building. All sorts of fools can be found in the world. It’s not like she can complain though. She’s one of them.
Half an hour to dawn, four hours before he realizes she’s gone. Less, if she accidentally woke him up as she escaped out the window and down the fire escape ladder.
The lock won’t come open. She pulls the hanger clear of the window and readjusts it. It’s an old truck, and she needs it. It has no alarms or value, and will get her out of the city fast enough. Who would think of looking for her in an old blue pickup marked by patches of rust?
She wouldn’t, and neither will he.
The hanger isn’t working. She’s not thinking, really, as she moves and bangs her fists on the glass, sobbing. The temperature is dropping to ten below, a nice start of an average winter.
It was a split-second decision, really. In one quick move, the glass was gone. She had in her hand a brick from one of the ruined houses behind her. The window was open and she reached in to unlock the door, climbed over the glass on the seat, and started the ignition.
She’d be gone by the time he woke up, and then the hunt would begin.

The Suicide Garden Part V: Fishtank

She can’t feel her skin. The ends of her body are indistinguishable from his, as her eyes trace their locked limbs. She’s sticky and matted with violence. The mirror is no longer on the wall, while the books are torn and scattered among the shards of glass on the floor.
The window is open, and the cold night air of late November floods through. It stings, and she can feel the ache of it all as it caresses her injuries.
If this was a story, maybe she could feel shock, anger, or disbelief. A stranger in the dark, pulling you off the streets into the bushes. An urban legend, a myth.
She’s not the girl found murdered in her hotel from a one-night stand. She’s not the pretty little thing with a stressed boyfriend who sometimes loses his temper and beats his girl.
She’s the slacker who’s been with a drug addict for the past three years. She’s the tramp who lets her guy cheat and sleep with other women. She’s the whore who still sleeps with him, even as he beats her to a bloody pulp while kissing her lips.
She’s the fool who’s in love with the devil.
She knows that nobody will hear the screaming. She knows her pleas will go unanswered. What is the world going to say? She already knows the answer. She’s heard it a million times before.
She asked for it. She likes it. She loves him, and for that reason, she doesn’t deserve help.
She’s swimming around their fish tank of an apartment looking for an escape. Tonight though, she’s lucky.
He left the window open.

The Suicide Garden Part IV: Rave

The music is too loud. She can’t make out any lyrics, but she can feel the vibration of it all through the floor. She’s caught in a swirling mass of energy pulsating around her. The lights are faint and bright, juxtaposed with the darkness. From the shadows, she can see people dancing, making out, and having sex in the corners of the rooms.
She can’t see him at all. The phone call had been from someone new this time. Usually, she knew whom he was with whenever he was out. This one must have been brave, though, seeing as she’d received the call directly from his cell phone.
“Hey, over here!” screams a voice. She can recognize no one as she walks over.
“Where is he?”
“In the bathroom in a heap on the floor. Marilynn is trying to wake him up.”
“Yeah, with shock treatment!”
“Head down that way, just follow the signs.”
“Man, I’d love a piece of that!” She dashes away before the words can settle on her skin and finds a woman smoking while blocking the door to the men’s room. The woman smiles, whispers good luck, and hands her the cigarette, leaving her there alone.
She pushes open the door and recognizes him among the gloom and filth shadowing the walls. He’s grinning like a lunatic as he lies there among the remains of whatever drug he’s high on. As soon as she gets within reach, he swings before she can even see it coming, dragging her down to him before she can protest.

The Suicide Garden Part III: Church

He’s brought a sculpture of an angel home and left it on the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Something the church on 5th Street was giving out.”
“Do you know why?”

“Said it was their anniversary or something.”
Later that evening, she leaves under the pretense of buying coffee and bagels for tomorrow’s breakfast. The wind is blowing hard as she stumbles over the cobblestones. She’s warm, though. She’s wearing a shirt with a high neckline and long sleeves under the coat, to hide the marks he left on her.
The building is tall and contains what seems to her to be a thousand stained glass windows. The people inside are sitting in the pews, praying. That doesn’t seem right to her. If they were really praying for forgiveness, they should be on their knees in an image of subservience. Just like last night.
She slides into the pew closest to her right, and stares at the image of Christ all strung up on the heavy wooden cross in the center of the building.
“Can I help you?” asks the priest.
She turns to him. “Yeah, can you tell me why I’m still here?”
“Here, as in life?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just give me an answer.”
“Because it’s all part of God’s plan. Be joyous about the role you are given in this world.”
Joy. “What joy is there in pain?” she whispers. The priest doesn’t hear her, though. He’s gone off to most likely save another poor soul in danger of damnation.

The Suicide Garden Part II: Poison

There’s no substitute for pain. She can hear the laughter in the bedroom, can see the shoes perched upon the carpet like weapons of war. That’s what stilettos are in her opinion. She sees no other sensible reason to wear them unless marching into battle. How easy it would be to catch a man then, with the quick preliminaries of a contract.
Do you want to?
Sure, why not? Catch me, won’t you?
It’s over before it’s even done.
The apartment smells like an oven, overcooked with the spices and tastes of a meal gone wrong. Sex is carved into the place like a celebrity’s name. The remains of passion sullied in the papers are spread across the living room floor with the evidence. The whole room feels sticky and heavy.

She’s not going to touch it. They can clean up their own trash. He’ll probably make her do it later, though. And then maybe as a reward, he’ll touch her, lay her back upon the bed that not hours ago contained another woman, and fuck her into oblivion.
He wants her body and she wants his love. However, she’ll take what she can get in this relationship.
The voices have stopped. She stands there like she does every time, unsure of her position, where she should be standing. The bedroom door clicks open and the woman slides out into the open, smiles and blows her a kiss as she disappears out the front door. He’s standing in the doorway and beckons her over.
Who’s the other woman, really?

The Suicide Garden Part I: Nirvana

It’s a jungle, thick with the scent of the tropics in a pot. The vines curl upward and around the cheap knockoffs of Monet hanging loosely on the walls in second hand picture frames. The door clicks shut behind her, and her shoes hit the tiled floor of the foyer with two distinct thumps.
“I’m home,” she calls, balancing her purse, coat and the mail in her arms as she weaves her way through the obstacle course that is their apartment in her goal to reach the kitchen. It’s like a third generation art café exploded as the coffee drips across the kitchen floor and into the garden that is the living room.
The books trail off into the distance and she follows them down the hallway, knowing who will be at the end of the journey. She finds him unconscious across the bed, face down in the pillows, littered with the stubs of cigarettes long gone and the remains of a garden. Poppies and leaves bloom along the sheets, remnants of a dying summer. Opium and marijuana.
She loosens her hands and today’s mail falls loose, landing hard on top of him.
“Wake up,” she whispers. He won’t though. He’ll be out for another hour at least.
She plucks the poppies from the sheets and walks back to the kitchen, cradling them in her arms. The rush of running water in the sink, the sound of nature against metal echoes through the room until she shoves the bowl beneath the stream. She places the poppies within the water and watches them float there, sustained in animation as she curls up on the overstuffed sofa, a sad replacement for a lover.
She breathes deeply and leans back, her hands surfing along the gentle curves of her body while the buttons snap open, falling away to the floor.
It’s Tuesday, and she should be at work.
She’s at home though. Making love to a man who can’t participate and probably never will.

The Suicide Garden

It’s not like there’s much of a reason. An intuition perhaps. A desperation for something that couldn’t reach the light, slowly unwound and cut apart. Snip, snip, snip, scissors cut through any form of serpent. She can feel herself becoming unwound as she slides open and allows her dark secrets to flow across the pavement and into traffic
She leans back against the hood of the truck and fumbles with her lighter. Ashes flare up as the smoke curls past her lips and wafts through her hair. She is wreathed in a halo of smoke and ashes, glowing white against the pale blueness of the sky.
The truck is dead. She needs booster cables, a hero now that hers is gone. There needs to be something or someone to save her, allow her to move forward at the speed of freedom while she tears down the streets of the city and plunges into the back roads.
What are you doing? Where are you going? What are you bleeding and why?
She is bleeding in a painful internal manner as her red desire spreads out across the snow, sinking deep into the earth and coagulating.
She throws herself back into the snowbank.
She knows she is going to die and that he will find her. It is simple to accept. The question is when?

bleeding

you're bleeding from an open wound
as the fluids slowly mix and grind
with the dirt and charcoal gravel that coats the ground
just like a lover's blanket
as you lay there, sprawled across the cement
arms open to the sky waiting
to drink the rain like medicine and watching
the soft candy of the clouds crawl
across the sky and slowly dissolve
beneath the crimson velvet tongue of the sun
as it plunges back into
the caverns of its mouth while swallowing the ground whole

you're bleeding as the skin peels back
showing the red dyes of passion
oozing down your legs and covering
the marred bruises of a forced love
that are springing from your broken flesh as your heart
beats against your broken ribs erratically
playing the memory of falling hard
and landing backwards on the rough surface
of the ground over and over again
creating an unwanted death bed
as you lie there, hands open to receive the grave
awaiting you

you're bleeding from an open scar
ripped right across your chest
as the soft thumping of your cells
entangle themselves within the heart
and try to squeeze the remaining feelings
that are floating on the surface of the blood
in their coagulated pools of regret
as it cools and pales
slowly draining from the soft petals
of your cheeks in bloom
with the soft scarlet of betrayal

you're bleeding as the flesh is ripped
apart and shredded with
the desperation of a mad lover
seeking his revenge for what he thinks is right
and worth acting on
measured by the wrong values of broken pain
being gently soothed by the smells and taste
of the sunset pooling against your skin
as those silver tears go gliding down
the bloody matter of your face
in all its agonized glory
under the pressure of abuse

you're bleeding from an open wound
as you lay there waiting
to die
while the sun explodes above you
and all the colours begin to run together