09/20/12
I am begging you
to kiss me. I can imagine
the trace of your fingers down
the side of my jaw, gently hooking
under my chin and the soft tug
as you tilt my head upwards
to meet your eyes.
I will take you in, the embellishments
of my memories of you, the curve
of your smile, the short length
of your hair as I raise
my hands to thread my fingers
through it and pull
you down towards me.
I am still fantasizing
as I raise my legs to lock
them around your hips, trace my fingers
up the length of your spine,
your body heavy, stretched
along the length of my centre,
the beat of your heart aching
through your skin onto mine.
I am willing you to break
me, strip my body open
piece by piece, clothes discarded
on the floor, the heat
of your breath in my ear,
the bite of your teeth on my neck
as I am falling,
falling headfirst into confusion
with you.
Saturday, 6 October 2012
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 10 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 9 September 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
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 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.
Friday, 7 September 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
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.
“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.
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