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

Strawberry

What if I could taste
the seeded coating of your lips
and watch the juices run red
against the pale surface of your skin,
tracing your heart and
counting the beats to match
the trembling of your mouth as it
opens timidly to receive a kiss
and be crushed to mine with only
a semblance of summer rationality
against the harvest season
as the fruit ripens,
waiting to be plucked and eaten.

The Meal

The clock’s broken. The waiter takes note of it and disappears into the back room.

            

The café is empty but the buzz is ever constant. The fly crawling across the fine patterns tracing the plate, the rustle of the overgrown tree in the corner that nobody bothered to repot, the chimes hanging from the door as they whistle in the wind, the drumming of his fingers against the table top and the scratch of her pen on the napkin.

            

Because the rush is over, the meal is done and now all that remains are the dirty dishes, the cups half full of badly carbonated drinks, a lemon slice resting artistically upon the tines of a fork, tartar sauce flecked along the carved out remains of the fish, gutted and filled with the emptiness of the end.

            

They were just waiting for the bill now.

            

She hadn’t said a word since he opened the door for her. She’d snagged the table in the far corner near the window and seated herself on the side closest to the exit. He’d been forced to wedge himself in between the table and the wall, unable to catch her if she decided to flee, when she decided to flee. It was only a matter of time.

            

The waiter comes by and whisks the dishes away, leaving the table bereft of all traces of the meal but the crumbs. Their eyes meet, now that there’s nothing for them to pretend to be focused on other than each other. He’d dressed up, changed from the everyday jeans and t-shirt he always wore. It was a last minute attempt to make an impression and he knew it.

            

There’s nothing to keep them together in this café, not the atmosphere or ambiance, the promise of desert or the relationship he wishes to give her. Without a word, she picks up her purse, sets a twenty on the table, hands him the napkin and leaves.

            

As the door clangs shut, chimes ringing wildly, the echo of her shoes on the hardwood floor fading away, he knows, without even looking at the poem scribbled across the white tissue. She’s already given him her answer.

that day there were no more explosives or flowers in the air

that day peeled back a jagged blue
as the first sight to greet the eyes in the morning,
stretching over the mountain tops
until it leaked into every household
within walking distance of the city

that day the bus broke down
three blocks over and one minute before
my inevitable speech about buying a car
in case i ever ended up stranded downtown again
with only $1.25 in my name

that day was one of the last days the leaves fell,
twitching in their agonized dance
as if trying to prolong the descent of winter
for just a second longer, allowing their voices to sing
once more before they met their end
under the crunch of my boots

that day I had no classes
but came to college anyways, to visit and pretend
i was doing my homework
and that time when i sat down on the couch
in the student lounge beside you,
i waited a moment before gently removing your arm
from around my shoulders

That Type of Love

That type of love,
marked black across the lines
of my skin rubbed raw
at the wrists and beating
painfully at the edge of my heart
as I lean forward
to fall.
I need to feel your skin on mine,
the crush of your fingers
in my hair, the tilt of my head
falling backwards
as I let go, allowing you
to be my only support
keeping me aloft with
the pull of those buttons,
the tear of my skin beneath
your teeth, my breath caught
in a ragged gasp fumbling
at the corners of my lips,
your name the last echo
before I allow myself
the gratification of
the end.

The Doctor

Every Tuesday morning he sits down in the second and final chair in the room and asks my husband what he’d like to talk about today. He always opens the door 30 seconds before 11 o’clock and then smiles when he sees my husband sitting there, as if he’s forgotten there’s no choice for either of them in the matter. He shuts the door quietly, without the general clack and bang of metal and wood attempting to fuse together in a way that should have never been made possible, and I find myself standing on the other side of the door in contemplation about the situation, just like every other Tuesday morning.

            

The dusty, gray blinds smoothed up against the window that make no noise as they swing back and forth, the sterilized silver of the door handle covered in the gentle grip of fingerprints and the little metal plaque below the window with the letters ‘Dr. Allaway, Psychiatrist’ engraved upon it.

           

I enter the room at 20 after and as usual, only the doctor notices, his eyes flickering to me before going back to the papers on his lap. He’s finally lost that scared, nervous look of uncertainty he thought he’d been hiding every time he laid eyes on me. My husband’s eyes remain fixed to whatever spot on the floor he’s focusing on, attempting to remain within the silence.

            

I probably should be calling him my ex-husband though, yet I can’t manage to staple the words down onto my tongue and force them to stay. It’s strange how we find it fit to label those moments that once consumed our lives, it’s almost like I’m admitting a mistake. And yet here we all are, the man I decided to marry one day, seven years ago, the doctor in the opposite chair and me, a shadow against the wall.

           

And then the conversation starts, or rather, it attempts to. Perhaps this will be the day there is crying, the big, gushing tears that roll down my ex-husbands cheeks, filling his lips with a saltiness that drowns out his apologetic pleas, that he didn’t mean to do it.

            

Or the rage that has nowhere to be directed. The chairs are bolted to the floor and there is nothing else within the confines of the room. No little paintings of general scenery, puppies and children running through a sunny field. No shelving units, no tables or throw rugs. Even the blinds are behind a second sheet of glass.

            

But someway or another, the confession will break, my ex-husband on the floor or huddled in his chair, the doctor thanking him for his time and the guards’ soft knock at the door. They’ll carry him out; whispering soft reassurances, promises of applesauce for desert, medication, a rest and finally the door snicks shut once more, leaving the two of us alone.

            

He’s still sitting down, the papers abandoned on the floor beneath his chair, his hair going slightly gray at the roots in a way that’s starting to bother him, a few days growth outlining his face and the same tired resolution in his eyes as he finally looks up and meets mine.

            

I smile. He smiles, though not a strongly as I do. Tracing his face, I let my fingers walk under his chin and brush my lips against his, hoping this time he’ll be able to feel my skin against his.

            

Nothing.

            

He kisses me back, his hands tracing where my face would be if I were physical. “I’ll see you next week,” he whispers.

Broken Spine

I’d hope that you’d lick me back across the pages, scrape your teeth along the base of my spine, words floating past the muscles of your shoulders, ink spotted upon your lips in the delirium of this long and inspiration less night.

            

I’m always waiting for your hands around my throat, warm in the memory of this silence, your voice muted against the heavy pressing petals of the sleep that floods this night. And I stumble, cross and scramble through the dark, sliding out across the floor, blankets tangled, pencil, paper, anything I can find within my grasp, naked in the stinging need not to let it go.

           

Because you wake me at inopportune moments of the night, in the back alleys, the corridors and emptiness found in education, the silent seconds beside the traffic lurching forward, your hands tangled in my hair, my body heavy, my fingers burning and your voice a whisper in my ear that I’m about to lose.

            

I am about to lose it.

            

I’m scared of this moment, for I need to be blindsided, pressed against the shelving, trapped between your body and the wood, your lips a feather across mine to muffle the cry. For I am nothing without you, the gravitational pull you carry, the smirk of a smile stretched tight across your teeth, ready to bite, smash me forward, burry me under the grave of my own talent. You are always ready to kill, shred apart what ever love I give you, in an attempt to show you care.

            

Still, I’ll take what I can get, the cold traces of impact you leave trailing across my body, the realization that I can no longer escape, no longer go back to what we were before.

            

For I was your lover long before we knew it.