Impropmtu Exorcism

I'm a dark and brooding little girl
stuck in the intimate memory
of that cold February afternoon.

Alone.

The deepest, darkest, most romantic of all colors
racing down my fair, quivering thighs.
For a moment, I was proud.

The suffocating blackness of my little, lonesome world
is constantly closing in around me.
I'm clawing at my eyes;
my clumsy, ugly hands are clawing at my flesh;
I want to get back that excitement,
the romance that was my own blood.
Flowing just as though it were some natural cycle
but in reality freed by the hungry, sharp jaws
of small scissors speckled with rust spots.

I am not a woman.
I am not a child of God.
I am a monster.

And no one sees me.
No one ever really sees me.

Prisoner of the Night

Sleep will not grace the guilty body.
I have been left to toil and turn
isolated by the dark of a new moon.
Ice cold creeps up my legs,
striking and biting at my flesh.
Fat salt tears feed my limp tongue.
All night long, insomniac.

Too many possibilities rise like bright balloons in my mind,
while the world around me sleeps in a warm, lover's embrace.
Instead my frail body writhes in painful boredom.
How come sleep's sweet touch
will not rescue me from this ceaseless existence?
All night long, insomniac.

I could die and not be aware.
My eyes could shut, rippled blankets of flesh
and I would not know when.
The black silence suffocates me.
While all bodies are still, quiet mistresses of sleep
a haunting loss crawls into bed with me.
All night long, insomniac.

And when I finally disappear my spirit may wander free,
following the bleeding trail back to this bed, this prison.
Torturous night, never-ending cuts through me with razor-sharp teeth,
my black mind a cruel jailer, strapping, stripping, strangling,
ravaging my soul with sour regret again and again.
No mercy ever granted.
All night long, insomniac.

Empty of Life

My breasts ache, hollow
scooped clean, shriveled against my cold skin.

My stomach, tight as vinyl
no room to grow, to feed.

My hands, dumb as cows clutch the void air around me.
A mother, I shall never be

squat, blood sprayed infants crawling
from between my thighs into this world's

cool, detached embrace.
Not my ovaries but my heart infertile-

empty arms, slippery as fish.
I would tarnish the precious gleam of your face,

my eyes would glaze at the taut shrill of your cry.
A baby, my body shall never

support your weight, cushion flailing feet
alien skulls crushed between the fleshy walls

of my canal.
I would break your fragile spine,

drop your glass frame upon the dirtied floor.
A mother, I shall never be. Your life,

a promise within this world of lies
will be the joy of another.

A woman worthy of such treasures,
a woman who will not crumble and fade

before your innocent eyes.
No, I would rather die than give life

only to see it ruined by my touch,
tainted by my cruel and dirty heart.

Memorial

There was a promise. Forever.
Through all the tears, through all the arguments.
Forever, we would face life together.

But the tears kept spilling
and apologies began to meant nothing.
The urgings, "Hold onto her." meant nothing.

As easily as the promise was made,
it was undone. We would never be forever.
I would never be forever,
only a beggar and whore groveling,
crawling at the feet of men.
My only forever, searching,
seeking, empty handed and my core gaping.

In my heart, I built a memorial to your forevers.
At first, I visited often, weeping, mourning
alone with my self and my fear of a love never to be found.
Wincing at your name, coddling your picture
and any sweet word you ever may have whispered.
I was lost in longing for a lie kept alive in my mind.

Then I became angry, kicking and full of loathing.
I drank, I bled, I screamed.
I wanted to drown in my hate.
Men were my enemy, my body my infantry.
Every contender wore your face
and knew my secrets, dirty and large.
The slaughter meant nothing to quelling my loneliness.

Now I am free from the bondage of my illusion.
My masochism no longer stretches into your arms
and the memorial has been deconstructed.
In its place lies a scar, grooved deep
into the bone of my foundation.
An eternal reminder of our impossible forever.

In Your Bed

Under your master hand
I am your puppet secured by strings,
attached to lust.
I am home. I am yours.
Your belonging, your prize-
a woman willing to be whatever you want
and desiring to be consumed in your heart.

Your eyes smile familiar nights
all as vivid in my memory
as the present, our present.
A present kept to oneself
pales in comparison to the one shared
in your bed.
In me. In you.
We become dreams never before dreamt,
feel depths never before touched.

In your bed I am a woman and unabashedly me.
Naked against your skin, breathing in your air
forever becomes a promise, passing too quickly to bear.
In your bed I stare disbelieving of the beauty poised above me,
you and I becoming us.

In your bed we are free.

Mike

I carried an ashtray for you.
White chocolate melting in the sun
smeared on your shoe, washed off in the rain.

We rode a spaceship for hours into the night
with your hands on my back
and your nails in my heart.

You remembered my name
and recited numbers like prayers,
your vehement offerings to this wanton virgin.

So many girls were dripping for your touch.
I had it. I had it on display.
I became a whore to be sneered at.

Picking easy, picking me
you found another member for your assembly line,
licking and dying just for you.

Your seduction by design lured me to you,
a master of creation, isolated
in your cells of lies and disguise.

"Tell me what it is you want
and I will make it appear."
I choked on your fire.

The lusting flames licking down my throat
deeper, further into my core
drained, emptied by my own desire to be seen.

Kamikaze

I think I might very well die
on this table, tied down for
dissection beneath your glare,
you cold, elusive stare
picking me into a thousand
pieces, instruments for study.
To you, I am not a woman.
Just a specimen, a toy
to be forgotten and destroyed.

If you find what you want,
you'll still throw me away,
out of sight, out of your life
like an old sock, all holed up
with dirt-encrusted memories
of little women squashed out of existence.

You are not a man,
you are a monster.
An emotional whore
applying your thick layer of love
crudely into the aging grooves of your face.
Clown-lipped and ridiculous
you fucked me day and night,
a kamikaze train into my core.
And now, dear men, I breathe no more.

The Ending

Your once warm grasp wanes down my leg,
twisting and twirling itself free from my blood.
All and sundry are oblivious to the treacheries raging in my heart,
the constant tirade of obscenities proclaiming my lack of self-worth.
Each exhalation dragging me one breath closer to the edge of our precipice,
where I must begin to be my self once more.

Year after year
my words were savages methodically decimating all remnants of affections.
My love is a slaughter of innocents,
an onslaught of obtuse hours ripping us apart.
The isolation in each other's arms smothering our hearts,
as our skin cools from the lack of touch
and our lips crack from the absence of kisses-
but we forced these cold, unforgiving forceps between us,
unintentionally segregating our souls
until all that was left
was you.
was me.

This Blog has a Purpose.

The purpose of this blog, as the web address insinuates, is that I truly need a forum to post my poetry on.   I have been writing, on and off, from the moment that I knew how to use a pencil and spell.  As we all know, however, it is extraordinarily difficult sometimes to keep up with one's writing as life just seems to get in the way... work, friends, family, and other obligations...

The creation of this blog will hopefully get me back on the right track!