I feel my heart rate quicken and I try to hide
I try to put away all the sinful feelings in my mind
But then my brain stops working and my senses go into overdrive
I feel a throbbing in my pulse; I need this if I'm to survive
So I bite my lip and listen as my hormones whisper lies
Just feel it, just release it, just a quickie and you'll be fine
I know that this is wrong, but I've got no choice but to ignore her cries
I cover her mouth with my hand and onto the bed we fly
I'm on top and she's pinned beneath me; tears form in her eyes
Begging me to let go of her wrists, I'm sure that she'd rather die
I force my lips over hers and swallow her cries
I start to feel a tension build up; it's a coiled spring inside
My manhood's aching, and it's quaking, begging me to slide
Her pants down further, maybe I could if she'd just shut her eyes
Fuck, what have I become? She's probably a virgin, you know that, right?
That thought only squeezes my senses to another level of high
I make the decision to go all the way, until my body is satisfied
Her breasts, her hair, her hips were all things that I couldn't deny
I took from her so freely and left her whimpering by my side
She must have thought I was asleep, she tried to escape outside
I grabbed her before she could and asked her to please stay the night.
Under the midnight light grab a fistful of my hair and kiss my lips which taste like opium
As we levitate a mere centimeters above ground, inside a circle of salt
Caress my neck with the silver dagger
Then slash my wrists for the sweet sacrifice
A virgin death for the perpetuity of our kind
Conjure the spirits of the dearly departed witches of black hole cemetery and harvest their powers
Recite spells from the book of my ancestors
Your words dripping with magic, erase me
That which was inscripted on stone with blood
kill me under the mistletoe
And feed me to the gods
The waves crash
behind my eyes.
The wind howls
through my veins.
The rain pounds
on my heart.
But my lips mutter,
you occupy a part
inside of my heart,
and i'm afraid that
it'll be permanent.
i've learned that bruises
on my heart hurt, but they heal.
but what about
already they ache with
taste for you, yet you
are a stranger to my lips
and my skin.
but what about
I say I need you,
because there are more
things I like than what
you run my mind.
maybe you are even
running inside me, from
your home in my heart
to flow in my veins.
you are permanent.
Looking a back
I probably should never
have been on that flight.
Here’s the reasons why……
Shortly after takeoff,
and three cocktails later,
I spied a gremlin hanging out
on Engine Two.
Every time I looked,
smallish with green skin and red lips,
it smiled with an impish grin,
then went about its business
dismantling the cowling.
It seemed like
I was the only one who noticed
the little creature.
Other people were looking out
of the same side of the plane and
nobody was saying or doing anything.
Had they slipped me something?
Was the gin spiked?
Was I hallucinating?
Was God sending me a message?
Needless to say
we landed safely in Bogota
a few hours later.
It was a beautiful vacation!
But on my return flight,
things turned sour.
I was busted
for possession of narcotics,
spent six years in
a Colombian prison,
it wasn’t Heaven.
Like I said,
I probably should have never been on that plane.
Now looking back years later,
I think the gremlin was trying to warn me,
I wished I had taken heed,
given up the thought
A Self Portrait
I Stayed Honest
“I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.”
-George R.R. Martin
I’m the explosion and throwing things when I fight with my mom about money or what is or is not appropriate to bring up in front of her parents.
“You’re not the only who misses him!” Screaming was the only way to get through to my mother when my dad was deployed. It was like she entered this other world that was nearly impossible to pierce, even by the people who needed her most—her three children. She was a strong woman when she left the house, but being in her living room without her best friend, sleeping every night without her husband, it took a toll on her as a human. When my dad was gone there was no music allowed in the house, because it made her cry; same with movies and TV, even board games. Joy of that nature had to be hidden away in our bedrooms. Having friends over was almost always out of the question. That held true even when my dad was home, because he finally was, it was ridiculous to want to interrupt the little time we had with him. I remember distinctly a night toward the end of my freshman year of high school. My mother, two sisters and I were sitting in the living room talking. As it often did, the conversation turned to my dad. Mom’s eyes started getting watery; she talked about how difficult things were with him being gone, and with money being tight because of the move and the new house and school uniforms and supplies and Amber starting college. I’m still not sure why I was so upset by it, her concerns were legitimate. Maybe I was angry that she was telling us this in the first place. I was fifteen, I wanted to worry about military ball and boys and school, not having to eat stir fry and beans and rice for the next seven months because it was the only thing we could afford. I didn’t want to consider the hours Amber worked at Johnny’s or the pizzas she purposely messed up so she could take them home to feed us. I threw down the pillow I’d been clutching and yelled viciously through my sobs the only thing that made sense at the time, “Would you just shut up?! You’re not the only one that misses him you know!” I didn’t take the time to look at their faces, I just went to my room, locked the door, and laid face down in my bed to cry. She came by later, knocked, but let herself in with a barbecue skewer. I think she apologized the way a parent always does when a child lashes out wrongly, but with understandable or even pitiable emotion.
A few years ago I realized my sexuality was not what my parents considered normal. I never really told them, figured I’d just leave it be until I started a serious relationship with a girl. Then, a few weeks ago, I was telling my mom a story about how my (female) best friend and I pretend to be dating to ward off annoyingly persistent boys.
My mother warned me, “You should be careful Emily; people are going to think wrongly of you.”
I was taken aback, “Mom, you know I don’t care what people think about me right? And… what’s wrong with dating a girl?”
She sighed. She knows I’m a huge advocate for equal rights, “Not everyone is as liberal as you are Emily. People aren’t always kind and accepting. I’d hate for them to think you were something you’re not and do something.”
I wanted to lose my mind. “Mom… you know I’m not straight right?” The silence on the other end was deafening.
She said something about her phone beeping and not hearing what I had said. I repeated myself. “You know I’m not straight right?”
“What are you then?” She asked, confused. I’d been with guys all through high school.
“Well, I identify mostly with pansexuality. It means I’m gender blind, I experience attraction based on looks, intelligence, whether a person makes me laugh or not as opposed to being limited to one gender.”
“So you’re bi?” She asked.
I recited my well rehearsed explanation. “No. I’m pan. Bi means two, pan means all. There are more than two genders.”
My dad said something in the background and my mother responded, “Oh just the fact that your daughter likes boys and girls.”
I remember putting my head in my hands at this point, just silently waiting for her to say something to me so I could end the conversation.
“Emily, could you just not bring this up ever again, especially in front of my parents?”
I’m the falling for someone who seems to want me too, when I’m already committed to another.
The distance between the Francis townhouses and the rest of campus may not seem like much, but combined with the distance between a second year undergrad and a graduate student, a long distance relationship of sorts is created. Said grad student may be absolutely perfect in every way you’ve thought of, but if he cannot grant you the attention during the week that a new relationship requires, you start to feel like a booty call. Before you clarify your exclusivity, you flirt like mad with the people who can grant you the attention you seek, because what’s the harm? But, even after you clarify if, you flirt like mad with those around you because, how will he ever find out and it’s not like you’re actually doing anything? You’re just trying to get the attention you require as a needy human being, that’s not a sin. But… another person comes along and they’re wonderful. They’re just as fantastic and understanding as the grad student, except they’re a senior and their townhouse is open to you during the week and the attention they give you is innocent but overflowing. What more could you want? When you start falling for the senior… what can you say to the grad student? Then, when the attention from the senior grows less innocent and you think less and less of the grad student when the senior is looking at you from across the table or helping you with your poetry, you realize you and the grad student were doomed from the start. Are you a terrible person? You tell your roommate you are every single week night you come home from “harmless” cuddling with the senior and every single weekend morning you come home from snogging the grad student. She tells you you’re just human.
I’m the two ales, three shots and half a bottle of wine later, declaring my love and sobbing about my past into a shoulder.
This past midterm break was the most story-book-like episode I’ve ever lived. I had met someone almost exactly a month before. Everything about him was perfect. We got along so freakishly well and were compatible in every way we had had time to discover. He was fiercely passionate and book smart, he cared about what I had to say. He was everything I’d been looking for in a companion. All his housemates were leaving for break, but he and I were staying. We spent the weekend in a hundred cliché romantic ways. We walked the river trail holding hands and talking about our lives, sat on benches cuddling and listening to the wind and the ducks. We stayed up all night watching movies and kissing. We also did a lot of not so cliché, but romantic things like eating pizza and watching cartoons naked. We ordered AJ’s and ate while drinking ales then finished the last few shots of someone’s liquor and then, because I had mentioned never having it before, he let me drink nearly an entire bottle of wine. We ended up on his couch, cuddling, but then I started talking. The alcohol had stolen my ability to shut up. I kept going on about my freshman year here at Bonas, about how terrible it was, how depressed I was, how many times I tried to off myself, and how I have a history of self harm. I started sobbing, he cried too, shared his secrets. Then I told him not to worry because he was loved, he said, “I love you too.” I had only meant it in a way like, God loves you, your parents, your friends, but I went with it. Why not?
I’m the stillness of not knowing what to do next.
This past weekend was the strangest I’ve ever lived. A boy at school, in my year, went missing Saturday morning after midnight. Found dead Sunday evening. The explosions death drops in our world have never landed so close to me before. I feel shell shocked. I wrote about it. I want to keep writing about it, but I feel like I’m not allowed to, like it isn’t my place. I don’t know. I’m sick with what I can only guess is grief, but it feels more like a poisonous concoction of many painful things locked in my intestines. I’m heavy with the news of him. I feel like I’m going to sink away at any minute. Everything feels like needles in the wound. The snow and the cold (loved parts of this time of year) make me wonder why he didn’t wear more than a sweatshirt, but how do I know if it would have mattered? I was out that night, well morning, Saturday, before two a.m. I was on the exact opposite side of campus though. We were walking to Walmart; I was beyond drunk and so elated. We rolled down the hill with the ST. BONAVENTURE bushes, got ourselves covered in mud. We sat at the bottom and laughed and laughed. We walked and discussed sex and books and plans for when we got back to campus within the hour. …He never made it back. And I wonder if he had plans. I wonder if his girlfriend had stayed in that night, if she was waiting for his return so they could screw, or cuddle, I didn’t know him, at least not well enough to know that. I wonder if he liked the cold and that’s why he was in a place where people couldn’t see him. The snow didn’t start until much later so others returning from parties would have seen if he was closer. Or maybe they did, maybe they thought nothing of a passed out drunk guy, isn’t that a normal thing in college? Maybe their veins were tricked warm from their strong drinks and they couldn’t imagine he was cold, they didn’t feel it, and there wasn’t even snow on the ground. Not yet. Maybe they thought it would be funny if he woke up outside. Or maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there was a fight earlier that night. Maybe he wasn’t even that drunk. Maybe some boy-men, foolishly angry, were trying to prove their false superiority. Maybe they didn’t know they’d hurt him so bad and that someone else would come along to help him. How can we ever know? I see nothing when I close my eyes except his. Looking, but not alive, his lids frozen open, his lips slightly parted, the cold paling his skin, fashioning him to look more ghost than human. I suffer in the fear that he died knowing he was going to, knowing he was alone. How afraid he must have been. How could he have known what was coming next? How can we go on living knowing his life was meaninglessly extinguished? He was undeserving of an end so lonely. I’m haunted by the image of him being trapped in that loneliness forever. I’m haunted by his face, he always seemed so happy, but don’t the dead always seem more shiny in our memories? Will he be remembered fairly or only as a good who died young? And the guilt of feeling that hurts me, eats at me, but the doubts are trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel about this? I hardly knew him, am I allowed to feel so blindsided? Is this allowed to send me into the tailspin I feel I’m already lost in? If I fall back into the bad habits because of the weight of what’s in my head will anyone understand or will they shame me for “wanting attention?” If I cry often, because I will think of this often, will anyone be there to comfort me? Is it selfish to ask for these things? Is it wrong to have partied Friday and Saturday because I didn’t know Sunday would pack such a punch? Is it valid to be distraught by the death of someone less than even an acquaintance? It’s just that… he was nineteen.
Assignment: Six page self portrait.
Whispers from a forgotten dream seem to swirl as the morning mist disturbed by a fleeting doe causes hurricane images across the panorama
Sun flecked water droplets fracture light sending prisms spinning around drab and worn flower printed wall paper
Dust, motionless hovers just in the line of sight creating a wash to blur and mental images take control of the projector while the audience pauses and holds it breath
Back alley sex
First grade recital
First rectal exam (licensed and private)
Her soft lips
Moaning fills the theater as her face once again becomes the only picture: in the sun, on the beach, eating a sandwich, cutting her toenails
It works every time he thought to himself as he refocused on the dawn breaking around him
Rays shining though fog induce mild hallucinations as inner demons look for ethereal access
And he thinks to himself, “She always quieted the voices.”
I'm trying to act like I don't like you
like I don't care
but I like and care with all my heart
I try and hide it
but no matter how much I try
my eyes expose my heart
and now that you know how I feel
now that you know my shame
please try to pretened like you don't know
I feel really small next to you
your perfect eyes , lips , smile ,hair
every single detail is perfection
even the sun would feel shy next to you
even the moon would beg you to be his
even the starts would talk about your beauty
then what am I suppose to do as a human
I can only sit and wish that your mine
maybe one day you will .
Sometimes I feel
My lips as
And my heart
reared it's head
and flashed it's fangs
you kissed the poison
right off its lips
all i loved
and their compartmentalized
shallow gasps for air
in between sighs of relief
i'll give you my wings
for a wave, hello
i'll give you anything
for you not to go
can you really
not feel the
between our skin?