when I was a young kid there was no room in our house so I had to sleep in the crawlspace above the house
It was winter and the crawlspace was uninsulated and there was
a small old space heater from the 1970’s that didn’t do anything
unless you were right up next to it. Sometimes I would get up
next to it and the sleeping bag would start to burn on the edges
melt. I’d wake up and move away from it because it would burn
the sleeping bag. One night it was very cold but I didn’t turn on
the heater because I didn’t want to melt a giant hole in the
sleeping bag for good and maybe burn myself. That night
while I was sleeping a brown recluse spider bit
me on the hip. It must crawled in to the sleeping
bag with me because it was cold
The next morning the bite had swollen
up like half a golf ball and in the middle was
a sort of purple spot where the skin was most affected by
necrosis and that spot already looked like it wanted to let
out all the pus inside. I knew that there was pus inside
because it had swollen so much and sort of felt solid but
squishy. I didn’t do anything about it that day
because I didn’t know what kind of a bite it was. The next night
was very cold because it was early february but I didn’t want to
melt my sleeping bag again. The temperature gauge in the crawl
space said it was 34 because some of the heat from the
house did leak in to the crawlspace because it was uninsulated.
I had lots of clothes on but only had a pair of baggy
jeans and my legs were bare under that. That night the
same spider must have crawled in to the sleeping bag
up my pants leg. The next morning the bite from two
nights before had gone to hell because I hadn’t done
anything to treat it right away and I had rolled on to
it the next night and it had turned yellow and purple
and the skin on the whole area was necrotic but on top
of the first bite was a second bite that had started to swell
up as well. I thought this was funny because I was young
and nasty stuff is funny when you’re young.
I sort of squeezed at the fleshy mass and a bit of
liquid came out but not a whole lot of liquid.
There was obviously an obstruction. So I took
a metal needle and heated it up with a lighter to
make it easier to pierce the skin. When it
was red hot I pushed right in to
the top of the hole where the purple was and
it started letting out little bits of pus. I wasn’t
satisfied with the amount it was producin
g but since the hole from the needle went in really deep
I figured a lot more would come out if I pushed on
either side of the lump. At first there was mostly
light red blood and some white pus that was watery
and it sort of ran out. No matter how hard
I pushed it only a little bit of puss would come out.
I left it alone but came back to it later on and by
this time a scab had formed over the top of the hole
. I ripped this off and continued to push on to the
sides of the lump which by this time had lost some
of its original form because the skin was dead
on and around the lump. It had caved in like little
indentations of my fingers where I had pressed
but no liquid came out. The second bite had taken
care of any skin on the first bite that might have
missed the necrosis and even it had its own little lump
coming out of the first. My entire leg was sore
because the muscle tissue was necrotic deep down.
By the next day the skin had died and changed in such a
way I never thought I would ever see a part of myself.
It had turned a dark yellow and the purple was a
solid purple that didn’t mix with the yellow. As
I scratched at it, the skin peeled off in layers and
I kept scratching at the skin and it kept peeling off.
It got to a point where I knew I could just bust
the whole thing open if I really squeezed at it and
it all just came out. The blood in the middle
was blackish and the pus was thick and lumpy
like oatmeal. There was lots and lots of it in there.
After that the spider bit me again on the same hip
but about a month later. By this time the first bites
had healed to an indented scar where the skin had healed
but not come back. The third bite wasn’t as bad as the first
but it still died like the first. Spiders are ok because they don’
t bite people who didn’t have it coming. As much as I’d like to
think I could have prevented that from happening I
would gladly let the spider in to my sleeping bag again
if it was cold but with no guarantee I wouldn’t roll on to it and I say this with warm feelings.
The line...bold red with 7's clearly marked in a line down the lane
The stark contrast of white walls, a large open cavern, and white linoleum
To the brightly blaring colorful targets lined up near and far like stains
Upon the vast emptiness of the soul as it steps up to the line again.
Right foot forward towards the wall and with no difficulty, up
The recurve is smoothly aligned with knuckles flat and simple breaths
Like the sleek feathers upon arrow tail so finely defined, preparing to erupt
In pointed ambition towards the nearer bulls-eye littered with hits, depth
Arrows protrude in clumpings as the process is methodically established
And the goal oriented approach is gently woven within each stance, release,
Success of the hard tip embedding within the soft layers and to be honed
Over time and years of effort, each scar a story unto itself of lives
Lived fully without fear of adventure and embracing the passion of heart
That fires the senses and emboldens the soul upon a quest of mastery.
Not a mastery of others or from others, but consolidated within the darts
Of progress in all arenas of life and through out all ages, life's mysteries.
Three fingers curl gently beneath the arrow tail as finger and thumb
Kiss in a relaxed grazing upon tender cheek as eyes adjust the softly held
Recurve extended in determined focus upon its path with the target numb
Just an area to aim for but no destination within aimed for, skilled
To just aim true and let them fly, the arrows; 4 clumped between
Bulls-eye and the outer skirt, definitive successes for a first-time shooter
The fifth's feathers are an artistic flair like a cake top from center seen
As with one more draw back and liquid release, it strikes again, center.
Time heals all wounds, but
scar tissue is always visible in light
and feels smooth to fingertips in the dark.
Time heals all wounds. Time heals all wounds.
Time has never healed me—
And I was never wounded.
Yet my entire body is smooth in the dark.
I need you with the lights off. Eyes open. Seductive shadows slither round my calves- up my thighs. Gripping my core. Keeping me with you.
I need you up close. Nose to nose. Tasting every exhale. I breathe you in and hold my mouth closed- tightly... So you'll be in my blood those times we are apart.
I need you in the light. Tracing every line...you note every scar. I follow your eyes - watching me - devouring you.
I need you far away. Linger in the shadows - I'll soak you in. Thriving off your energy. Surviving on your love.
My skin is crawling with anticipation - craving your touch once again -Electrify me. Bring the dead back to life. I am anew with you.
i allowed you to take the wheel
and steer our relationship in the
like a virtuous child,
i instilled my trust into you,
believing that our hearts were beating
to the same rhythm.
but you had a severe case of arrhythmia.
you took my feelings,
and threw them into the pond for the swans
to nibble on.
and then nature took its course.
you distorted my words,
making me believe that i wasn't worthy
of your presence;
of your grace.
you dissected those nouns,
and threw an adjective in my face
that left a permanent scar.
a scar my brain won't forget.
and i when i shed that tear,
i knew i had lost you.
i had lost my first love.
i lost my innocence,
and i knew then
that i would never love again.
In seventh grade
I fell and I broke my leg
To my surprise it didn't hurt at all
I only felt awkward and a bit dazed
Because you slapped me to top it all
That was your way to show concern
You called me stupid and clumsy
Your words struck me with dismay
They left a painful scar on my heart
I feel that same pain to this day
My leg healed fast
Few weeks in a cast and it was good as new
But the lack of motherly love still brings pain
And I think I walk very carefully around you
Cautious not to fall again
No it is not you who is not good enough
for maybe it is me,
I don't deserve someone with
that big of a smile,
or eyes that shine like puddles in the Sahara.
Maybe it is I who does not deserve your kisses,
maybe it is I who does not deserve your kind stares
and your sweet text messages
maybe it is I who does not quite fit in the key hole.
maybe it is I who is the broken piece of glass from your heart made of mirror,
maybe it is I who does not deserve the butterflies or the
heart ache, or the tears of joy.
maybe it is I who deserves scar painted arms,
maybe it is I who deserves the emptiness you feel,
maybe it is I who deserves to fill you up
maybe it is I who does not have any worth.
Maybe it is you, who could make me feel like I do
Hang your head in dissolution
We are victims of evolution.
Do you hide behind your lost ruminations?
Have you kept your heart delicately sanctioned?
Keep your words to a minimum
No ones really listening.
We are all lost in ad infinitum
With coal black souls, glistening.
Are the chains tight enough
On your scar tissue wrists?
Has the blade grown dull, the skin grown tough,
Have you lost yourself yet, to the autumn mists?
It gets cold around here
I suppose it's about that time of year
When the leaves fall, torn and halved
These winter winds could drive a man mad.
Keep watching for words
You never sought to hear
Eyes to the skies, envying the birds
For all the distance they're yet to clear.
Twisted in the way her pride
Brings her down because she can feel
Them glaring, those envious eyes
At a paper she wishes weren’t real
At a feat she should not be ashamed of
At a number so many are wishing to steal
Melancholy in the way she crumples and shoves
Her A+ in the trash on the way out the door;
If she keeps it, she’s sticking up her nose
Because pride is a sin and nothing more;
Hard Work is the devil’s ally,
And Guilt builds his home in her core.
She was given a gift, and now she cries
She was deemed a monster, so now she’ll lie.
Pain in the way the multitude of red marks
On her paper resemble streaks of blood
From the wounds to her fragile heart
A wave of nausea; no wait, a flood
Of everything she’s felt thus far;
Cruelty has crushed a blooming bud.
Tear-stained wishes on a shooting star
To rip away her intelligence;
She’d rather have an ugly scar
She never befriended Arrogance
But somehow her life went awry;
All she wanted was another chance.
She hides her gift, but she still cries
Because she was forced to live a lie.
Our eyes are forever searching for something beautiful,
longing for its sudden appearance until we can wrap our arms around it and watch it suffocate.
Die in our tiresome grip.
Not by choice, no.
How many times have you been exposed to the night sky?
How many times have you looked up and admired its beauty?
How many poems have been written about it's moon, it's stars?
Constellations you've depicted with your best friend at age eleven.
You're 15, you're 19, you're 25. It's still there.
Unattainable as ever.
Beautiful. As. Ever.
People are not like that.
People are beautiful until you see through their soft skin,
and fall into the creases of their skin;
break through scar tissue
trip and fall through the cracks of their forced smiles.
People are beautiful until you can no longer face the tragedy of their lives,
can no longer deal with the burden of what you once would have died for.
No, definitely not.
People should not be disposable.
They are not the socks you toss away in disgust, after a long day of breaking a sweat.
They are not the gift wrap around your new Macbook Air,
torn and ripped to shreds until you finally get to the good part.
I know this, I do.
So do you.
But I cannot help myself.
You cannot help yourself.
Human nature is a cruelty of some sort.
If I believed in a Hell,
I would say that boredom is the Devil's advocate.