"Please, Promise me you won't hurt yourself again"
Such an unfair things to ask
I see why you would
Because you don't understand
You just want me to be okay
But do not make me make a promise
You know I can't keep

Flickering candlelight
Does nothing to soften
Knife-like silence

As seconds pass
Minutes disappear
Our blood rains gradually
Spreading into an ocean of black

I’ve stopped burning within your atmosphere
Somehow I’m not surprised
I suppose you aren’t either

Hours ran together
A few days turned into weeks
Time never promised to stop
Even for the likes of us

How quickly things change when egos come out to play

© 2014 Peach

He used to say
“Give me your love”

“Define love”
Was always my reply

“It’s your body and soul baby, being mine”
He always assumed it was an answer I should know

As night tumbled endlessly
Across a starless sky
I tumbled around
On a bed of pale sheets
Searching for a rhythm
I’d feel deep within my essence

I fell into the moment of
Hands gliding
Hips colliding
Lips seeking
I found empty satisfaction a few times
Somewhere between midnight and 3 AM

I shared my body
But hid my soul
As I dressed
I felt his caress once more
“How about one for the road?” he suggested
As his lips trailed down my neck

No amount
Of body heat
That we generated
Could ever
Warm
My shivering soul

© 2013-2014 Peach

Fingertips tracing horizon lines, a pantomime in the mirrored light. Set fire to the blades of grass my toes coast above and deny the stars my affections, my heart is set on the rising sun. The days and the hours and minutes have no feeling, easy stealing as the rest of the trivial substance my soul dances with, and around, these circles are engaging a war within my swollen head. Play dead, play house, and anticipate to forget. these voices in whispers now howl through the fields. Begging to be heard but i am one stubborn *****, i'm lost within these words. Translation is futile. puckered lips on these metal objects just long enough to make them rust. the cold, I've been told, suits my texture. i wear it like an armor and parade and weave through the rows of trees. my castle, my domain. no names. high on restless behavior and ferocity - i stalk the river like a helpless child and strike it with myself. submerged between what you claim and what you believe, reality means nothing. those conversations mean nothing. a dollar a day and a passionless ******....idle now, given up. to this whole perception and i have learned no lessons, like the rest, it's irrelevant. i am tying knots and sharpening sticks. a universe in a cloud of gray. my favorite color. i am born, and bored, i am around, i am all of the above. i click my heels and still stand still, the laughter confides in the humid air, a charming lullaby and i suddenly feel so alone again. time spent, pencil marks erased. lost and not found. my fingertips trace the ground. i lay my head. i'm way ahead.

I wish I was addicted to
alcohol but I'm not, I'm an
otherholic with too many
“others” to count.

My old man had a shot
and a beer at the counter,
then ordered a six-pack
to take back home.

I do the same sometimes
with tacos.

We have a cat named Ben who doesn’t wear a collar.
I know a saint named Ben whose picture's on a medal.


I wear it for safety, a bigger one we hang above the door for
superstitious reasons like a black cat that isn't ours
walking across our path, Ben is ours but Ben is brown not black
and Ben won't wear a collar so he stays indoors.

     St Benedict of Nursia the patron saint of lots of things,
     of remedies for poisoning, of evil witchcraft,  suffering,
     a patron saint of lots of things, of aggies, engineers,
     spelunkers and those with fever near the gates of death.

     He is the patron saint of gall stones but not kidney stones
     if so his medal would have saved me from significant pain,
     but still I wear his medal when I go out to keep myself
     protected from whatever it is he protects us against.

     before he became a good luck charm, before he was a medal
     he lived in a cave in Italy in the year 400 a.d. where for
     three years the townsfolk brought him food to eat and finally
     talked him into coming out. No, not that kind of coming out
     he wasn’t gay, he was a priestly hermit who was celibate.

     They put him in charge of a monastery when no one else
     wanted the job, but when he made the rules that still stick today
     they didn’t want to listen so they tried to poison him twice
     both unsuccessful. This is where he gets the nod for sainthood.

     Divine intervention saved the day, a raven stole the
     poisoned bread and a spasm smashed the poisoned cup.
     if they wanted him to go away they could have asked him  
     but I guess they needed a saint, someone to martyr, so
     he went back to his cave and was promptly forgotten

     until the Connecticut witch trials of 1647 when a captured
     witch confessed that her powers were contained by a
     conspicuous medal that she’d never seen before mounted
     over doorways, and she heard the whispers of the townsfolk say
     the medal was the medal of a saint they called St. Benedict.

I can personally attest that the medal is quite unique with
Latin inscriptions on both the front and the back. On one side
of the medal he stands and holds the holy rules, at his feet
a raven and a broken cup. An inscription on the medal reads:

            “May we at our death be fortified by his presence”

Flip it over and you’ll see:

               C
          C  S   S
       N D S M D
          P  M   B
               L

“May the holy cross be my light”
          “Let not the dragon be my overlord”
                      “This is the cross of Father Benedict”
                             “yadda   yadda   yadda”

Along the outer edge it looks like this, strangely similar
to a Ouija board.

                             PAX
                    B                    V
                V ­                           R
               I                    ­             S
                L                             N
                 Q                          S  
                     M                 V  


PAX  for Peace

The rest is this:
“Begone Satan yadda yadda yadda
          for evil is what you prefer yadda yadda
              so drink your own poison yadda”

350 some years since its inception and the medals popularity
still flourishes.  I reach down and finger the medal beneath
my t-shirt and I realize what the strangeness feels like.

It feels like witchcraft.

I guess I’ll wait and see if anything happens
before I pass judgment.

I hang it near our bed at night and while
we sleep

our brown cat Ben likes to bat it around.