he made me bleed
it trickled down my legs
red warmth on white skin
he cut me mentally
tore through my head
like a rabid dog
i can not think
without him haunting me
without him hunting me
without him
he cut deeply
with cold words
with cold stares
liquor hinted murmurs
pressed against my neck
his heavy cigarette breath
lingers with heat against me
it still tastes sweet
his eyes pierce me like a slow burn
going through parchment paper
dissecting my movements
dissecting my thoughts
the ones that go unsaid
the ones that are never uttered
the ones i wish i wouldn't think
the ones that i will never admit
to having

I am the pole.
He is the ball.
She is the tether.
She is what binds us.
What keeps us together.

I am slowly drifting further from the unrealistic reality
that has been imposed on me by others.
The end was not cordial nor was it polite.
It was spattered with hate and rage
and malice and anger and loss but those are not mine.
The end for me was very matter of fact.
As if it never ended because it never started.
My end was casual highlighted with words like "k"
and corrections on his awful grammar and a nod
at my phone intended for him to see and the icy reply to a
one sided heated conversation that he was having with himself
because i never participated.
The tone of my indifference remains steady which is
what angers him most. I have been killed by far better men
than him. But they are cheap in a sense.
Cheap ***
Cheap words
Cheap rooms
Cheap emotions
Cheap lies
and even worse
Cheap truths.
And after all is said and done
Here you are in a sense getting
what you wanted.
A small piece of immortality in an
otherwise meaningless life.
But alas my dear, your name is not mentioned here.
And as I warned before,
You are just another line.
Another sentence which will be forgotten.
Sad isn't it?

I get asked
"How do you write?"
"Why do you write?"

The answer is simple
I write because
I have to write

I can either
write or
throw myself
off of something.

I write.
You go to therapy.
I write because
someone
somewhere
connects with
these words I
put down.

**** that.
I write for
Me.
If I happen to
connect to the world
then great.
But I write.

My insanity is
my salvation.
I scratch at
the nerves of
repressed emotions.

I create to not destroy.
I am my salvation.

Then again,
My raw, eloquently
worded vulgarity  
might be your
salvation as well.

If it is not
then let us all
rejoice in
Hell
knowing that
we built the
bridge of
sin ourselves.

And we crossed
it towards the
fire knowing
that the fire
belonged to
us.

We are all creators.
Yet some
were built to destroy
and smirk as the
world disintegrates
around us.

We built the fire.
We breath the ashes.
We bathe in the blood

Like i said,
**** it
I write for me
because if not
I shall ******
instead of ending
myself.

How narcissistic,
typical writer
hahahaha.


S.P. Blackwell

i can not even write this
because it will be anti
american
unpatriotic
and an
insult to
the land
of freedom
i was born in.
I can not even write this
because I am the first
generation
daughter
child
born in
the land
of freedom.
I can not write this
because my abuela
will tell me that I am
lebanese
cuban
and i was
born in
the land of
freedom.
i can not even write this
because my Tio
who came to
America
at the age of 6
and had “adjustment”
issues will remind me that
I
Am
American.
Tio will tell me that
I
am privileged.
because I was
born in the
land of freedom.
Abuela will remind me
that CUBA is
dead.
Abuie will remind me
to hush about all things
Arabic and Lebanese
because I am
American
born in the
land of freedom.
She reminds to hush
about the black
eyes
that see past
this land to the past
of other places
that whisper
my name.
They remind me
that I am
American and
not a communist
not a terrorist
not a girl who
hears her name
sung in the winds
of other lands
which i have not
wandered.
Abuela reminds me
to not yearn for
white sandy beaches
with waves that break
on a rock laiden wall.
Abuie reminds me
to ignore the need
for hot sand
beneath my feet
and wafting smell
of foreign spices
that are
unknown
to those born
in the land of freedom.
In the land of
freedom?

Insulting drunken conversations
lead to mass confusion
internally in me.
I am a toy at his disposal.
Too available.
What kept me sane
now drives me mad.
Boys get scared.
Men deny for fear of pain.
I accept for fear of loss.
I am the desert rose.
The black, red lined rose.
I am destined for solitude
till I am stumbled upon by him.
The rose that is so dark
and ridden with thorns
is fragile and weak.
Beautiful yet damaged.
Intimidating yet meek.
Rare and unique.
The boy who found her
plucked her out of the sand.
Worshiped her at first.
Flaunted her.
Praised her.
Suddenly she was kept secretly.
When he truly loved the rose
he hid her.
He had never loved
a rose this dark before.
He plucked out a few petals.
He shaved off a few thorns.
He hung upside down to dry.
The rose is brittle and breakable now.
Ashamed of his care for such a unique
rose he crumbled her back into the sand.
Desert roses are born of sand.
Next time man touches her
she will disintegrate in the firm hand.
She will return to the sand from
where she came.
Never to be touched by little men again.

She wakes up every day with a telescopic
sweater person staring at her face.
The smoke filled room is foggy and
reminiscent of a dreary London afternoon,
Sunlight slowly filters through a screenless
glass pane that lies behind the dusty wooden
panels that protect her from the blinding light.
The dust dances effortlessly through the streaks
of filtered sun as if they were a couple which
have danced this dance many times before.
With a heavy thump the whimsy of dancing
dust is taken away as the reality of chaos sets in.
In a flurry of blond hair and the ever present
feeling of fleeting time she reluctantly untangles
herself from the rainbow colored cloak that
protects her from the scowling faces that
await beyond the fortress door.
"Five more minutes." she whispered
to herself in an effort to remain within silence.
Entangled in her rainbow she threw her head
back upon her misshapen pillow chasing
the dream she will never be able to finish.
The pleasant ones that whisk her away
from telescopic sweater people
and scowling faces.
She rather dream of dancing dust.

They say I have no shame
but when I am with him
I am ashamed,
He has only to speak one word
to bring me tears.
He has only to give me one glance
to see all my fears.
He quickly sees through my facade
and all the make-up I have on.
He looks deeply into my eyes.
He prys inside my mind.
He quietly creeps through the
complicated corridors of my head.
I am a piece of art painted by dim light.
In the darkness, I am a thing of beauty.
In the light, I am pale and I have poison
running through my veins.
Yet you crave my blood and lust after
me like a dog in search of his favorite bone.
"Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth,"
I am your lie that makes you see your own horror.
You see me reflected in you.
Or do you see yourself reflected in me?
You were the sculptor.
I was merely a piece.
A piece that became reality.
You blindly saw perfection and
denied all of my flaws.
If i was painted in darkness,
what would make you think the light would hit me now?
It's funny how things work out.
It scares you that when you when you see me you see yourself.
That's why you say I love you.
In reality you want to scream I hate you and run away.
Not because it's me but because it is you you hate.
No other betrayal was ever as horrible
as what I see now in you.
You believed I was more than everything.
I was created with the picture of perfection.
I am human, I do have defections.
Here stands the person that you have created.
Excuse me sir.
I never asked to be painted.

Quote by Pablo Picasso

Blood pours out like like
a dormant volcano that
has suddenly awoken.
Molten earth has
finally found a route
of destruction.
A crevice from
which to seep.
An exit from which
to escape.
Fiery red lava.
The blood reminded
her of lava.
So dramatic in her thoughts.
Alas, it is but a paper cut.

II

Do not be afraid, my darling
I see you.
I see your tattered spirit
and stripped flesh
wandering in darkness.
Alas!
we are kindred,
you and I,
for I too have been
murdered.
I have died a hundred times
and I have lived a
hundred and one
We, who are dead
but still breathing,
are kindred.
I have been poisoned by
the nectar of lust. And
this nectar was
sweet and it was
intoxicating and it was
addictive and it was
******* lust.
It was fed to me by
a man posing as
a god and he kept
my goblet full and
I was paralyzed.
He was not a god
nor a man.
He was a snake,
a false prophet.
The nectar was
venomous and
my blood,
my body, and
mind were
laced with
paralytic venom
I could not move
and died waiting.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who have died
waiting and paralyzed.
We who have been
murdered by false
prophets and snakes.
We are kindred with
Eve and the apples of
Eden, we who are
poisoned but  
still alive.
In this paralytic state
a surgeon came
and he said unto me
“I will let you be free”
and he cut into me.
He entered my chest
so delicately and
so eloquently he
whispered to me
“ Darling, if I cannot
keep you I can’t let
you be free.”
He wanted a
keepsake, a piece
of my heart.
Something which I
would never just
willingly part.
He took a small
piece though I
screamed to
his claim. This
was not my love,
just blood,
muscle, and veins.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We who walk around
with pieces that will
never be found.
We who have filled
the empty cavity with
other objects to
replace what can
never mended.
Do not fear, my darling
we are still pumping
blood and we
are still alive!
An artistic healer
found me wandering.
He said unto me,
“ My love, I see your
rough edges and you
are flawless to me
with all your perfect
imperfections.”
I was his canvas
that could be remade
to what he wanted
me to portray.
He molded me,
bent me,
folded me,
painted me.
He chiseled away
at places that
were already weak
places that were
untouched by people
like He. I was his
muse which he
misused, abused,
and attempted to
create and sculpt
art, which I was,
to his vision
of what I should be.
He coated me,
plastered me,
froze me in time but
paper machete is fragile
and I never asked to
be molded or painted.
Slowly I broke free
from thee. Death by
art was not meant
for me
Alas!
My darling,
do not be afraid.
We are kindred
you and I.
I see you in all
your molded glory
upon the altar
which he built
to display a creation
which he did not create.
I am the one
who chiseled
at the cement
and the plaster
and the paper
and the alter
so that we can
escape a different
type of cage.
I see you broken
but uncaged.
A builder of dreams
approached me and
he said unto me
“ You are a rarity
in a world full of
mediocrity. A rare
bird like you should
not be caged.”
He built me a castle
made of sand and
deafened me with
promises which
were lies. The tide
rolled in and castles
made of sand were
taken back to sea
and i was deaf
and I could not
hear the rumbling ,
the crumbling,
the mumbling as it
was all swept away.
I was asphyxiated by
the sand and sea
of empty promises
and lies
and expectations
that I found myself
chocking on.
Do not be afraid my darling.
Alas!
We are kindred
you and I.
We have
swallowed
and choked
and  inhaled
the dirt which
posed as sand.
We who have been
drowned in lies.
We who have
been buried and
have touched the
ocean floor at great
depths have come back
to the surface.
Alas!
We are still swimming.
We are the ones who
saw the shore and
returned to land
with our feet firmly
planted on sinking sand
and unsteady ground.
Hush my darling, and do
keep our secret safe.
Hush and never let them
know that we, who are
dead but living, are the
ones who created the shore.
We have a multitude of
little deaths. Deaths which
showed us life, joy, and
pain.
Alas!
My darling,
we are kindred
you and I.
We are the masochists.
We invite the murders in.
We who see the axe in his
hand as he knocks and
yet we still allow the
murderous aftermath
to begin with no regard
for the clean up.
My darling, we take with
us a piece of our killers
as they have taken a
keepsake from us.
Alas!
My darling
we have taken
we have learned
we have observed
we have seen their
surgical precision as
they have taken us
apart. We have
mended and
stitched and
sewn and
glued and
filled and
repaired
ourselves.
Oh my darling
do not fear for
we who are
still alive
still fighting
still breathing
still living
still pumping blood,
we have taken
their murderous
intent. We who
were victimized
by batting eyes
and lies that left
bitterness as an
aftertaste have
have learned to
lace honey with
arsenic. We are
kindred, you and I.
We are different
now. The stichting
and filling
and sewing
and gluing
has changed
us.
We are not afraid,
my darlings.
We see you.
You who have
caged and
trampled and
opened and
taken and
broken and
killed are no
longer feared.
Be afraid
my darlings.
Alas!
We see you.

III

I am a serial killer.
I have ravaged
empty vessels
which once upon
a time were
filled with ideas
of what could be.
I am innocent!
I slay the murderers
who murdered me.
Those who murdered
we.
I and we have
perfected the craft
which you,
and you,
and you,
and you
have used as
weapons of
mass distraction,
mass destruction.
I am the one
who distracts
and destroys.  
I have ingested
sufficient venom
to become
arsenic laced
honey.
I have let a
man drink
from me ‘til
he could drink
no more. He
drank himself
to insanity.
Oh dear!
I fear I did
not warn him
of the venom
that’s within.
What once was
just plain honey
is now
poisonous
to him.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
cervical slayers.
But again
I am innocent!
I once sheltered
a wretch and
he sought
sanctuary
inside of me.
He never looked
at my eyes.
Only prayed at
the church that
he made betwixt
my thighs.
Oh dear!
I fear
I did not mention
that this was not
his church. It was
my sanctuary which
was now covered
in his dirt.
Death by exertion
was his end.
I let him die *******
but I did not let
him win
A tragic death
for a stallion
like he. Because
I am small he
underestimated me.
Like Helen of Troy
I brought
destruction
upon thee.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
psychological
terrorizers and
verbal mesmerizers.
I have linguistically
lobotomized men
who thought they
could philosophize
the origin of I.
I have sown the
seeds of doubt
within the halls of
confidence which
have lain within his
mind.
I have broken
fortress walls
that were built to
withstand the  
wrath that fell
upon *****
and Gomorrah.
We have cut out
the tongues of
our verbal
betrayers and
left them befuddled
in Babylon.  
Oh dear!
I fear I forgot
to mention that
Freud is my Father
and Jung is my
uncle.
Your mommy issues
do nothing for me.
I am not her!
I am a child of
psychology.
Rationally you are
weaker than me
mentally.
I am a serial killer.
The killer of
egotistical thrillers.
I have paralyzed
and anesthetized
men who have been
thrice the size of me.
My scalpel is sharp
and my steady hand
cuts as deep as my
verbal violations.
This is my body.
This is not your nation.
My dissection was but
a brief vacation to
your annihilation.
Your internal organs
were similar to an
egotistical colonoscopy.
You thought your
insides were different
from me.
You required proof
that we were the
same.
I said
“Let me cut first”
and you did not
complain.
Oh dear!
I fear I failed
to mention I’m
quite skilled and
I have killed before,
far better men and
even their ******.
I am a serial killer!
A killer of killers!
You are a cheap
thrill as I reap
and I sow.
I plant the seeds
that I know will
not grow.
You will stay frozen
and will get old.
I need not a keepsake.
I own your soul.

IV

We are naked.
Our flesh is worn
and our spirit torn.
The garments which
once kept us warm
are now just eaten
and tattered.
We have silently
walked
and waited
and paced ourselves
and learned hatred.
WE have come
back home where
board games and
Barbies wait.
I have broken
all my favorite toys
just like you
and you
and you
and the horse
you rode in on
have taken all
my simple joys.
You have all
taken away
a piece of pink
and replaced
with a piece of
grey. A piece
which will never
be the same.
Oh Darling!
Do not fear for me
do not fear for we.
We have become the
porcelain women
which watch
and wait.
Our pink colored
kingdom shall
never be invaded
because here we
are waiting.
Not even shoots
and ladders or even
the Madd Hatter
can lead you to
green pastures.
Oh my!
You failed to notice
the malicious
twinkle in
my eyes.
I fear this was
your fault
for you created
a steeple
betwixt my
thighs.
Silly rabbit,
we were never
yours.
I was always
mine.
This is
not revenge.
This is a warning
before the rhyme.

I'm strung out on you.
I'm intoxicated with the way
you make me feel.
I tingle when I think about it.
Your scent unhinges me.
Completely.
The warmth of ecstasy
vibrates in my core.
I am high when I am
near you.
Adrenaline rushes through
me like *******.
The sensation of your touch
unfolds me like a map
to the origin of pleasure.
Your words stroke me
and make my body bend,
twist and shake.
Under your hand I
contort and shiver.
You make me quiver.
You grab me and
swivel my hips.
My eyes roll back and
I bite my lip.
Like ******
time does not exist
when you are in me.
Your caress is like ketamine
I can not feel my extremities.
There is no ceiling.
There is no floor.
The way you move me
makes me your *****.
Like MDMA  your
embrace makes my
heart race.
You take me on a
ride that I can not escape.
The ****** is like
sitting on a speaker in space.
Your deep base line
makes my spine roll.
The loss of control
feels like a k hole.
I inhale you .
You envelop me
internally.
You have full control
of my body
Without you I am sober.
Without you I am
waiting for more.
I need another hit of you.
I'm strung out on you.

This isn't even a poem
these are a few words
a few lines
which in time
like most things
will fade.
All the sentences
and pronouns
and verbs
and periods
will fade.
Period.
These words
which were
written for you
and you
and you
were written
for me
They shall fade
just like the
bruises
and scars
and cuts
and bumps
which you
and you
and you
all left
but just like
you
these faded
too.

You were all that I was not needing.
You stuck the knife in my side that will not stop bleeding.
I chased you like a high, fiending.
Lies that translated to me believing.
Looks are misleading, decieving.
Kindness that always leads to mistreating.
Words are said without any meaning.
I doubt myself. I doubt what I'm feeling.
I close my eyes pretend I'm not seeing.
When I walk through the door just know that I'm leaving.
Numb, no more feeling.

I am sitting on a broken branch

under the drug addled canopy of insecurities and lies.

I am feeling the steady sway of an oxycontin daze.

Walking slowly through a ketamine daydream that pulls at my core

like a phantom puppet master controlling my limbs.

It crashes into my brain like the breaking waves on the shore.

Breathing in nicotine filtered filth as I wait to catch a breath of fresh air.

Lungs filled with recycled tar that prevents me from gasping.

In darkened corners where lies sleep and rumors are hidden,

I wait.

I dance on a tightrope between conscious and subconscious

that is held by reality and dreams.

Dark sunglasses on to avoid

the blinding stinging light of what is real.

Mirrored glasses are reflecting the reflections back at intruders.

Deflecting glances, shifty eyes, and dilated pupils

searching for a focus point of truth  

in a neon technicoloured blur of hypocrisy.

The background blaring horns blended with a steady bass line

mimics my heartbeat.

Thump thump. Thump thump.

The fading noises pass quickly,

highlighted with insults and curses of hate and gossip

that are forgotten before you can make them out.

Spun truths turned into lies

intermixed with resin

left from yesterday.

The litter paved streets break under my heels.

Click clack. Click clack.

Broken and cracked

like the false promises

And hopes

And dreams

of those who have walked here before.

The monotonous pace is repeated

only pausing to notice the gum under the stiletto

that fails to hold her in place

as she runs towards the wet cement that has replaced

another sheet of cracked concrete.

The wet cement that has covered another lie

in order to show the simplicity of fake appearances.

A reminder of how easy it is to replace and mask

the hate filled holes that get trampled on.

The flicker of hope is suddenly unseen

like the street light lined alley that is now dark.

The stench of garbage, decay, and rotting flesh

is mixed with expensive perfume, sweat, make-up, and spilled *****.

Garbage cans are filled with the leftovers of last night.

A *** stained dress with no owner draws no attention

as the sound of snapping latex is muffled

by the screams of ecstasy that rapidly fade

like the fleeting feeling of MDMA.

Thick white ****** fluid oozes out like human glue

in an attempt to mend the lack of connection.

Strangers intertwined in hasty conversations

waiting for human contact to forget

that they are in dark alleys.

To forget

that they live in dark places

where no one lays down wet cement.

The distorted reality of alleys deceive passer bys

into thinking that they are not menacing

has been weaved like a web by street sweepers and garbage men.

The pressing sense of the need to avoid the sweepers

is unsaid but felt.

They falsely clean what will always be *****.

The *** filled backstreets yearn for love

like the treacherous woman guarding its corner.

Daddy issue lined dresses are asking to be undone

just like her lost innocence that can never be mended.

The issues and clothing that can never be fixed

abandoned on top of garbage cans for someone else to pick up.

Patches of dead grass are left

untended, unwatered, and unwanted

waiting to be replaced by wet cement.

Wet cement that soon enough will crack and break

under the heavy heated pressure of the stomping heels

of lost Girls in a desolate city.

Blood trickled trails are left behind

that have dried into the cigarette lined streets that lead nowhere.

The injured egos of men are left to linger at back doors

that will never be opened.

******* induced insanity whirls around a flurry

of whispers and paranoia wanting to here the Truth

between the spewed anger and rage of the low toned hushed voices

that wish not to be heard.

Whiskey hinted murmurs pressing on the sidewalk cracks

knowing that they will never be heard.

Looking into the dark where

Truth will never be seen.

The constant beat of narcotic users searching

for salvation in pre-packed bags of white powder,

digging for redemption in empty bottles of multi-colored pills.

Screaming through the silence,

They are not heard.

The desperation can be heard through the whining moans

of the junkies that are tethered to addiction.

The over whelming sound of

Want and Need and Lust

move through the streets like the overflowing gutter water.

Heartbeats are replaced with the impatient pacing of

her stilettos waiting for her pain to cease.

Stilettos stomping on broken dreams

waiting to cross broken streets.

She gazes at the other side as if it is different.

Stilettos tapping on the street

waiting for the firm grasp of a sweaty hand to distract her from reality.

Waiting to be touched

And grabbed

And ******

                                              In hopes that love will arise from ****** ****** encounter with

strange men in uncomfortable places.

Clothes are feverishly removed with the promise of

flesh on flesh enveloped in a hazy cloud of body heat

that warns off the internal coldness.

Heavy breath and touch and kiss release chemicals

to replace the drug depleted emptiness.

The rhythmic sound of rubbing flesh mingles with

the moaning of the streets.

It fuses with the short lived pleasure laden moans of

lonely people and un-climatic *******.

Awkward silences are brief as the sound of her heels owns the street.

Click clack. Click clack.

The sound of stilettos on cement hurriedly walking away when there is

no longer a need for his body heat.

That unmistakable click clack click clack

on uneven, *****, dangerous streets.

Red lipstick smeared stains are the only trace of her that is.

That is the only trace of me that is left.

Click clack steady on the street.

Steady like mimicking bass line

Click clack heartbeat.

The crunch of broken glass under the stiletto

echoes her broken dreams.

Click clack.

Head held high never looking at the ground as she walks forward.

Click clack. Click clack.

Click clack.

The urban mud of

Wet cement goes

Squish!

under her stiletto.



V.Mata