my ink-stained fingers
are starting to itch for your touch
these lanky arms miss
encircling your plump waist
my heart no longer feels home
at my own chest

it's strange that i long for
those i've never known

the magic of poetry.
is that it makes everything
beautiful.
it fills your lungs
like air.
it turns your soul
into a sky full of stars.
your heart
a field of wildflowers.
you.
into a poem.

The bath water
is the colour of my eyes;
yet, I don't know
which is wetter.

I've kept this pain away.
Held it at bay,
since the day
of Your
unwanted
touch.

Now You are old.
I take care,
as this is My loving
duty. Reversal of
roles.

Time has stilled
the tremors
of angst.
Turmoil and
discomfort.

Yet, when bothered,
Your harsh tones
enter My body
and heart,
unwanted.

Perturbation
with words,
accusations that
I was the
troubled one...

Grown Woman
that I am,
I find myself
11 years old
once again


Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved

there are 22 stoplights
between you and i
and one day i stopped at all of them
it felt exhilarating knowing i had to innocently wait even longer
just to hear
your bed creek
at our every move

Once upon
a summer sun
A gruesome act
has begun

A father burdened
by the torment of life
sharpened the blade
of a kitchen knife

Stuck between
his morality
he begins to weep
for his growing brutality

He led his children
straight to bed
with evil looming
right over his head

The little whispers
tingle in his ear
The growing dread
erupts into full blown fear

Fear for his children
and their small life
The whispers rising
along with the knife

His heart stained
By his destructive mind

His morals caught
in a thick bind

Not remembering
the right from the wrong

Looking
from room to room
as he soundlessly
moves along

His dark shadow
hovers overhead
right above
his children's bed

A shift in his mind
brings the knife down
The children now quiet
Their frozen faces
Lying on the ground

Wiping the dripping knife
Relieved for his children's life

And once he saw
what he had done

He buried them
under
the summer
sun

Anything can sound silly
death threats from the weak
and admissions of love
from sociopaths
the height of hilarity
a squeaky voice
will do a good job
at stealing the strength
of any sentence.

You were here.
Your dishes are in the sink
Unwashed, like you always leave them
A coffee cup, grey with a white handle
The one you always use
Without even a sip, the flavour ghosts on my tongue
Strong, sweet, and black
Though now cold, I know it was scalding
The way you always liked it
Your scent still lingers on my couch
A wave of sweetness with an underlying dark note
Just like you
*But it was the one I always loved