b e mccomb

Jan 2017

ahmo

my bare feet and the nose-crinkling tickling of sand-
a contradictory image,
for I was taught to never run with scissors,
your image a rusted blade in my femoral.

my heartbeat and the blithe tide have flirted in a far less than parallel existence,
heels rotting, feet grinding down to the ankle-bones
in the softest fashion,
like a dying rose in vase
in a cubicle too small.

I've inhaled these beaches before.
white dresses have lit up the July wind like lavender candles,
sunsets and barking labs scalping distant couches,
turning my broken back into your expendable canvas.

your birthday has escaped me,
and the tattoo on the back of your sandpaper neck is a static television frequency.

the rip-tide is welcoming me for dinner, filling my lungs with my favorite dessert.

#dying #memory #transition

b e mccomb Jan 2017

painless

as kids we used to go out in
the cold holding pretzels
between our fingers and pretend
our frozen breath was smoke

(funny how
kids grow up)

we rang in this new year
with a half gallon of last
year's apple cider just turnt
enough to bite and fizz

half glasses of
questionable mango juice
mixed with a stranger's
thick cream ***

and a full season of
mash but after
this year i know
suicide is not painless

(it burns and stings
chokes and screams
leaves friends
crying at five a.m.)

stood on some kitchen steps
cat-scratched hands red
from hot dishwater and icy air
stomping cold feet

(the plan is to get me addicted
for just a couple years while you
*** them off me until i prove
i'm strong enough to quit)

and you held out the zippo
lighter you got for christmas
i handed you a cigarette
and you held it between your
fingers and tapped away the
ashes like richard dawson would

(there's something poetic about
historical self destruction)

it burned my lungs
enough that i coughed
but then again it
felt right

natural
like we had been
practicing for this
new year all our lives.

Copyright 1/9/16 by B. E. McComb
happy new year

#teenagers #rebellion #newyear #addition

Jan 2017

Morgan

Make Up *** (With Myself)

I've been accepting apologies I was never given,
I've been giving thanks to the pain,
I've been kissing the scars in my skin,
I've been listening to the soft whisper
Always distant in my panic
That says
"Maybe it's not so bad"

I've been laughing at my mistakes,
I've been telling myself I'm okay,
I've been asking for help,
Minus all of the shame

In between dreams
I've been kissing my own hands,
Talking to myself like royalty,
Wearing my make up like face paint,
Dancing in my bedroom,
Alone with the door unlocked

I've been carrying red lipstick in my purse,
I've been spraying perfume in my hair,
I've been waking up with the sun,
Using moisturizer that smells like
Chai tea and raspberries,
Putting lemon in my water

I've been calling my grandmother,
Telling her I love her even though
I know she can't hear me

I've been kissing my sister on the forehead,
Wishing her agony into space

Today I ate
A maple & walnut muffin
And I didn't stick my finger
Down my throat a single time

And I smelled my coffee
Before I drank it
And I wrapped my hands around
The mug
And I thought about how nice it is
To be so warm

Today I sat with ten suicide notes
In my lap,
All written in my script,
From days with a tired brain,
And I said sorry to myself
Over and over again
Until I believed myself
That I'll never do it again

Today I bought a brand new blanket,
The softest one I could find in target,
And I wrapped myself all up in it,
And I thought,
It's time I ******* own kindness

Jan 2017

Arun C

Change Happens

Poetfreak is gone

b e mccomb Dec 2016

tired

my internal clock is
hard wired to get
up early on thursdays
but not this early

(i can't sleep but
then again i could
just sleep and sleep
and sleep)

and after i stumbled
into work at six sharp
i discovered at nine
that i never showed up

*(i'm tired of
being alone
tired of empty
tired of snow)

Copyright 12/29/16 by B. E. McComb

#alone #tired #thursday

b e mccomb Dec 2016

it feels good to be an artist

my legs itch

the fat little
kid who lives
upstairs wants
to borrow a knife
to cut apart boxes

i give him scissors

and scratch one calf
with the other foot.

my legs still itch

i think it's dead
skin until they
sting up where
i've scrubbed

or tried to scrub
away the past

my mom always
told me i was a
good artist but
she never knew

i'm picasso in
his blue period

and i paint in
one color alone

salt.

the kid hands the
scissors back and
i try not to scratch
try to smile through

cracked winter lips
and split skin
beads of december
sweat all over me

swallow the smell
of burning meat
swallow secrets with
my morning meds
and a glass of cold
heartless blood

and don't ever tell my
mom she was right

that it feels good to
be a ******* artist.

Copyright 12/28/16 by B. E. McComb

#metaphor #art #family #abstract