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b for short Jan 19
Does it make you feel uneasy—
a young woman sitting alone
in a leather chair
by the elevators
with infinite thoughts
and not a single
shred of attention
for those who
walk by?
Copyright Bitsy Sanders, January 2019
b for short Jan 4
I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,  
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2019
b for short Nov 2018
Thirty has curves the tongue
can’t navigate.
It echoes over and over in silent,
snow-covered gorges.
Thirty can hang if you let it take a nap first.
It won’t ever have money, but
it’s assumed it can pick up the check.
Thirty dances along every edge, and
doesn’t listen when it’s told
not to look down.
It smells like various cheap jar candles;
scents trailed with subtle “**** its”
and the smoke leaves notes
of pungent regret.
Thirty has an aftertaste of ****** innuendo and likes to whisper filth in a stranger’s ear
when no one can hear.
It doesn’t intend to put its happiness
in any hands but its own
(but does it anyway).
Thirty has guts but is too modest
to show off that armor.
It argues more freely and refuses
to lay at anyone’s feet.
Thirty knows the smell of snow
and relishes the scent
of fire’s smoke in its hair.
It can taste the deep kisses from yesterday
and never stops wondering
if they’ll come again.
Thirty finds a purpose in every day
but realizes that tomorrow
is not a promise made to anyone.
It feels unsettled and shortfallen,
but its cup runneth over.
It uses what it’s mama gave it
to stay warm at night.
Thirty is lonely with a full charge.
It finds poetry in palm lines and
pulls prose from the lies its told.
Thirty is the beginning you
never knew you needed.

So let’s begin.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2018
b for short Nov 2018
On my knees, I feel taller than I'll ever be.
Where his hands descend, my skin hums;
tones that are new; tones that pull;
tones that arch my spine; that spark an ache
and make me pine for more of this music.
I find that I know every word to this song,
even though I've never heard it before.

On my knees, I see farther than I ever have.
With a single lick of my lips,
I shake mountains; I stop time;
I **** the speech from a tongue
that may need to forget
what pains it to speak.

On my knees, I am the most I have ever been.
As he wipes the tear from my cheek,
with my smile, juxtaposed;
my skin still hums to words sung so clear.

On my knees, I find purpose.
On my knees, I am.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2018
b for short Apr 2018
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again.
But don't pity me, please.
I'm just "lonely;"
It's the teacher I can always look up to.
It thickens the skin and deepens the thoughts.
It reminds me why I enjoy the sound
of a stranger's laugh,
and presses me to admit that
I miss being touched.
Lonely looks a lot like a harvested cotton field,
and if you inhale the air as you drive by,
you'd know exactly how to describe
the smell of neglect.
Lonely proclaims that something empty
is just as beautiful, because you can see through it;
it can only tell the truth.
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again;
to learn that its lonely goodnight
is the most beautiful painting
the whole world gets to witness.
© Bitsy Sanders, April 2018
  Mar 2018 b for short
Ciel Noir
We are such            clever creatures to divide
Most everything             into its different sides
With chaos versus             order, dark and light
The stark duality of         wrong and right
We even split the very        world in two
With human versus human,       we and you
But still no matter how much      we divide
Each thing has infinitely many      sides
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