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 Jan 2014 Clare Talbot
Jo
I don't know why
I bother with my voice,
A soft, pale thing,
That doesn't stretch,
No, it falls far and fast
And quietly.

I can't bring myself to
A single utterance
Worth my breath
And the world's time -
God!  There is no time to be
Loud and brash and fiery.

Not when you can seethe
Silently.

They say a choking throat
Shuts you up.
If so then
Will a slit to my throat
Let my voice pour out
Like cold, sad blood?

Yes?

Sign me up.
we used to never hold hands like that,
with mine on top and yours on the bottom,
i was too small
you were towering like some office building calculations running through your mind,
yet art on the tips of your fingertips,
and I was short like the stack of books by my bed,
and it was like a mix of night and day when my hair spilled down your golden skin,
golden hair,
tousled blonde like some kind of lion lying on the bed,
veiled in a dark slumber.
you stroked my skin and it sent shivers down my back,
and kissing you was like lying in summer sun,
pleasant,
and you’re so different from what I have now,
because now I have fall kisses,
on a bed of crimson leaves,
with another blonde haired boy but this time he’s a wolf,
and this time he holds me while we are skin on skin in a forest of cattails underfoot,
the stubbed filter of a cigarette to my left,
our clothing to my right.
he’s full of fire,
it’s all over him, on his skin, branded across his face,
but I don’t love him,
i just like the way he says he loves me when he’s looking at me like sunlight filtering through leaves,
with his crystalline blues,
biting my lips with passionate ferocity
 Jan 2014 Clare Talbot
RA
forecast
 Jan 2014 Clare Talbot
RA
"I think the
dynamic might just be
problematic." I said and
I didn't think but
what I viewed as manifest
destiny may just have been
a self-fulfilling
prophecy.
7:20 PM
December 4, 2014
 Jan 2014 Clare Talbot
bb
My palms itch again and so I need to write. That's what I decided to title this, because I can't title this with your name — no, I won't title this with your name because the thought of it will rust me like an old gate and I cannot bear to hear myself creak for you anymore. I will send your local news a story about how I don't know if I can compare your throat to another mountain range or your smile to any other natural phenomenon or your fingers to another city; you are making me sick to my stomach and sometimes I want to be nauseous; you need to know that a part of me has wanted you to see every eraser smudge I've ever made that would proclaim the truth as though my pencil were an evangelizer of a god that found no hell fitting enough for a mind so wretched as my own and sent you here to sweep me off my feet, and then underneath your rug. How many times will I hit 'backspace' beofre the words in my mind finally delete —when will these thoughts gripping my throat turn into your cold hands, when will my sleepless nights become in spite of you instead of because of you?
The loudest clock ticking is your identity and I am to spend eternity in an empty room, fumbling for you like a light switch that doesn't exist and like a hospital light, I will always hear you flicker.
My palms, they still itch.
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