smc 5d
there's no deception
no heartbreak
no poison for our bodies to succumb to
no rules
and no sadness.

If only I thought like that more often...
I'd be happy.

I love who I'm with now: just me.
I'm trying, at least,
moment by moment,
to win this Game.
This is what my life is missing. the game.
smc 6d
Glorified one-stemmed wonders
delivered in high school
when she waited
hoping for
oh, hands stop sweating!
heart be quiet--
he can hear it pounding through your
tee shirt!
this time...yes, maybe...
he glanced!
looked this way!
she can hear blood pounding
in her ears
her face turns scarlet,
and she tries to hide EvErYtHiNg
she is feeling.
Hope. this time, please.
let it be my turn.

And her heart splashes
into her stomach
hands turn to ice
face melts
as the pretty girls
and flitter...
with their rose nectar.

He did buy a rose,
but not for her...
another February
cold and alone
left to study
and be exactly who
she wants to
escape from.
Twelve months a year
smc 6d
tiny jewels

the ones
w     e
in peru

and she laughs like
fairies dance around her

she knows
what she did
to what was once
smc 6d
He flings her boots at her, and she watches in slow motion as they land, spraying dust and dirt from the barn. She had, earlier that week, worn those boots as she sang to the horses to calm her mind on a sleepless night. Promises shattered, she scrambles to pick up her boots, losing him and the horses, her only place of solace. Hope is gone. Her ears ring with his words, a broken record, only days earlier: “Come on home, honey.”

She had unearthed a fossil...

A slight bump, pearly white, attracts her eye. As she slowly brushes the dirt off the surface, she sees the bones: the hollow, dull eye sockets, disturbing jut of a dislocated jaw, gaping mouth. She notices how deep it is buried--the tip of an iceberg. Then, just as she puts her brush down to look closer, the wind, a whispered warning, stirs a cloud of dirt that settles over the remains, filling the holes and smoothing the jagged edges. In an instant, she forgets, consciously choosing to disregard those feelings of disturbance. She picks up her brush and hesitates, torn between logic and temptation. Compelled, entranced, she gingerly touches the bristles to the dirt. Maybe it won't be ugly this time; perhaps it wasn't as disturbing as she thought. She could have made it up--just her mind playing tricks on her. If she trusts her hesitation, though, she foregoes the excitement of discovery. But she has already seen what lies beneath. A glimpse should have been enough.

She cannot look away. Hesitation is devoured by anxiety; compulsion grows stronger, takes control. And she lets it.  She sweeps the bristles slowly at first then picks up speed, furiously sweeping away the earth. She should have trusted that tug of hesitation, should have left the brush and walked away. She didn't want to see it; she looked anyway. The image, horrifying, discolors her own skin to match the gray of the bones. Frozen, petrified, she watches worms slither through cracks in the skull. The head is twisted and detached, unnaturally askew. The ribs are shattered, by knife or gunshot, where the heart once was.

She punishes herself. Self-loathing swells and festers as she resentfully reflects on her choice to dispel her better judgment. She avoids mirrors, afraid to see skin that remains gray. The horrifying truth of what she chose to uncover disturbs her dreams.

I awake, coughing, disoriented, clothes adhered to skin by cold sweat. Anxious, hollowed, robotic, I reach for a cigarette.
from "The Story of Ky" by smc
smc 6d
I miss you, too
blinks on the screen

do you remember me?
can you tell me how you can
read the words of a desperate heart
and choose to respond with
n o t h i n g....
do you remember?
two weeks, it's been.
did you lose a connection

what prompts you
to keep tugging
on a frayed string
       that used to
be strong
    and shiny
               and blue
"like your beautiful eyes"

through the sticky mud
and the unsettled puddles
from acid rain
that keeps
the longest month of the year, 28 total days. february
smc Feb 7
w  e   r   e

and then....

it just was.
"present" is a cruel word for the misery of this moment.
smc Feb 4
I don't need Time.
I don't need comforting words.
I need an Autobahn
To take me back
to January.
When he existed
And we were Alive
For a month, he kept me warm.
Now the moments stumble and skip
Like a broken record.
A seedling, struggling to survive,
in the Dead of Winter.
Snow blankets the hard, frigid ground.
I look down and realize that I am
in a parking lot
Full of Empty cars
Because everyone else has someplace warm to go
And to Belong.
I am standing still,
feet covered in snowflakes,
and the wind has ceased.
The Silence is deafening.
It is February
And I am CoLd
all the Time.

Next page