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Hanna Baleine Nov 2014
Remember curiosity,
The reek of home,
Sleeping with a
Mouthful of fevers.

Remember gold,
Roasted muscles,
The shackles in your thighs.

Remember me,
When you discovered
Hearts of past lovers
Live in your fingernails.

Remember you,
A mad-driven star,
Biting waves with such
Honeydew eyes.

Remember patience,
Threaded into your skin with
Pear tree splinters.

Even God knows limits.
Hanna Baleine Nov 2014
Eyes on fire, sweating into sunken sheets.
You begin from the hair,
Lighting me like a candle.

I stare.

What are these morphing molecules of madness
Annihilating my arteries with their acid?
Now you surround me with sun-bright gasoline;
Set bedroom walls into stars.

I am the center.

For a cure:
A match,
A cry,
And a crow
For after, to screech and crawl into the holes
Of my cindered body.

Let the rest disintegrate into the dirt that
From the foundations of our home, has
Drunken our despair and disgrace for far too long.
Hanna Baleine Nov 2014
Because I am trapped in my own cells,
Blistered by the sun
Of your kindle presence.

Yes, I blame you.
I blame you
For the roaches in my car
And that time you made me bleed into my wine.
I blame you for all the toast you burnt
And the way you watch sunsets with
Such impatience.

If you asked,
I wouldn’t go back with you.
My heart is already capable of
Telling such tremendous tales.

I need none of yours.
Get – be gone.
Once a lover, but forever a wanderer.
Hanna Baleine Nov 2014
He burnt the bed sheets. Finally.
His shoes
Smelt of marital blood
On days like these,
He enjoys catching dust in his hands,
Likes to compare the flecks to the
Cuts on his palms
Until he can’t see the difference

Shrieks come from the tub,
Voltage pushing his legs to jump.
Now he watches the bath
Rumble the house with its tears


Rain covers tormented streets;
He too feels he must erupt from the sky.


A window
Replays the chaos of the world
From ten stories high.

Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
My dear, I assure you, this was not my deed. No, my dear, I am innocent. I awoke this morning from a genius dream to darkness, as my windows were covered with grayed curtains from my mother’s gold childhood. I stepped out onto the terrace without notice of the body. Perhaps it was not there yet. However, doctors soon established the lady had been dead for more than thirteen hours. I was not aware of her presence the entire time I took eloquent drags from my cigarette, only noticing the smell of the pollen-filled wind and, now I know, mistaking the sound of her blood hitting the concrete tiles as a mild shower from the south. Had I been aware of her presence, I’d have saved her, separated the handle from the clench of her body, and called the authorities. I’d have cried if only I remembered how. I’d have made love to her while I was still alone. Let her rest in ecstasy.
          Do you understand now, my dear? Do you understand the good that lies within me? I am not a man of killing; perhaps somewhere, a man like me is, but not I, dear friend, not I. Do you believe me? My God, if only the officers believed me. Instead they tied my hands behind my back and forced my lips shut so that I can not even yell of my innocence, all while dragging me into a cellar that now I must call my home because of an action I did not commit. That I did not commit! That I would never dare to commit! Atrocious, they call me. Atrocious, I call them for engraving lies into my brain, fragile to dementia but not to crime. No, never to crime.
         My dear, please note, they say I am who I am not. Devils! They paint pictures of a filthy man unrecognizable and insist it is me. *******! I have felt my skin tingle in manners unimaginable and a sensation of a new body rise within me, a new body whose deeds I have no control over. I am not the producer of this crime. I am innocent. This was my only confession to the officers who came into my apartment due to the neighbors’ complaints of screams unlike those of ******* coming from somewhere near my establishment. Indeed, I found, along with my new workmates, a bloodied woman looking down to the floor, lipstick mouth and tired eyes, impaled. Horrific! Was written on the notepad of the chief of police. Now I am strained on electrical mattresses, obliged to believe what I never would have dared to believe, obliged to reminisce my last taste of self-government: as I stood in the doorway of my terrace along with five police officers realizing they were not prepared for this grotesque imagery, I became aware of a fragile young woman, perhaps in her early 20s, hanging upside down with a rotten handle sticking from her mouth. Indeed, around her disentangled body were the satin sheets of my bed, drenched in her brown substance that shimmered in the snug afternoon sunlight. The officers hurriedly disregarded this fact and focused on the removal of the woman’s body from the handle, only to have her legs detach and fall onto the wet concrete. An officer yelled. Another grimaced. I giggled, watched, focused, determined. Upon further distant inspection, I observed that the handle had been ferociously inserted into her soft, delicate genital, forced through her dry ******, passing along the large and small intestines, only to finally pierce her stomach and come back up through her mouth. The beauty of the crime was terrifying.
          The beauty of the crime is terrifying. It is a blissful poem written by finesse, workmanship, delicacy. There is no manner for this legendary craft to be produced by me: I am a sufferer of mediocrity and its dreadful boredom. The father of the crime was a genius, the one I have always dreamt of being. Now, my friend, since my last day of freedom, I have no beauty to witness anymore. Confined, I befriend insects whose exoskeletons allow for strength and resistance to remain a part of them. I am incompatible to these powers; I am innocent. At many times, I howl for a touch at night; I awake with cut nails and scars between my thighs. Guards insist on restraining me. They sabotage me until I see Hell. Then, I am finally able to stay calm. No more do I sporadically feel my skin tear from my bones as if it were attempting to evaporate from me as a slight sting overcomes these unfamiliar ligaments. They ask me how? They ask me why? I remain silent fore I do not recall how or why. I remain silent fore I desire to know how or why. I desire the brilliance of the unspeakable act. Unspeakable in its grandeur; unspeakable in its cruelty. The filthy man the officers paint now becomes attributed to the crime’s brilliance to me. I see him more everyday. He wanders in mirrors and speaks to me when I am not aware of time and presence.
        However, disappointed, I remain with no explanation for the officers but that sunsets are composed of separations of wavelengths that shine differently onto each ray of existence than onto any other globular star. And, as this occurs, the identical wavelengths spray themselves among the individuals who are most vulnerable to hysteria in order to reflect themselves in unsuitable manners. That is how my mother explained to me the illness her womb inflicted onto my sacred hemisphere. That is how I began to call the foul insects who dared to climb into my cellar, my sole companions.
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
There was the way he touched me: his hands, tender and beaten from the oh so many bar fights, would glide across the goose bumps of my spine, warming my blood; his breath would blow towards my naked neck, coming in as empty waves that cooled the third degree burns his whispers left; the surface of his lips, dry from the lack of chap stick and sore from consistently shaping the sounds of his voice, would barely brush my stomach, only meeting with the miniscule blonde hairs that tried to hide my sacred body.
        I was afraid of him though. I was afraid of the way he moved, suddenly and without caution, his legs and arms barely keeping up with the shock of his movements. Sometimes in the morning, before stumbling out from his side of the bed, he would grab my limp body and embrace my chest, pressing my ******* against the bottom of his belly, making my body absorb the heat waves of his own that had slept underneath his skin all night long.
         Slowly, as the afternoons grew longer and the mornings grew shorter, our bodies no longer came into contact. Not even our voices collided anymore during pathetic wasted nights when we drank the same amount of wine as the amount of our tears. We were drunk by 8 pm. Eventually, all we did was lean across balcony railings, facing each other, not knowing anymore how to communicate what we so deeply wanted. I wanted to hold him. He wanted to leave me. And only one night later he did.
        He left the night of my birthday; I was long broken by then: my blood stained with alcohol, my heart throbbing between my ribcage, my eyes begging for guidance. As I fell through the front door of his apartment, struggling to hold on to his sleeve, I smelt of ***** and ***. He laid me one the covers of his bed, the ones we bought together the day I moved in, and lightly ran his fingertips down my feet, removing my only Prada heels. Through the dim light, I stared down into his starry eyes, trying to read the words strung together in his mind.
       I failed expectedly; and so, because *** was the only remainder of our relationship, I softly sang into his ear:
                             I would swim the seas a thousand times
                                 for the constellations of your skin
                                 to brush against the earth of mine
        And so that night, he breathed heavily into the scars across my neck, his moans erupting like sudden volcanoes from the bottom of his throat, destroying the empty sound that had been planted in his room since the first time I cried into his sheets. And when he was done, he tiptoed into the bathroom while I remained numb and motionless. He came back only twenty minutes later, silently perched against my right shoulder, delicately removed the greasy hair from my face, and faintly murmured: “I’m leaving you”.
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
I do not remember what it’s like to eat a piece of food and not think twice about it. Can you tell me please? Take me back to when I was just born, to when bleeding hieroglyphs no longer sat on my thighs, to when my veins were already flushed of a need to ****. The lipstick on my mouth is made out of the blood I dissect from my body at night. Once I spilled a raindrop of cranberry juice onto a rosé journal and I cried. He pulled me in between houses. There he laid me down on the grass and I felt oh so very strange to be surrounded by my home, a place of love and kindness and security and welcoming food always ready on the table surrounded by smiling sisters. Yet no one came to save me that night. And so I still think about it today, long after he has moved away and I have still stayed sitting around that mendacious table of warm food I refuse to eat. My school shoes are the only shoes I own. I sleep with them on because I’m convinced that the idea of a happy young girl in long socks and short skirt and ******* that poke out just a little will enter the chloroplast of my cells and join the war against viruses that take me to that too familiar closet corner with the carpet stained with blood. Or is it cranberry juice? I cry.
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