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 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are the same age
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen

A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are different ages
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen


A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a note
That her ex-boyfriend wrote
When he loved her,
He doesn't anymore

A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a card
That mother bought
When she cared,
She still does


A young girl
Walking home
Toying with the blade
She keeps in her purse
She thinks of dying
And ending the hurt

A young girl
Walking "home"
Toying with the tubes
Tethered to her veins
She thinks of living
And running again


A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of demons
And darkness entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them

A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of cute boys
And field trips entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them


Two young girls
In hospital beds
One wanting to die
And one wanting to live
One confined to the sheets
And one able to leave
They're fifteen

One young girl
Gets out of bed
And places a flower
Near the other girl's head
And the other girl smiles
And asks if she's dead
"Of course not silly,
You're very much
Alive, so go to
School and
Learn something
And stop wanting to die
Because it's not your time."


The other girl says,
"I'll leave if you do.
I'll go back to school
If you go back too."

One young girl smiles,
"I wish I could go,
I'd give anything to
Go back and live
On my own. But my
Bones are brittle and
Won't let me leave,
So you go and you
Live life for me."


Two young girls
Finally freed
One walking
Through hallways
One walking
On golden streets
One with her head high
And her razor shattered
One with strong bones
And cute boys beside her.
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
Ten
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
That is all that I see.
My knees are tucked against my chest
And my arms are wrapped around them.
My chin is positioned between my knees
And my eyes peer out between the spaces.
I shrug my shoulders against my ears
So that I don't have to hear
What's going on downstairs.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
But the words, like a poisonous gas,
Seep through the air vent.
"*****. ****. You don't see
What's she's doing to us."
I tilt my head and bury
My face in my forearms.
I bite my lip and try
Not to cry.
But I can feel the heat building
And my chest tightening
As the tears begin
To crawl from
My eyes.
I listen again,
Unintentionally,
To the shrill voice
Piercing my not-so-silence.
"Take her home,
We can figure this out
On our own."
I try to breathe,
But oxygen escapes me,
As if it too hates me.
My chest shakes,
My heart rattling
In its cage, cold from
A lack of love
And warm embrace.
I bury my face deeper,
Into the crevices of my legs,
Until I hear the footsteps
Crashing up the staircase.
A whimper escapes my lips.
She twists the **** and throws
Open my bedroom door,
Long strides to reach me,
And a fist near my throat.
She reaches for my hair,
And knots it between her fingers,
Before using it to pull me like a rope.
Dragging me across the carpet,
And into the kitchen,
She tosses me
At my father's legs.
"Now tell her exactly
What you told me."
I look up at him
Through frightened eyes
And he reaches down
And pulls me from the ground.
"I'm taking her home."
A trickle of relief
Slides down my throat
Until a wave of pain
Crashes into my leg
From behind.
My face hits the
Linoleum first,
Followed by my hands
Then shoulders, then hips.
"That's not what you said!"
He steps between
Her and me
And lifts me
From the floor,
Holding me close,
And walking quickly
Out the door.
And finally,
I am safe,
For another day.
But as my father
Sits me
In the passenger seat
And drives away,
I silently pray that
No other ten year old
Would ever feel this way.
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?

Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
Sometimes I wish I was a taxi driver
Because I don't believe there is
A more honest person on earth.
They hear the apologies of
Intoxicated teenagers
On their way home from the clubs
That they used fake ID's to get into.
They hear the quarrels between
Frisky lovers
Who drank too much on their dinner date
And can't wait to shed their clothing.
They hear the ramblings of
Elderly folk
Complaining about gas prices
And the brand-name stores that
Put the local businesses under.
But sometimes, they hear the confessions of
Lonely travelers
Who were wandering the streets
At 3 in the morning, contemplating
How they would like to take their life,
Until they saw a taxi cab driving past
And realized it was their sign to go
Home.
A Loose Sequel to Rooftops
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
AJ Salazar
Same four walls
Restless movement
Staring at empty space
Far too many sleepless nights
It has become a (bad) habit of mine
All this is all too familiar to me
Feeling refreshed is rare
Tiredness is common
Could this be
*insomnia
It's been awhile hah. So I finally finished this one c: I have a few others that are WIP
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
I was walking along the shoreline
On a warm afternoon in July when
I noticed a piece of polished wood
Bobbing helplessly in the shallow water,
So I pulled it from the salty sea and
Admired the intricate carvings and
Detailed line work across the face.
Just as I was running my thumb
Over the still smooth edges, I
Noticed another piece floating
Just a few feet away from me.
Within the hour, I had gathered
An entire armful of wood, and
Within the week, I had an entire
Table full of mismatched pieces.
So I began working unceasingly
At putting the pieces back together.
I started with the inside, the
Smooth heart shaped piece with
The slight cracks and divots,
Followed by a circular piece
That resembled the brain
With the deep crevices.
I then pieced together
The smooth fingertips
And the rugged feet,
And connected every
Limb and joint together
Until a boy of about
Six feet was standing
In front of me.
I snapped on the
Final piece and watched
As he came alive before me.
His eyes as deep as the mahogany
Looked into mine and smiled, as
Though thanking me.
And he turned his
Back to me and
Walked away.
It wasn't until
That moment that
I realized I had poured
Every ounce of myself into
Piecing back together that boy,
So now every ounce of myself
Was walking out my front
Door with a real boy
Who didn't need
Me anymore.
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Marleny
Step 1: Whatever you are letting go, say it's for the best.
Step 2: Truly believe that you are doing the right thing and move on with your life.

.... If only letting go was that easy
Your heart must clench and throb and stutter within your chest.
You have to push your selfish need into the deepest and blackest void in your mind.
Try not to cry, then proceed to cry heavily and uncontrollably.

Letting go is removing the safety from your life into the world of change.
It is a bitterly received acceptance.
But most of all, it is sacrifice.
Exchanging your happiness for theirs.
It's the purest, rawest, and the saddest form of love.
I

We sit on a tailgate pointed toward
the hills, where life ripples down the slopes
gathers in pools of the creek and begins again
to climb up the peaks and tree trunks on the
other side. It colors the breaths we take
green.
Children run here, learn their legs, as stalks
graze their shoulders and block their
view. They get dizzy as rows rush by.
We rein in our bovine friends here, watch
them jump and kick, see them call in
spring

II

We walk between rows of highly stacked cement and exhale smog that drifts
upwards to
join the cloud of soot.
We walk among so many abrasive shoulders. We get
hung up on abrasive personalities.
A gray wave in a black sea we’re vapidly
drifting. Legs move quickly to stay afloat.
swimming. Swimming always. Swimming further.

III

We sit for pictures with clogged eyes and stuffed chests
We coo at portraits of masks and dummies
We write books for laughs and money and friends
We read a little to find the romance and sorrow
and lay cold on the slab while our own pages turn.

IV

We pass out of porcelain faces with their tightly
drawn eyes that cast gazes over shoulders, homes
of last night’s kisses. We pass out of the electrical
current of youth
numbed and still alive
with eyes that look like stained glass windows of the
Church of Holy Suffering.


V

We wait for Sunday night to turn the dial to the Blues. We keep throwing something for an animal to pick up and return.  We string beads and sell them for redemption.

VI

We think of our friends. They’re draped in a future,
warmed with hot blood rushing through their veins,
slamming fists to tables, pronouncing their minds.
ripping off dresses, sharing their madness.
tossing paint to canvas, showing their hearts.
asking questions to startle, proving their love.

VII

We think of our parents.
dead and gone, dead to us, dead by self-proclamation -
Is their blood cold and still in their withered veins?
Have they their fill of slamming fists and ripped dresses and tossed paint and startling questions?

VIII

We are sad.
 Jul 2013 Mikitara
Asphyxiophilia
Sometimes I wish I was a rooftop
Because I don't believe there is
A more honest place on earth.
They feel the warm touch
Of the sun
In the middle of the afternoon.
They feel the chilling touch
Of the snow
In the middle of winter.
They feel the romantic touch
Of lover's nestled
Against each other
As they gaze at the stars.
But sometimes, they feel the soft touch
Of sad feet
Walking slowly towards the edge,
Never to be felt
Again.
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