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 May 2014 SG Rose
Emmy Dawn
 May 2014 SG Rose
Emmy Dawn
If a pen should stutter,
my words are weak.
Leaking ink and broken words
leave my hands as red as guilt,
and I am not innocent.
Flushed cheeks and a stained tongue,
there is little I can hide.
But maybe if you slice me open,
there is more to see inside;
Reach around and find my chest,
but know it holds more salt water
than your desired treasure.
I do hope what few jewels I have
Bring you pleasure.
A hole
You left one
Ripped through my soul
The contents leak out
Quickly at first
So they tell me to fill it, immerse myself
In anything and everything
And so I try, and so I fail,
Unfocused, distracted
Wandering thoughts keep wandering back
As if they've been given a map
Directing to my problems and pain
Going insane
Crazy, ******, asylum to follow
This house is not a home
How can I feel so alone
Yet I'm surrounded by the masses
People I know, friends, acquaintances
The sea of smiling faces and compassion encircle me
But all I feel is the pain, poking at me like a blunt sword,
Again and again
Nothing excruciating, but never letting me forget
How I let you in
And you dug your way out
And left a hole
 Jul 2013 SG Rose
t m h
i just lay awake,
trying to get some sleep.
but still i concentrate to force a lucid dream,
of you and your eyes

it seems to last for days,
i still swim in the wake
as i rise along  with the sun there's rain.
rainbows cascade inside, outside, through my mind
nothing like a nightmare

another perfect day,
filled by some simple things,
every time i blink i see
perfect little symmetrical brown tidal waves
on the inside of lids that cover mine,
i see your eyes
everywhere i look,every time i blind,
i see brown
 Jun 2013 SG Rose
Gabrielle H
Definition # 1: Being wanted, but not necessarily needed.
I was born on the coldest day of '93,
three months too early
three pounds too small.

That sounds like a death sentence,
but it's not – it was more of a:
“Here's what life is like,
now earn the right to live it.”

And I passed the test.
Oh, I passed with flying colors
and surprised everyone,
especially my parents.

They didn't allow themselves
to be too optimistic, see;
If they were pessimistic and wrong,
it was a pleasant surprise in the end.

Being pessimistic and right
always felt like a well earned stroke
to their over-inflated egos,
and they liked that more.

Still, they brought me home
and welcomed me – I was the first,
the only, the most important;
I was the VIP in the household.

My grandmother, a staunch Catholic,
came to see me, her first grandson,
and kissed me soundly on the forehead.
She proclaimed a prayer over me, then:

“Ah! Our Father who art in Heaven,
This baby is truly a blessing from You,
and may You bless him ever

Grandmother, my only words to you now
are these:
I wish you had prayed more fervently for me,
and stuck that blessing on me more firmly.

Definition # 2: Crippling kindness through actions.
Her name was Katy.
She was eighteen when I was six,
and she crossed the gap between us
as easily as Jesus passed over the waters.

She claimed she was my babysitter -
3 to 9 PM, Mondays through Fridays -
for three incredibly long years,
but don't they take *care
of the kids they watch?

It's almost shocking to think of how
she peeled me apart back then
with fingers pale as my face
and a smile sweet as a tangerine.

(I thought it was love. I was wrong.)

I was misguided by her gentleness,
the way she held me in her arms
and gave me baths when I had played outside.
My mother never did that, after all.

But her fingers strayed too far
and she snatched something from me
that I have never recovered,
and now never will.

I would say it was my innocence,
but that's not true.
That went to rot long ago,
and I do not miss it.

No, it felt more tangible than that,
a feeling I had, one of trust,
one that only disappeared
after I realized what had happened.

Now I am left to side-eye people
and wonder about their true intentions;
all because someone named Katy
kissed me on the cheek, then went a little farther.

Definition # 3: Absolutely nothing at all.
It's amazing how one experience
affects the rest of your life,
but it does. Irrevocably,
each happening is a dropped pebble in water.

I wish it wasn't that way,
because there are things I want to erase
in order to move forward,
things that require moving backwards first.

That's never easy, going back to the things
that are in the past for a reason,
when facing them is a task you're not sure
you're really up to.

I know how that is,
how the moving forward feels like stumbling,
like stepping blindly in the darkness
and missing a step.

You fumble for something to hold onto,
and your heart panics,
gasping desperately while you flail;
I know. I know.

That's how I ended up kissing little Ann
in fourth grade – Katy was gone from my life by then
and I thought this other girl could give me back
that vital something I was lacking.

She gave it her all, truly, with that plucky mouth of hers;
from the warm depths of her trembling heart came a kiss,
but I defied the laws of physics then which state that heat
is energy transferred from one interacting object to another –

I felt nothing.

Definition # 4: Keeping painfully close.
Therapy should have been the option
when I told my parents that ‘Katy’ and ‘molester’
were the same thing, after I looked it up.
But it wasn’t.

My parents opted for isolation and
careful watching; if they could keep
an eye on me at all times,
they could keep me safe.

This was their pessimism talking,
leading them to think that a therapist would
**** them dry of their money and do absolutely

Maybe they were scared of something else, too -
of molesters and rapists sitting outside,
just waiting to get their grubby hands on me
and take me away, to a place they couldn't follow.

Either way, their decision wasn't a cure,
it didn't help. Home-schooled at eleven, I lost sight
of how the world moved around me,
and all I knew was the inside of my house.

What kept me grounded were the little things:
snow days, which spoke of beauty and temporary freedom,
books, which promised a world away from the one I knew,
and the goodnight kisses from my parents.

Definition # 5: The right to take what you want.
I escaped homeschooling
when I entered ninth grade,
and the freedom I found there
was intoxicating. Addicting, even.

I’d been so out of touch with the world
that I decided the whole world
was now my friend – I fell in love
with everyone I met, at least once.

Opening myself up was surprisingly easy;
then again the only things I really opened
were my pants zipper and the pubescent hearts
of girls, always readily available.

There was the first girl, Caroline –
she kissed me everywhere, and all I did
was take everything in return – and then
there were a hundred others like her.

I knew Amys and Rachels and Sarahs,
but I never knew another Katy.
There was only one of those in my mind,
and she pushed all the others away in the end.

By eleventh grade I was in pieces,
dragging myself through each day
for no reason other than
to find another girl to claim as mine.

Definition # 6: Wrong, wrong, all wrong.
In the end,
I had it coming –
and though I don’t remember it all,
I remember enough –
rough beard pulled across skin
in a horrible mockery of kisses;
all the messy memories of Katy torn out,
like tangles pulled out with a boar hair’s brush;
the sound of something breaking,
though that might have just been me;
a ragged whisper of “Your uncle loves you, you
know that, right? This is me showing you how much.”
and finally, a piece of me I never
offered, flung far, far
That’s all I remember,
and that’s more than I ever want to remember.

Definition # 7: Saving grace kisses.
Silence became my hiding place
in the year that followed,
along with a deep darkness
that I drowned in every night.

Where I was once confident
and a “ladies man,”
I was no longer; some experiences
ruin all the ones following.

This is how I suffered –
quietly, painstakingly, always.
I let no one in and no one out,
not even myself.

That is, until I was found out.
He was the same age as me,
but it felt like he was years
ahead of me, experience-wise.

That's how he knew -
from one sufferer to another,
we found something in common -
and that's how I redefined love, one last time.

It took three years of high school for me to step up
to the podium, clear my throat, shuffle some papers,
and mutter into the microphone, barely above a whisper:
“You know, maybe I was wrong about love.”

And maybe God did show up in the end,
in between his eyelashes and the gap in his teeth,
there to be the saving grace for a poor sinner
like me, who messed up love for far too long.

Definition # 8: Absolutely everything at once.
Recovery is a long, winding road,
one that I wanted to leave a long time ago –
if you must know, I’m still on it, though
I almost succeeded in leaving it once.

But there are almost always people
who will make you reconsider,
and decide that maybe jumping off the roof
is an act for another day, a better day.

And there are people who know how important
listening is, and that’s all they do: just listen.
I underestimated how powerful it is,
knowing someone cares enough to do that.

And there are other people who know where
a kiss goes, and where a hand should be placed,
and how to make the kiss a band-aid,
and the hand a life saver thrown out in churning waters.

There are others still that know what to say,
even when you don't. The words come easy,
and they reassure, they heal, they put you back together -
maybe not in the same way, but it's still good.

I know there will be scars, and there will be reminders
that all is not right in the world, of course,
but if you find a person who can listen,
or who can save lives with their mouth,
or who can find the right words,
you’ll probably do just fine in the end.

After all,
love is not just an action – it’s an experience.
I am simultaneously displeased with this and overjoyed at the place that it has ended up at, finally. I hope you find something to enjoy about it.
 Jun 2013 SG Rose
kristine marie
They say that fire and ice don’t mix;
“They are opposites, two different sides of the spectrum,”
But I guess no one ever thought of them as anything more than elements.

When you burn, the fire sears your skin,
melts, stripping new layer after new layer,
Until nothing but ash remains.

That’s if the burn continues.
if you sit in the fire, you’ll char to a fine dust.
You’ll sprinkle by when the wind picks up,
floating and floating until you find a nice place to rest.
If you run from the flames licking at your feet,
your burns get a little treat - some ice water,
some aloe, more ice water, and a bandage.
No little solid squares pressed to your wounds;
After all, they say that fire and ice don’t mix -
Hold ice on your burn for too long,
and your burn will only worsen.

I burned myself with fire.
I sought solace with ice.
My first degrees turned to seconds,
and seconds into thirds;
Ice burned me, with her cool exterior,
her icy heart.

And I kept her there, pressed to my wound,
cooling my skin,
and burning within.

Let’s call her the Ice Queen,
the crystal clear little gem that I press
So tight against my skin.
Those green eyes and her devilish grin,
I’m sure she had the power to lure anyone in.
And it was me that she chose,
already down and wounded.
She picked up my pieces and mended them together,
She iced my burns, she sewed me together.

I thought I knew who I was before I met her.
Even in pieces, I was sure that my life
was put-together.
The picture perfect model child,
until small events led to big encounters,
and higher falls and harder drops.
I shattered when I fell, but I still felt
like I was put-together
Until the Ice Queen came with
her lace and leather, her tattoos
and Newports, her tights and her boots.
She found me there, mere shards of broken memories
that dripped with tears; she sewed me together,
Maybe synchronized me to her weather.

Now, excuse me if I sound brash,
but I fall at the Ice Queen’s every batting lash.
I embraced her with open arms,
My burning skin and her cooling touch,
and sought help from a body of ice.

It’s a funny thing about fire,
The way that it sometimes soothes
and other times hurts.
A wick to a flame releases a
Heavenly scent;
Gasoline to a flame sets
a house, a car, a building,
all aflame.

And when all goes up in flames,
even firefighters struggle to
Put it out; like it’s really so
hard to wrestle with what
Spews from the Devil’s mouth.

They’d never throw ice into the
Mouth of a flame. No huge cubes
Dto try and tame the flame.
Reason why is simple, easy, matter of fact;
Ice melts in heat, and flames pack quite a singe.

So what happens next,
When fire and ice intertwine?
They maintain their solidity just
As long as they can sustain.

It isn’t very long before the flame is left
in vain.
written in april 2013. 1/3 of a series.
 Jun 2013 SG Rose
Denise G
A weakening speck
Unknowingly sinking, tottering, diminishing into an undiscoverable wreck
Much to master
Much to obtain
Infinite time, unable to restrain
Stuck  in a rusted fetter
Rewriting that one unspoken letter
Inventing and destroying
And doing the same thing over and over
A constant cycle of forlornness
The understanding of perception is ideal
Something you and I can't even begin to find real
Finding out the way things tick is mind blowing
No, no wait incomprehensible.
So here you are
Exactly where you were
And where you will always be
Unless you see
That you aren't a crumbling speck you were  meant to abide by
More like something precious set aside.

— The End —