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Stefania S Feb 2018
it doesn’t seem that long ago that i was a young woman with a baby in my arms, little fists fitting neatly into my own, breath of my breast and an infectious smile that appeared early. of course to say it wasn’t long ago is a bit of a lie, as it’s been nearly eighteen years.

today, nearing my mid-forties and a very different person, i find myself in-between dimensions. time seems to have sped up and i am facing my own mortality as if it were a lover. i have fallen so many times in the years between my baby’s midnight cries and his approaching graduation that i’m not even quite sure if i’ll be walking there or crawling. but i do know i’ll make it, whether it’s under the light of a southern sky or from behind the cover of a darkened and eternally masked visage.

my journey from then and there to here and now has been bumpy. i’ve grown and shrunk, fit in and stood out, fell down and climbed over; basically i’ve turned myself around more times than a spinning top in the hands of a wild-eyed youngster. disappearing, that has been different, less climactic, quieter, more revealing, yet terribly isolating. my actual self, a shrinking figure in a mirror hung so long ago i can’t remember why it was even chosen, its shape too small for any person to do much mirroring. like the mirror, i can hardly recall who stands before it most mornings, my body, bones mostly with very little extra flesh to speak of harshly.

untouched, sacred, THIS body has only been seen by my healthcare provider. no man has seen me disrobe and i can only laugh at what i spent years trying to achieve through the repetitiveness of running finally realized at the hands of a long-term love affair with darkness. food, always the enemy, not so much anymore. i don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, eat only when i’m hungry, and refuse to deny myself the pleasure of ice cream because of extra skin hanging at my waist or thighs. those days have passed. the thoughts still exist, the what if’s: what if i get fat again, what if i can’t fit into my size 2 skinny jeans, what if i have to wear a real bra again? i try to push them away as often as possible but they lurk, triggers in the land of odd.

when i gave birth to my son i weighed almost 200 lbs. i’m only 5' tall. i was a round little thing with hardly any love for myself. today i weigh nearly half of that, have a healthy bmi and feel pretty good about my body. you’d think that would equate to happiness; wrong.

rather than stretch this out i’ll tie it up, neatly. the smaller i become the less there is of me to hate. shrinking away from everyone and everything, quickly initially, and then slowing down as the years have passed, i’ve found that if i can just squeeze into the tiniest of spaces i won’t hurt so much. there isn’t much of me left to lose and i’m quite cognizant of that, while also keenly aware of the abilities my tiny frame provides, like climbing trees, running at break-neck speed and disappearing in a flash.

eventually i’ll find the shape of my elderly aunts in that ******* mirror, but for now i’d rather grow invisible, tiny, forgotten.
Quinn Jan 2018
What are you laughing at?
I once asked the spider.

He told me, not much...
...
Just the look on victim's faces
when they stick in my trap
...
and admire the view.
Stefania S Jan 2018
a silent cry
followed by violent shouts
sullen coves
darkened funeral spouts

the undertaker dressed in black
eyes of coal
he never looks back

widow (maker)
spun around
her dresses long
her feelings down

empty shoals
crowned in blue
legs of scars
moon, new

hear her cry
head thrown back
sobbing swallowed
coughing hack

skin transluscent
soft yet untouched
nocturnal creature
fallow of *****

withdraw the bow
pull the sword
unappreciated spied my lord

empty cages open and shut
downward spiral
a violent cuck

harrowed adventure
blighted by (sh)fame
ignorant ties
hollow frame

guilty no more
follow on back
open your mouth
scream from of the lack

trust embellished
overly surmised
internal wicking
her sad lonesome eyes
Quinn Jan 2018
I miss shaving his neck in the shower.
It was my favorite thing to do because
a shaved neck
smoothed my canvas
of kisses and
bruises.

It was my favorite thing to do because
he was vulnerable.
He naked stripped
shamelessley
bare for me only,

until the day he made me realize something.
I was vulnerable in the shower too.

That morning his hand just wasn't enough.
Fresh wetted face from shower droplets
tears
and him

shoved me to the shower floor
subjected waterboarding, I thought
love was me shaving his neck in the
shower.

But love,
is me,
cowering,
on the bathroom floor,
casually offering my
inner chest's key
to his griping hand,
and his moaning throat.
still my favorite thing to do though
Taylor Ganger Jan 2018
My hands are way too cold
I haven't written a word
I should do something else
I should
Just
Find some time
I should drink tonight
And sleep twelve hours
Or play that saxophone
It gathered so much dust
I can smoke cigarettes and sing songs
Drive to the country to see the stars
Paint my feelings
Watch movies
Tell stories
Write

Gah!
But if only I had the time!
Mark Wanless Dec 2017
"The Rhythm"


The rhythm patterned daily grows and is
The conscious now replete
With shades and hues of legion feathered touch
As universe existent ill or good
The end is not a valid thought to think
Beginning spirals back in timeless forms
Of cause vibrating co-dependent atoms
Bump and bump no space between
Called here or there
Wise and deep and calm the ocean lives
Among us is us to the bone degree
Of what we guess we are
Words are spoken and mistaken
To be valid firmities
So walk we do up in the air of self
And dream we tread a ground eternal
Day by day with closed eyes fearful
Of the image in the mirror
Yet there is a way that stills
The shaped confusion foaming
Vast and brilliant in the heavens
Of the mind we share and share alike
That cannot truly be in darkness for
Inherent is a constellation
Casting light in ten directions
Every corner that is but a name
Illumined
Stefania S Nov 2017
flying, soaring
fields below
flowers and trees
freedom

spread open
wide
waiting for reception
withheld moments

gliding mindlessly
numbing
doubtful
the sun bellows from above

clicking and tapping
claws measuring
distance
timing not scheduled for flight

moon dancing
echoing night
shadowless wings
winter ignites

below they cry
look from there
above your head
it's everywhere
Stefania S Nov 2017
the draw
five cards
three
maybe just the one

i don't flinch
empty cups
nothing new
laughter, empty

paths of green
ivy and oaks
sumac i hear
i listen

sparse in other woods
sparser than here
webs catching passerby
my eyes watch

in the distance i see the melting
heated
a wanderer's corpse floating
swim upstream the message declares
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