are pushed.
Voices
ignored.
Tones
raised.
Feelings
on the floor.

If there was a chance for me to disengage
every ounce of affection for you in this day and age,
I would have done it a long time ago.

But unknowingly,
I always end up wounded by the shrapnel of your bombs,
causing me to fall down hard.
But I stand back up harder.

I wonder why I always wake up dissatisfied
with way the sun sets
or with the way the mountains coordinate with the sky---

---they’re beautiful.
I could write about them.
But there’s still not a genuine smile on my face.

How fate has always toyed with me;
twisting and snapping the very bones of hope I have kept in my closet..
How life in general is funny;
because I’m happy for a minute and I reel back into the darkness that feels like an eternity.

It has got me whining, and crying like a brat.
I have kept asking and asking,
begging and pleading--

---I just wanted my own peace,
my solitude, and sanctuary;
my own person.
I just wanted you.

But then I am just one of the buds in your flower fields
that you happened to just pick out of the blue.
And to me, you were the unexpected deviation of my usual routine
that I made a fantasy out of.


So here I am,
daydreaming like a stupid girl.
But hey, this is just me and my heart
I still remember.

And I’d live with it until I fade
Only flowing, never forcing.

-c.s. (083018)

It’s actually quite fun
throwing mud,
if you can accept it
sticks sometimes
to your own slow fingers,
staining them.

But gather it all up
in handfuls,
dirt, wet for preference,
delightful
as missiles targeted
away there:

At the dark heart hated
by us all
and by all means repeat
the treatment,
until the target becomes
the victim.

There. Hopefully you feel
better now.

I am two steps away from addiction
One step is when I love you
One step is when you love me
One step without the other brings desperation
Which is one step away from frustration

I wash-up two cups, find a spoon,
decipher his mood whilst I pour us coffee.
He’s not talking.
Dishevelled.
Frustrated.
Irate.
Whoever she is, last night wasn’t great-
The bed’s made up with clean white sheets.
She didn’t stay over.

I hand him his coffee.
He nods,
it’s a start but
there’s nothing set up and
I can’t tell where he wants me.
He’s paid for a day- I undress anyway.
And because it’s quite early, still cool-
I sit in a spilled-sunshine-pool
at the foot of his bed.

He studies me.
Traces my line with his eyes.
I keep warm,
drink coffee.
Wait.
He draws a deep breath-
takes my cup,
holds my face in both hands.
Says nothing, just kisses me hard
and pushes me back.

I unbutton his fly-
lick my fingers,
let them glide,
slide.
Rise up to meet him.
He pulls out the moment he’s done.
His frustration feels hot
on flushed skin,
and becomes mine when
he walks away.

He gathers up paper and charcoal-
the tools of his trade.
Arranges my limbs,
places my hand in
glossy-soft-heat between
my slight-parted thighs.
Leans close, kisses me thank you
then whispers
Be still.

muse

i used to be able to sit for hours
and write poems for you
now it feels like im trying to squeeze elephants out of a pinhole
my words dont flow the same
the song does not sing and my mind will not think
is it because im not as sick?
does my creativity rely on my illness?
does my magic only work when im hopelessly in love with a man who wants nothing to do with me?
what the hell is going on.
now that ive healed, am i not allowed to visit the spring of creativity?
is it reserved for lowly people who do not know their worth?
oh muses i pray
let me write the same again one day

It did not happen
    it would have happened
        it could have happened
            it should have happened
     but

It did not happen