Whisper into my ear all the words you wish to say.
Whisper into my ear all the secrets that you hold.
If you are too scared to speak the truth, write me a poem.
Hide your feelings in metaphors, write your heart's desires into illusions.
Tell me how your heart beats in metre, so late at night, when the night is still-
when there is nothing to hear, but a faint heartbeat,
I know it's yours, yearning for me.

there is an ocean inside of me
one that's waves manifested from disappointment and heartache
and i'm choking on saltwater

today my gums bled when i brushed my teeth,
and i thought of making some metaphor
about how efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
but no.
it was just blood.

to call a rose — or torn gums — by any other name
is to silence the initial sting,
but it still ends up hurting more in the end.
it always does.
lying always does.

and if all i have are my words,
what am i if my words are lies?

what am i if i cannot be honest?

a bad writer, perhaps.
but trying.
i am also trying.

there are some days when the blood looks
a little less like words on a page,
and simply a little more like red,
and i am hopeful.

yet still i know
that efforts to attain purity
only result in more stains,
and red is a ***** to clean out.

(a.m.)

i tried to love;
i think i succeeded

but not like you,
not like them.

my love comes in waves,
fleeting and crashing;

it surges, strong,
then breaks against the sand

and i'm left with nothing but an empty shore

If I had to choose
Between the green of the grass
And the blue of the sky
I'd choose whatever
Caused that glint in your eye.

Because the blue of the sky
Does not know my intentions
Behind words so bold
Such as "I wonder
If I want to grow old?"

I was so obsessed
In not becoming
Another bad memory
For you,
I had not realized
You had become
A nightmare of a memory
For me.

And as I recall
Good times and great times,
I am sad to say
That in the relay
They have been tainted
By the bitter black of your rage.

So congrats,
My dear,
You moved on barely a week
After you left me
Seemingly broken
And seemingly undone,
With nothing to my name
But the sandals on my feet.

But interestingly
Enough
I do not care.

I hope your new flame
Is good to you,
Beady eyes
And all.

And I hope that you are good to her,
Toxic rage,
Volatile guilt trips,
Cruel fists
And all.

For I found that,
Just as before,
I have always preferred
The green of life and living,
And the orange of the sunset
So much beyond
The simple blue
Of the broken shell
Of a robin that never got a chance
To be more than an egg.

I hate the storm of your eyes,
But I no longer fear storms.

Why, you may ask?

Call me Storm Siren.

Maybe you'll understand then.

Everything in life is a metaphor from the Shining Sun of May looking wise and blinding
to the clever looking
young
waxing crescent Moon
smiling at me
I'm hanging there like the surrounding brilliant diamond angel tears
dangling on its every
winking word.
  
Cherie Nolan © 2016

"There's a target on your back,"
said the man in striped white socks and flip flops.
He swung his arms freely and slapped his face
accidentally or intentionally--his illness wasn't mine to name.

The trees wrapped their arms around one another in a huddle.
"Quick she's coming near. The target is close."
One. Two. Three. Birds flew by and splashed my forehead.
I looked back and felt one of the trees wink and point ahead.

A man on a moped waited until my back was turn and I bent down.
Whistle. Whistle. Head turn back ninety degrees.
You'll get in an accident, I thought; I secretly wanted,
his helmet-less head splat flat on the concrete, skin burning,
melting, bubbling, pooling in a puddle.

The red doors whined against my insistent grasp.
When I found my white door, I air twisted the **** that was
pushed back to show the open space inside the coolness.
I didn't live that cold. I didn't know how.
He did. And he reached into my freezer and removed his tongue.
I sank onto the floor and felt ice hit me my cheeks and my eyes and ears.
The blankets couldn't warm me. My tears couldn't melt what formed.

He tossed my key on the mat, kicked back dust into my face;
looked me square in the eyes frozen wide open, mouth gaping for air.

"I put a target on your back. See ya."