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Xoaquín Oznian Dec 2018
[Hurts So Good by Astrid S is playing in the background]

"Do you feel important now?"
you asked me in a gentle whisper
as you were caressing/kissing me
I said "Hell yeah I feel important."
"Good" you said
"Do you?" I asked
"This is not about me. It's about you." you said
You smiled as you touched my face
as you pressed your ****, seductive body into mine
A blossoming trail of infinite kisses followed
tears in your eyes
lust on your lips
seduction in your voice
my hands on your hips
your hands on my body
tight was your grip
tight were your lips
the deeper you pressed them
into my neck
my nails digging into your skin
I cry at the very craving of you
what have you done to me?
hurts so good
****....
mars Dec 2018
A shadow holds me in his grip and seeks the bones that he must find. The grazes of ghostly fingers on myself remind me of my ending youth and the ticking time that is left.

I’ve disappeared into the morning fog as the people I love have begun to stare straight through me They strain to look at me although I vanish upon them catching a small glimpse- I am acid to the cornea causing burning blindness and hatred.

These bones are brittle and the wind has picked up, the sky is darkening as if to rain and the rainbow day is done. However, the rainbow days were spent as a child whisked to the side to be plucked like a fruit all of the brightness and sweets taken, leaving me dull, laughter drops from me like a stone.

I attempt to concentrate on the slivers of light peering through the bars of my own psychological prison cell, but such magnification did not set my heart on afire.

Rain droplets ******* skin, unraveling at the ripples as 3 lightning bolts fork through the houses, 7 claps of thunder, 12 bursts of laughter in the house next door and a thousand tears rolling down my cheeks. I suddenly realize that my head was severed from my body days ago while lying sleepless on the worn couch.

Each season the garden dies, i die with each, until i die no more- although his death and mine were not the same, we still rot underneath the dirt in worms and earth as the city streets blacken and decompose.

The tears cling to the sleeve of my jacket mucus separating with a sticky pull and the dolls and smiles of my life are gone replaced by the headache and the row of cuts on my thighs.
JP Goss Dec 2018
The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***,
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***,
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****,
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****,
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-***** and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
Guns are bad--but why are we attracted to them? Why do men **** women?
mars Dec 2018
Waves taller than I was
cool atlantic ocean
grainy sand between my fingers
burying my toes.

Hot sunburns and salty hair
the beach bars where we used to eat off the kids meal
going back to your condo
sitting on your couch.

Thrown over his shoulders
covered in sand, the warm weight used to be fun but now it just scares me
you scare me.
My shoulders were kissed
sunscreen on my back
the lukewarm pools and marco polo races holding my breath until i thought my lungs would explode.

The water would rush back with the pull of the ocean our sundresses damp around our ankles, bruises over our mouths where you held them shut
The porch light was on to the condo my towel draped over your balcony, bathing suit bottoms in your bedroom.

Forgotten toys and to pairs of arm floaties because i was never good at swimming, you left your watch on the shoreline.
Crying because of the pain and the hatred and love
Never knowing if I would be cuddled or touched
but knowing i would be cuddled after being touched
those sunburnt spots caressed by you.
White caps peak as the sun rises, we’re cold with fevers and abuse, shaking as our feet are wet again with salty water and your watch pulled out to the sea, lost forever.
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2018
Let's take our time
Together
You & I,
Let's not complicate what we feel
The beat of your heart against me.
Undressed.
Unraveling in steady breath,
The places my tongue has tasted.
The nape of your neck,
To your pelvic throb.
Your eyes staring back into mine.
Time but a gasp,
Consumed in the kiss of your neck.
My reflection stares back from your eye.
Ascension of the most high.
Falling deeper & deeper inside of you.
Your legs ensuring that everything is felt.
The mattress supports us,
Lost in current after current of timeless bliss.
The sheets no longer pulled tight,
Half off the bed.
Pillows no longer nice,
neat.
The thoughts we keep of ourself.
Consumed,
Outside of me,
Inside of you.
Beckoning for more.
The rest of the world put on hold hours at a time.
Prolong every moment possible,
Enjoying each other
Sarah Nielle Dec 2018
“Okay you can stop now
I’m uncomfortable”

It’s like my scream couldn’t even be heard underwater
And even if they could no one would hear them
My body was stuck and
I felt like I was just withdrawing from life

My bones ache and remorse from the bruising
My heart breaks and hurts from the lashings

“You didn’t STOP
Why didn’t you just STOP.
That’s all you had to do and I’d be okay”

I am nothing more than a ******* shell now and that’s all I’ll ever be
all because of you

I constantly feel alone with any man who tries to love me
I’ll constantly be accused and feel like every last thing will always be my fault

My soul will always be tainted and brittle

You did this

Because you couldn’t stop.
Emma Rose Dec 2018
I dated a wrestler,
Mom liked him,because he was white and had red hair like me
He bought me things, even though I didn’t ask
He carried my books to class, and opened the doors
He held my hand and sometimes grabbed my ***

But I didn’t mind because I’ve been taught
Through society that when things are bought
****** payments are what females give with no afterthought

So with much gratitude
I sent him a ****
And he send it to the whole school

Starting with the wrestling team,
But some of them were football players so they sent it to their team
So on and so forth until the extreme

Sexualassults were happening constantly
Hallways turned into a runway of grabs and brushes against my ***
Some even slipped a dollar into my pocket as payment for the peak

When a **** of lingerie for a nice guy turned into a beacon that I’m a *****
People starting victim blaming me, ‘you shouldn’t have done that’
And the principle doesn’t care

He overheard from a group of boys
He got the picture and had it printed sitting on his desk,
“This is chidpornography if I see you sending this again you’ll be in trouble”

I realized no one was going to defend me and so the strong women I am known to be
Hid, when I need her strength the most
Once confident head held high, I try to blend in with the crowd

I changed the way I dressed into sweatshirts and baggy pants
But they continue because it’s not the way I dress, but that I’ve become inferior
And the open palms that graze me burn with masculinity

~Emma Rose
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