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tl b Jul 2014
& I spy a tight dress ghost.
tl b May 2014
What it must be like...you know what I mean?
The vagueness of the title and poem is a clue to how I am with "love". I *love* a lot of people, but I have yet to really fall *in love*...except for my senior year of high school when I was pretty certain I was, but yet here I am unhinged to another, so that was a bust, hey? Anyways. Here is my take on what it must be like to be in love. (Ahem...I am clueless.)
tl b May 2014
Thirty is too young to know you’re nothing,
so get your head out of the gas.
Thirty is old enough to know you’re something,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Pressure expands more than your skull.
Mason jars in the cupboard clink
all the reasons you should be annulled,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Here’s what you missed in the other room:
no mother, no father, wooden food,
children play mommy better than you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.
Don't get me wrong, I love Sylvia Plath. I'm bummed she took her life.
tl b May 2014
countertop, she lays. Succulent globe for my palms, poignant reminder of winter. Acid will waken the cracks on my knuckles like dipping my fingers into the saltwater at the edge of Florida. This morning she perfumes the room from a splintering wicker bowl. My fingers could claw at her dimples. Tear away the flesh beneath her beady cover-up. Expose her bones and find new jewels encased. Torn pieces of her bikini would spiral to the tabletop. My eyes dance across her scaly membrane. Blood orange. The sun setting and bleeding. I thought of the sea again this morning, stepping out into winter.
tl b May 2014
His soft hands at your waist constantly remind you of your imperfections. Thorns hold your identity. Your jagged body pierces palms. You would be all thorns if you could. Now plucked clean, stripped of all you were; you have kept each thorn in glass jars. Your bones hollow, more fragile than glass. Dried. Used. Showcased to old and new lovers’ below. Little victim girl. Your beauty is marred, though your fidelity to perfection resonates in an elegant face.
tl b May 2014
Inspired by: “Vase with Red Poppies”
Vincent Van Gogh (1886)*

Through teary eyes, a blur
of succulent fruit hangs
from ends of stems,

perhaps tomatoes ripe
for picking. Tomatoes
like the ones a mother

used to grow before she
died. The poppies seem
to conquer the whirlwind

storm of blue wallpaper
smudged in the background,
the color a father chose.

The table holds pieces
Of once living stems
that they could not put

back together. Some buds
haven't bloomed, and you
wonder if they'll ever.
tl b May 2014
Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.

A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.

Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your

face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.

Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.

Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.
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