Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jan 2016 topacio
Sophie Herzing
For me, you are Sunday. Today is Sunday,
and tomorrow will be Sunday. Because I am stuck
in gingham yellow sheets, small white saucers
with matching ceramic cups, cigarette ashes
like a crop circle around them as I sip homemade
coffee. The ***** brown liquid sloshing
in the back of my throat, scorching my insides
as I swallow something not nearly as
painful as looking up for an answer to the crossword
and realizing you are not in fact actually there, and your hand
is not on my thigh, tracing the outline of my knee
with your thumb. I am stuck

like a kid on the monkey bars. Deciphering
between reaching my hand out to grab
the next rung or just allowing myself
to fall into the wood chips, welcome
that scraped skin and soil in the worry lines
of my palms. Because calling you,
reaching out to that line, could end with me
face up on my bed staring at the blades of my fan
trying to pinpoint just one to follow around and around
again. Or I could get your voicemail. Or you could
see my number and decide to hang up. How close
were we really anyway?

Or you could answer and we could talk through
how bad the weather is, how we've been doing,
and then get to the poignant silence, that hum
in the background that coils through the wires
into my ear, down the canal, and sinks into my heart
until the pressure becomes too much. Until
I tell you that its Sunday. That I need the 1994
Tony Award winning musical for 3 across, and hopefully,
you'll give me the right answer.
 Jan 2016 topacio
Sophie Herzing
I took Billy Collins to lunch with me today.
He kept me company, Horoscopes of the Dead
and new versions of Dante’s hellish sandwich.
My pasta was dry, but I ate it
between stanzas and between pages.
You walked in, backpack and all, at the top
of the stairs. I choked on some graded cheese,
because of the way you looked in your khakis.
I hate the taste of cucumbers but I would have

kissed you anyway. Even though,
I sometimes laugh a little too loud in the mornings
you still make sanctuaries out of my sheets,
covering us in a layer of polka dots,
craving each other’s skin, listening
the lullaby the ruffles of the duvet make.

And even though I sometimes know
that wanting you has its clumsy consequences,
I still lose my breath when you walk up
to the lunch line, or when you grab my face
with both hands, or when you say my name
backwards between sighs. Maybe Billy understands,

and maybe I can just stay a poet. Maybe,
you would look good on me. I’d love
to try you on. But I lost my breath
when you walked in this afternoon.
 Jan 2016 topacio
Maple Mathers
Welcome to the house of addictions: please, leave your assumptions at the door. . .

             I emptied my pockets
I sorted the change
                My conscience receding
Mentality, deranged

                A straw in my nose
And a blade in my hand
                The velvet of breathing,
Crushed on command

                A line of white rabbit
Appears on my desk
                Clean, and well sorted,
Yet I am a mess

                If a substance is stronger
Than myself, alone,
                Perhaps I should ***** it
Addictively prone

                For, the path of assumptions
Undoubtedly leads
                To the house of addictions
In which you’ll find me. . .
All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
 Jan 2016 topacio
psycho spiral
 Jan 2016 topacio
drowning in caffeine
breathing the nicotine
my blood cant circulate - your love will stimulate.
the ****** of death in **** will simulate
your touch , my need
as we spiral in to sin

separation , depression , paranoia
anxiety - the absence of my sleep
aggression , desperation
toxicity - of a drama we are in
discoloration - i can't control the spin

screams - muted by bitter pills
our dreams - induced by the  acid
capsuled lives - longing self destruction
your embrace - disconnection
release me from what is real

obsession - for what we cannot fix
frustration - for what we can't control
memories - of what we used to be
delusions - of what we could have been
isolation - thoughts of being free
now voices dictate what i should feel
digging through my skin - opening the wounds
put your fingers in

remembering the days when we held
an illusion no drugs could replicate
i can't forget.
exchanging promises of never letting go
was it all in my head?
i can't escape the hole.
i walk the road alone.
 Jan 2016 topacio
Jasmin Thomas
Wake, eat, sleep.
wake, eat sleep.
A documentation of my current existence.
Emotion has become a foreign word to me,
Replaced with simply nothingness.

No longer is the red which would burn my body,
when I saw him with her, smiling smiles of honey.
Gone is the blue, drowning me in her sadness
when I thought of all the people who have turned their backs on me
decided they were finished with me
those who were supposed to love me unconditionally.

"Goodbye" said I to yellow who would drizzle me in her warmth
when I veiwed the light shining though the trees
as birds sang , voices ringing with her colour.

For now I fly through life on auto-pilot,
never stopping to feel the sun kissing my cheeks so sweetly,
never stopping to feel the wind nipping my nose so harshly,
never stopping to feel.
Next page