Warmth floods my body  
                torrent as a River.
Delicious shivers.
Elicits dampness    
                           exquisite.
Your lips I picture....
delivering me like a Hymn or Scripture.

It's you I'm praying drives me to my knees....
lips parted in my belief.

Your Touch, my temptation.
Your Love,   my  redemption.
           Sweet Salvation.

Cradled in uncertainty
Submerged in Adversity
Shadowed in Perversity
Dressed so Provocatively
Acting so Promiscuously
Mistaken for Womanly
Displayed so Conspicuously


Feeling so Miserably
Fulfilled so Hollowly
Treated so Insignificantly
Passed over Incidentally
Hurting Unnecessarily



Hoping for Clarity
Teetering Dangerously
Hanging on Precariously
Mindful of the Urgency
Leaving so Abruptly
Leaving me Eventually




Lonely.

Every morning I get on the "crazy bus".
Its destination?   Nowhere.

Yet, I continue to get on board.

My body and my spirit bruised from the bumps on the road it travels.
It takes the most treacherous route.
A journey I can not navigate.

The bus is large. It carries many passengers. Some I recognize and know well but others are strangers to me.

This bus doesn't run on gasoline or diesel-it is fueled by alcohol. The bus almost always has a full tank.

Some days I vow to just let the bus pass me by....
But, I see you hanging from it's window, beckoning me, calling to me, hollering for me not to let you ride the bus alone.

"Don't you love me enough to take the ride with me?"

You're afraid, You're lonely, You're sorry so I climb aboard and it's packed. It's standing room only so I'm left to hang on by a mere strap.

A strap that once was very strong and thick but now has become frayed and quite thin. When I have the courage to examine it closely I can see it's about to give and break. The seams have all but come apart. I know with certainty it will not be able to take too much more pressure until it pulls away completely.

I am hanging on for dear life.


Looking around I recognize some of the passengers.
Your mom is there.
Your dad is there.
Linda, Donna, Elizabeth, Kirk, Tom, Andrea, Emerito are all there but its the ones I don't know that I fear the most.

I have no idea who they are or how they got on the bus but I am frightened by them.
They pack the front aisles so tight that it makes getting off the bus **** near impossible.
They may scare me but you know them all too well.  
They are dark thoughts, insecurities, past hurts and jealousies. They are your companions and just like me they ride the bus with you.

Lately, I have been examining myself, reflecting on my bruises and my scars. Black & Blue.
My mind is BLACK from trying desperately to block out the hurtful things you say and do. My heart is BLUE from trying so hard to love you through your pain.

I'm getting off the bus.
There is an emergency exit at the back that I've chosen to ignore.  I'm going to try with all my strength to push through and land on solid ground.

I don't know what stop is yours....I can only hope that you get off safely before the bus crashes.

Her wounds never heal.
      His scathing tongue picks at the scab
until fresh hurt oozes forth.

                     It is only then
                                      that he wants to bandage her.

Flat, smooth, glossy key card.
Black & Blue.
****** white.   Indigo.

It slips into the lock.
He slides inside her.

Aching, yearning, driven.
Sleepy, satisfied, spent.

The television remote lies untouched.
Towels remain folded.
Water in the ice bucket warms.
The key left behind on the bureau appears lonely.

Hand-in-hand....they ride the elevator down.

Smile shyly, kiss frantically.

Tender, tired, trusting
they part.

Both knowing this will never be enough.

"Be naked for me."
It is a demand not born from desire.
She stands exposed.
Vulnerable.
She is wrapped in self loathing as his greedy eyes graze her bare skin.

He believes her to be conquered.
His conquest.  Subdued, Submissive.
His for the taking...
No need for the asking.

He fails to see she remains clothed.
Dressed in her armor, an invisible breastplate protects her heart.


Only  the boy with ***** fingernails and a kind heart can pick the lock that leaves her open, waiting, wanting to be truly exposed.

Why on earth would you expect pretty words to sprout from my mouth when my insides are filled with rottenness?
What can possibly grow and flourish when all that is left to water with is tinged with saltiness?

You wanted.
You expected.
You hated this rare bloom that people stopped to admire
and so.....
With your heavy boots you trampled me into the soil and made me....


*****.