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woelita Jan 2018
They call out to the muse,
Asking her
For a life source,
The source
Of which all that has unravelled
Can be made sense of again.
To be wrapped neatly,
only to be unwrapped again.
Asking her consent,
To find the answers
Which, in time
Unveil themselves to be the questions,
That continue to live on the tip of your tongue.
She looks up,
Eyes draped in thick lashes,
As if to hide,
As if to reveal,
As if to locate the source.
“There are no answers here,”
Says the Muse.
and her voice echoes through the four seasons
And you wake up
New years day.
New moon.
Same you,
Wholly deprived.
Every bit as Wonderful
As I remember you to be.
(As I made you up inside My head)
Same questions.
But the Source —
The curiosity,
(The Life Source)
Runs dry into the new year.

They call out to the Muse—
Who is she?


Who,

me?

Who are they?
woelita Jan 2018
Where is your power?
“Here,
It’s right here,”
You say, with your hands in your pockets, remembering how your mother used to say,
“Walk with a straight back! What’s wrong with you?”
As she washed the dishes with her two good hands
As your father sunk into the couch where he would shout obscenities at the television screen for three hours
Something about hockey teams (a crisis)
As your mother washed the dishes with a straight back.
Your mouth burns
from all the cavities
Sugar venom in the business end of the gun,
The gunslinger aims with his good hand.
Hits.
Boom.
Where is your power?
“Here,
“It’s right here.”
Bang.
woelita Jan 2018
I think my problem, in relation to last year’s writer’s block, is that I wish to write about me, and I wish to write about the world, and I’ve been waiting all this time for these things to extend beyond you. It’s as if I had been waiting for this poignant moment where someone—anyone— would announce that my life could begin again, as if continuity would seamlessly occur once the halt in time had pursued for long enough.

What a shock it would be to discover that the world waits.

(It doesn’t.)

In this time, I cut my hair and I let it grow. I looked in the mirror, hair falling halfway down my back like velvet drapes, keeping the sun out of my space and solitude, and I felt the power slipping away from my body. I knew that I needed to find a way to hold on to this power, one that was rooted in my own flesh and my own vision rather than yours.

(I did.)

I don’t get as lonely when I see crowds or busy streets or lights that remind me of you, drunk and obscene — laughing with your head thrown back, eyes glimmering like the Vegas strip. We slipped into an intimacy that, in retrospect, was simply me having a first-time love affair with myself. No hands were strange hands up until this point— no hands except my own. Trembling against my collar bone, realizing that what you gave to me was a home to live in. I look up. No ceilings, no roof, just space. The wars, they’re far away from here. I look up, find my power. It’s been here all along.

Resting in the unclenched fist, in the phone that remains unplugged on the bedside table. My power is in the hand that brushes the inside of my thigh, my power is in forgetting how to say I’m sorry when I’m less than quiet, when I forget how to bite my tongue. I keep looking up.

Blissful starry skies,

Atomic wasteland,

Wonder and boredom live side-by-side.

I am in you. You, in me. Open those velvet drapes you used to hide behind, child-like, curious but afraid of your own flesh, of your hot temperament.

The Sun goddess is rising in the East, raining on the wild seeds of May. I, body of water, offer myself to a new seed, grow like the deciduous plants of the Northern world, a whole forest dizzy from bliss and impermanence.

Thank you for visiting.
woelita Dec 2016
Heartache! My God, heartache! There has been so much of it since last year’s snow fall. Lapses in time! How I’ve longed for this, a deceitful memory; one where your face becomes a blur to eyes that once engaged in simultaneous worship with hands and knees and mouth. My God, how this mouth has failed to hold back words of longing. I have been trapped in unapologetic desire, hands and feet in chains and always at your mercy.
woelita Jul 2016
When my father showed me just how rough a man can be with his fists, I wish I had listened sooner.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have waited twenty years to finally stop living as a victim,
to meet someone who would effortlessly show me just how soft the world can be.
Bonjour, tristesse, you had whispered.
You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to.
Don’t be a marionette to the system.
You are not the sum of all the wrong that has been ****** upon you.
I never want to hear you say you’re sorry.
Blue eyes, boyish features. Highlighted by a tenderness only a woman can possess. You’re as pretty as you are handsome. Cigarette on your lips, a vision of a rebel
who spills compassion like wine.
You planted something in me that continues to thrive long after you have left
You used your bare hands, soft as they were, and I could tell from the start that they were going to be strong enough to pin me down when I needed it.
I used to walk around baring a sign that read "handle with care"
but I wanted to feel everything with you.
And when I wanted you to be gentle, every day was Sunday morning.
My body was a pyromaniac’s playground and you were the first one to stand over me and never hold a match.
You have tamed my violence and in its place,
ignited something that burns bright but slow
Brightest when the Earth is dulled by winters,
Slow when the sun is draped by the velvet blanket of night.
I am a child again, sitting around a campfire, the stars are bright.
I can count the times I’ve seen the inside of a hospital room on one hand.
His hands have never tainted my body.
I don’t utter the words "I’m sorry" every time someone asks me to introduce myself
I have known warmth,
I will continue to know warmth.
woelita Apr 2016
I feel like I should be moving forward but I have been in retrograde ever since my soul looked at you and kind of smiled, kind of went “oh, there you are”,
and I had to run because I knew my mouth would not get me out of this alive

It’s not right but it’s not wrong either
and now the whole world is a grey canvas
with subtle shades of blue
I wish I was colour blind
I wish I didn’t want to kiss your face
and send you every thank you card ever made
for making me feel like a human being
who isn’t all walls and sky rise buildings strategically blocking the sun
but vulnerable and warm and thriving and willing
and open
I want to be open
but I will sew myself shut
and trap the ghosts between my thighs and in my ribcage
and put up a “warning” sign:
to all future visitors,
I will never not admire you for your curiosity
you want to be a connoisseur of skin and quickened breath
a connoisseur of just how far down the road you have to travel before you make them gasp **** in that tone that’s halfway between a shout and a whisper
a connoisseur of just how many words you can make sound *****
if they’re coming from a pretty mouth
I will never not envy you for it
I will tell you about a time in which I relied on it to feel alive
instead of checking my pulse on the metro
How it made me feel like a child again
it's summer time and I am in the yard in a dress with a print like the flowers
and you're bending me over the swing set

to all future visitors,

you can stop for a visit
I don’t mind
you can enter at your own risk
and you can enter if you don’t mind
playing with yourself
woelita Mar 2016
“Tell me if it burns” you said
“Not after this” is what I want to say.
No, never.


But my mouth hasn’t moved.
46, 47, 48.
The seconds crawl like my skin
I haven’t spoken for almost a minute.
I smile,
the curve of my lips put you at ease.
Good.

“No, not at all.”
Your hand inches forward, fingers slim like sharpened knives
I am reminded of my mother’s favourite kitchen set.

“Keep going.”
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