"cardigan" poems
chocolate fireguard, teapot,
or fender, icecream sofa, dry sea
or wet towel, glass hammer,
waterproof teabag, newspaper
raincoat and umbrella, lead parachute, ashtray on a motorbike,
handbrake on a canoe,
vote in a dictatorship,
loudhailer to a deaf mute,
grief at a wedding,
****** in a monastery.
inflatable dartboard,
spoon in a knife-fight,
screen door on a submarine,
wooden soap, shortbread tires,
knitted light bulb,
bread boat, plasticine wire cutters,
paper hole punch, water hat,
custard floorboards,
ceiling tiles made of gravy,
portrait of a bowl of soup,
a stone cigarette,
syrup knickers, hole in my bucket,
plastic oven, wax truss,
liquorice bridge,
false teeth made of soap,
lemonade roof,
jelly boots,
jam cardigan,
paper bicycle pump,
ice-cream saucepans,
soluble drain pipe,
packet of rubber nails,
see-through mirror,
revolving basement restaurant
roll-on hairspray, rubber pencil,
****** with a hole in it,
limp **** pockets on a lettuce,
**** on a fish, lolly pop van in Hell,
one-legged man in an ****
kicking competition,
meaningless life,
unnecessary death,
forgotten words and deeds,
ignored needs,
this poem.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.
The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.
Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.
What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.
I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.
His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Sometimes
I want you
To leave me
Sweet nothings
In the pockets of my cardigan
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 8:16 AM UTC
I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
Homecoming body:
A grey cardigan strips down,
bonding skin to
night’s air,
penetrating
Chevrolet safe havens
drowned in lover’s spit.
My Mind
thanks Google,
enabling electronic bibles
to leave disciples stifled
with religious quotas,
an excuse to quote us —
“Trouble at the Border,
read the former
court room reporter
working for the,
sensationalized,
through remnants of
blood stains in our eyes.”
Midway through Chapter 1 —
reeks not only of
of *** in the backseat —
but of Venezuela’s shorelines.
Of her high school hallways.
Of the intrigue of the unexplored Mexican neighbor,
her freedom amidst constraint,
where Visas
lease us
advertising campaigns
for maquiladora made lampshades.
Despite their protest,
common sense
lent comparisons,
a consequence
of stories told in reverse.
They hover over Venezuela’s familiar curves,
her long black hair straddling my shoulders.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
Shlomit (whom most
of the boys disliked)
stood in the playground
holding one end of the
skipping rope while another
girl held the other end as
another skipped. Her wire
rimmed spectacles stayed
in place as she moved, her
holey cardigan had seen
better days, her grey dress
had been handed down so
often that it shone like steel.
Naaman stood and watched
her from the steps leading
down to the playground. She
sometimes smelt of dampness
as if she’d been left out in the
rain and brought in to dry over
a dull fire. He looked at her dark
hair held in place with hairgrips,
the hair band of a dark blue
remained unmoved by her motions.
Some girl pushed her away from
the end of the skipping rope and
she walked to the wall and stared.
That seemed unfair, Naaman said,
you were doing your bit ok. Shlomit
looked at him with her nervous eyes.
They always do that, she said; never
let me play for long. He stood beside
her; he could smell dampness mixed
with peppermint. Maybe you’re too
good for them, he said. She smiled and
pushed the hair band with her fingers.
Her nails had been chewed unevenly,
he noted, her fingers were ink stained.
Would you like a wine gum? he asked.
He held out a bag of wine gum sweets.
She put her fingers into the bag and
took one and put it in her mouth.
Thank you, she mouthed, her finger
pushing the sweet further in. Naaman
walked with her up the steps that led
up from the small playground and stood
on the bombed ground and looked down.
There used to be a house where the
playground is now, he said, it got
bombed out. The playground was
once the cellar. Oh, she said, I didn’t
realise that. The bombs missed the
school, shame, he said, smiling. Daddy
said I ought not talk with boys, she said,
looking at Naaman then quickly around
her. Why’s that? he asked. She looked
at her fingers, the thumbs moving over
each other. He said boys were rude and
mischievous, she said. I guess some are,
Naaman said. She looked at him. You
seem all right, she said. But you are still
a boy and he might find out I talked to you
and then there would be trouble. How
would he find out here in the playground?
Naaman asked. Someone might tell from
here that saw me, she said anxiously.
Last time someone told him he beat me,
she added quietly. She pushed her hands
into her cardigan pockets. Best go, she said.
I like you, Naaman said, you remind me of a
picture I saw of a girl standing beside Jesus
in that Bible in the school library. Do I? she
said, did she have wire-rimmed glasses?
No, Naaman said, but she had a pretty face
like yours. She laughed and took her hands
from her pockets. He saw two reflections of
himself in the glass of her spectacles behind
which her own eyes gazed out. Maybe it was
me, she said playfully. Oh, yes, he said, taking
her thin ink stained fingers in his, no doubt.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.
The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.
My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.
I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,
and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
When your time closes in
Faster than laughter and red lights,
I wish you to be worn and threadbare
As the Velveteen Rabbit,tattered,
With a walker and stair chair;
My cane and umbrella waiting
By your leave.
I hope you're wearing the cardigan
I got you this Christmas,
Mended and draped over your frail shoulders,
Mingling with your hair.
I pray you have children bringing children
To feast on shortbread and tea.
I see you alone, at times, in tranquility,
Recalling me,
Who missed it all.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Boil the kettle.
Look out the window,
To a world full of golden hues.
Red, Orange, Beige,
The crisp sound of leaves crunching,
as you feel the frosty wind hits your face.
The cosy cream cardigan,
you bought at a car boot sale.
It has arrived,
the time of nights in by the fire.
Endless cups of tea and walks in the rain.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 12:00 PM UTC
We melt like aborted McDonald's ice,
on top of a blistering, gum-stamped lot,
under the sour heat of the Sun.
I'm boy wonder and you're, 'Boy, how is he alone?'
Olive-skinned cardigan, pearl pores.
Hair like ink and a jaw-line sharp enough to cut an umbilical cord.
Vintage Nikes come to a point,
the swoosh as red as the cherry at the end of your cigarette.
I watch you smoke and choke,
before calling phantoms over.
It begins like October:
The leaves fall, like your friends steps,
the bronze sweeps the air,
like the curls of their smiles,
the air is silent,
like your words as they condense and drop into the mouth of a tanned canyon.
What could they ever do to conquer you,
my dear, fantastic frenzy?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
As excited as I am about the end of the semester and Christmas approaching, the bitter cold this week has almost frozen me. Don’t get me wrong, winter is a great time for fashion, but the cold weather is not for me. I would prefer to stay inside with a huge glass of hot chocolate. Aside from cocoa, he secret to staying warm is to dress in layers. I’ve tried to do that with this outfit but I’ve failed a bit.
The majority of this outfit comes from The Yellow Rose, which is a locally owned boutique in my home town. The blanket scarf and shirt are both from the Rose. These boots are from Maurices, but could be swapped for converse or duck boots. The coat is from Aeropostale.
It’s safe to say that I have fallen in love with the blanket scarf. Not only are they adorable, but they also provide ample warmth. They can be worn with nearly anything, including this great shirt. This shirt has a tassel tie underneath the scarf which means it could be worn on it’s own, if you aren’t as big a fan of the blanket scarf.
This jacket is a life-saver to say the least. The reason it works with this outfit so well is because the green in the scarf is the same green on the jacket. Army green goes with just about anything. The sleeves are a sweater material which makes them warmer than normal. You could dress this up a bit which a nice trench coat or long cardigan. You could also change the boots out for black booties or flats.
This outfit is perfect for Christmas parties or Christmas dinners. It has all the traditional Christmas colors and it will keep you warm.
However isn’t only for Christmas. You can easily wear this at any time during the winter.
Hopefully this has given you a bit of holiday wardrobe inspiration. I know holidays can be a stressful time for some, but the outfit you wear should be one thing you don’t have to stress about. Stay warm and stay comfortable.
I hope your break is wonderful and filled with joy. I know we all need that after those finals. I’m sure we’re all ready for present, family time, and much needed sleep. Spread Christmas cheer this year and enjoy the time off. May your Christmas be merry and bright, and don’t forget the Christ in Christmas! He is the only eternal Gift that keeps on giving.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
You and Ingrid
bummed a ride
on the back
of the coal truck
the spring holiday underway
Ok
said the coal truck driver
but keep
your heads down
don't want to get
pulled over
by the rozzers
and so you both
climbed in the back
of the truck
settling down
between sacks of coal
covered over
by tarpaulin
with just a slit
for light and air
and you and she
just sitting there
she clothed
in an old green dress
and cardigan of grey
brown scuffed shoes
and grey socks
you in jeans
and blue shirt
open necked
and sleeveless
patterned jumper
never been
in the back
of a coal truck before
Ingrid said
mustn't get too *****
in case Dad finds out
and leathers me one
you watched
as she sat there
in the semi-dark
gazing out
through the slit
at the thin
aspect of sky
hands on her knees
biting her lip
been once before
with Jimmy
but then it rained
and we got drenched
you said
what did your parents say?
Ingrid asked
nothing much
you replied
Mum moaned a bit
but the old man said nothing
just stared
as he blew smoke
from his cigarette
through his nose
God my dad'd go mad
if I had done that
she said
pulling her knees
together hands
holding on the top
I'd not be able
to sit for a week
he'd beat me such
she added
moving
with the movement
of the truck
you said nothing
knowing her old man
seeing him often
walking through the Square
swaying with the *****
or seeing her mother
bruised and battered
crossing to the shops
enduring neighbours' whispers
for a while she was silent
looking through the slit
as the sky drifted by
as the truck moved
you swayed
side to side
her shoulder
against yours
her arm touching yours
the smell of wet washing
and of yesterday's dinner
captured on her clothes
seeping in your nose
now and then
she spoke
of this and that
of kids at school
of names called
of hair pulled
and how she liked it
when she saw you
enter school
and your kind words
and helpful ways
and when the driver
pulled off the tarpaulin
to get out sacks of coal
daylight blew out
your eyes
and made you smile
and cheered your hearts
you shared the sandwiches
you'd brought
and bottle of lemonade
factory made
sitting on the truck floor
she nibbling a sandwich
and drinking shyly
from the lemonade bottle
after you'd wiped
the top with the palm
of your hand
her eyes on you
her lips open for words
her knees pressing together
to keep the balance
as the truck
moved on and away
just you and she
on a bright spring day.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
A child at 6 years old shouldn’t have to worry
whether or not her parents still love each other,
or if she is even loved at all.
At 10 my son shouldn’t have to worry
about being too weak to fit in with the other boys.
He shouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy football;
he shouldn’t ever have to pretend like he doesn’t have feelings.
My daughter shouldn’t have to hide
her athleticism in front of the other girls.
She shouldn’t be afraid of being strong and loud and fierce.
At 12 my niece shouldn’t have to worry
about hiding her trainer bra straps because they are
“distracting” in the classroom. She shouldn’t have to
bring a cardigan to school when it’s June and 80 degrees out.
She shouldn’t have to wear pants when there are boys
who can show up in gym shorts and Under Armor shirts.
At 15 my son should be comfortable with his gender identity,
no matter how he was born. He shouldn’t have to deal
with people calling him a “tomboy” and “freak.”
At 19 I shouldn’t have to have the mentality where
if I don’t do well on this exam then I don’t do well in the class
then I won’t get a good degree and I won’t get a good job
and I won’t be able to make my wife and kids happy
and I spiral down in a haphazard free-fall of insecurity.
The list goes on and on, where we ought to be too young to have existential worries, but we’ve all become too old to simply smile at them.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
*With you I couldn't offer much
I couldn't give you the life
you're so accustomed to
or the valuables
those material gifts
that so suit your lifestyle
the Haute Couture
that clasps to your body
the perfect fit to your
beautiful frame
oh the body of a goddess
one of mythical dreams
I'm far from any Monroe or Taylor
or any of the glamorous stars you so
mirror with such etiquette
I'm the girl sat in a cashmere cardigan
with chipped red nails, bitten to the skin
no make up and bed head hair
and I know that you are true
to all these things too
you're a person about personality
not mere possessions
you beauty is internal it glows
like the diamonds you sing of
stars in a sky of love
grandma Dolly's leather backed bible
hand written notes that carry your true worth
family values knowing without them
you'd be no where
and here am I, as poor as a church mouse
no worldly possessions
just me, myself and I
a heart
my loyalty
my love
a love for you more vast than all
land and oceans combined
each dollar in your pocket couldn't account
for the price of this love
a chance for love is all I crave
to love only you in every way I know how
a tight hug, a light embrace
a smile, a sparkle, a tickle of your thigh
oh what a distant obsession you have become
like a mist of Chanel Eau de Parfum
so intense
then fading into the background
my sheets, soul and skin
are still soaked in your scent
but you've gone, and taken part of me with you
leaving me broken, split in two
but as one,
not one with you.*
© Sia Jane
---
“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”
Sylvia Plath
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
The trip complete there’s nothing left
Save for the souvineirs.
It was a blast, a welcome rest
I’ll think of it for years.
But here I am at LAX
No dream, no cardigan.
I’ll have to wait a hundred years
Just to lift off again.
Don’t get me wrong the airport’s nice,
The smell is odorless?
The chairs, the chairs, Oh god, the chairs:
The source of my unrest.
I’ll sit and sit and try and sleep
but always: no avail.
The strangers stare, don’t offer help
They watch me as I flail.
The pillow doesn’t offer rest
The armrest pokes me, merciless
My mind white-hot and furious
Just calm down.
Relax your self.
It will all be over soon.
LAYOVER
Denied: my only boon.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
Smoking out of your roommates' hookah,
we blow smoke rings into the center of the room as our heads press into the backs of couches.
Drinking out of plastic cups and writing **** LYFE" on our knuckles
we dabble in the witchcraft of half-truths.
I feel beautiful in this moment.
Wearing combat boots, torn tights and a cardigan
I stomp through your living room not giving two *****
I flirt with the table,
the chairs
and even your brother.
Tonight is about me.
I had woken up this morning with a ****** piercing and curls stuck to my neck,
my fists balled up in soft blankets.
Doubting everything,
I tried running through my thoughts with my eyes shut,
only picking up fragments of sentences and bad music.
A full moon
and a monroe
the only tangible proof that last night even happened.
I have grown accustomed to holding my own hand in public,
taking up the place that I had reserved for you.
With our lunch date canceled, I'm free to go dancing with poets and *** heads.
Twist my fingers into the hem of the skirts that tickle my knee caps,
I laugh as loud as my lungs will allow.
If you looked at the back of my throat you might see the words I am saving for a much anticipated stranger.
A beautiful doe-eyed stranger who drinks me in like his favorite liquor.
"You can never have too much of a good thing, babe."
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
I believe in predestination like a hard cover
book lying open underneath a ceiling fan. I believe
in imagination unfettered like the wheels
of a bike kicking up rain. I believe in tasting
everything like the teething puppy chewing
all the furniture. I believe in arrangements
like the photographer with no camera. I believe
in impetus like the dry clump of dirt that erupts
into fine powder because of a little tension
in between your fingers. I believe in relevance
like the poetry addict who wants to ask Emily
Dickinson where she got her cardigan. I believe
in economy like Curiosity who found her way
home by following the trail of cat crumbs she left earlier.
I believe in complacency like the larkspur
in love with a promiscuous hummingbird.
I believe in delusion like the saxophone player
who can’t distinguish Carnegie Hall
from the subway station.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 9:53 PM UTC
like a walk of shame
except i'm beautiful and proud
and the fall weather got here last night
unpacked it's bags but forgot to paint the leaves
and i'm walking and there's nothing shameful about anything i did
and alleyways look beautiful too
in their own way
and i'll skip breakfast because i'm still drunk
and i'm still in love
and my shadow looks a bit taller than i do
i left my underwear behind
lace crumbled in the floor
REMEMBER ME
i stole somebody's mcdonald's
and ate it in the street corner
did i leave my cardigan at yours?
see you tomorrow
making latte art hungover in some beautiful knock off paris store
and i asked you, politely, to leave the mess outside
and you never saw that butterfly temporary tattoo on my chest
everything is temporary
because you didn't even bother to get me undressed
but you left your mark on my neck
thanks for that
just know you're not the only one who i made eyes with last night
i kissed a few on the lips
you aren't the only boy who fancied in my *** perfume
at least you walked me home
it was five am but at least you walked me home
and your dorm room wasn't big enough for how wide my legs were but this dress was tight and you bruised my thigh
or that might've been the other boy who threw me into the dark corner and i fell to the floor as he fell into me
but my hair is long enough to cover this hickey
and i'll take a sip of your coke and whiskey
i listen to that boys song and laugh on my way to work
and the shins are playing in starbucks
and i wouldn't mind if just for a second
i could pretend to die
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
You were standing in a red cardigan.
You told me somehow a bat had got in.
I got a broom and a bucket and put on a hat. We put the bucket on the broom and that was that. You told me to get the bat back out outside or don't come back to bed, I went to war with this 4 oz mammal, the war is on I said. I'm going to get it. Get outta this house or you're going to find yourself dead.
I made a war face, it swooped down at me, I said oh no you don't and threw the bucket over his wings, and that was that. That was it, and I won the war. That was that, I put it outside and then I closed the door.
Your red cardigan was easy to spot, even though you didn't have any makeup on, I saw you sitting there in the corner chair. Bucket on a broomstick you looked absurd to me, I asked you if you wanted something to drink. You said no, I just want to go back to sleep. I said oh, do you want to go to bed back with me.
Take off that silly red jacket, and that hat that doesn't match. Put on something more for sleeping and then let's get it on. You said okay. I said I'm starving. I told me to eat something if I was starving.
I picked you up and threw you down on the bed, I pulled off your pj's and your underwear fast. I said I'd like to eat out, you said you were thrilled, I said I won the war now I'm going to stake my win. You grabbed my head and pulled it closer to you, I grabbed you with my arms I knew what to do. Mammal, mammal, animal in me, I said let's play for keeps, you said I want you inside of me. I laid you down down down down and it was on on on I said let's get things hot hot hot you said I turn you on on on, I said I'd just begun.
We danced ourselves awake until the morning light arrived. And then I heard a sound from the window outside. I think he's back, I said, you said don't focus on him, I said I can't leave it if the war hadn't ended. I kissed your face I kissed your legs, I asked you to spit in my mouth. I'm you're warrior just hold on while I **** this flying rat, you made a face, I grabbed the broom, you put your red cardigan back on and met me with the bucket inside the living room.
I took the broom as my sword and the bucket as my shield, I take our heraldry very seriously. I through the broom in the air, and caught the bat with my shield, she went to open the door, I went to open the freezer. Not in there she screamed, but he'll never make it out alive. She said it'll make everything else smell I said he's got to die, I grabbed him by the wings and took him to the kitchen at once, turned on the garbage disposal and pushed him through it. Blood on my shirt, blood on the stove. Blood was everywhere even across her nose. I won the war I said with a gleam of excite, she said now come back to bed so you can claim your gift and your prize. So I went back to bed and gave her back my head. I stuck my tongue out far as I possibly could. And I went down, I went down down town. Oh I went down. I went down down town. I went to town, I went down down town. I went to town. I went down down town.
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
We walked back to hers the other night
from the bar, not drunk, not at all,
laughing a lot though, so easy
to make each other smile.
She leapt in all the puddles,
maize coloured swirls in the ***** water,
full of vigour, lips a kiss-me red
and she did this until we got to her door.
Made two herbal teas, stuck on a Fighters song,
mouthed the words into a pretend microphone,
thrashed her Irish orange hair in time
with the guitars, pretty beat by the final strum.
Flopped onto the sofa, hint of mint on her breath
as she cuddled up closer to my grey cardigan,
a furious fire before my eyes
at 10pm but the flames don’t seem to burn.
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
Hello again-
Cover my bones with your cardigan
how long have you been a necro baby?
Cause' I've been dead since 2010.
Am I still cold?
when you wrap that woolen yellow round my back
Is my body old?
as you stroke blackberry lips with the breath that I lack.
Do you like the way
my eyes
- still alive -
never shut?
Someone can finally stand to look on you,
man of sin, skin, bore; a mutt.
Can you feel the dryness beneath my throat?
Watch the insects flee my face
and see the rot of teeth in the midst of groan.
Hello again.
Bramble crowned amongst worst of men.
How long have you been a necro, honey?
Cause' I'm dead as poet's pen.
Jun 28, 2021
Jun 28, 2021 at 11:17 PM UTC
I leaned in towards her, mimicking the curve in her back and the squint in her eyes. I rested my chin in my hands, completing the final touches to creating a mirror between us. A mirror. I smiled to question which one of us was the reflection and which was the reflector. Or, perhaps, we are inertly tied together at the wrist. The definition of reflecting written in my scars, hidden beneath my cardigan. I smiled, and she smiled back, no longer questioning me, no longer doubting any part of my sincerity. I leaned back, and she followed me, relaxing into her new role.
I knew that I had her now, that I had all the power. With this, I formed promising words on my lips. Caressed careful tears down my cheeks while her head nodded and her hand jotted. I weaved the world I lived in, colored it red and black, or blue and pink. I brought her to the edge of the cliff side, and nudged her in, to be ****** under the carpet of waves and disappear in the waters and the wild. But, I brought her back up, nestled her in my arms and drifted back to Earth and to the warmth of the desert. I braided her hair and fixed her mind to the glorious battlefields of my youth, the stunning victories and the ****** defeats. I was the hero. A shining beacon of light in the dismal landscape.
I could tell be the way her lip quivered at the end of my story that I had won. Like wrinkled silk clinging to a bedpost, she hung onto every word I said and gazed in awe at the girl who overcame all odds. Victory was mine indeed.
But I take no prisoners.
Carrying her scalp, I left her screaming body in the office, next to the box of tissues and the thrift-store couch, which was still warm from where I had sat.
And I went on to the next therapist, a new story already brewing in my mind.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 12:04 AM UTC
Easy
Its easy,
To say no,
To cast me away,
Like an old Cardigan, that grew too small,
Its easy,
To give up,
To let go,
Like you were an arrow, held for too long,
Its so easy,
Too easy,
For you and
For me,
So I'm not giving up,
Why should you?
Take a chance,
For if we fall,
You'll have a nice
Story to tell
For if we end,
Before we begin,
You can relate,
To what they say,
In Grey's Anatomy,
Once again.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
I've talked about things before that people consider to be dark
I've never thought of them that way
I guess I would consider them gray
before any other color though
but when I think about beautiful hues, I remember heather
and when I see clouds in the sky
and I scrunch up my face real small while the rain flies
I think it's beautiful weather.
So while everybody puts on their protection:
raincoats and galoshes
umbrellas that sheild washes
I'll put on a cardigan and get covered in shivers
and I'll lay in the middle of the road
and pretend I'm floating in rivers
Goosebumps will be my second layer
They'll make my skin thicker
and the rain will wash the tears off of my face
and nobody will be able to tell that I was crying in the first place
and I'll laugh all boisterously
and hardiness will fill my diaphragm
and I'll scream for no reason at all
I'll scream that I would rather love that I hate how I am
than to hate that I love how I am
I will look at everyone around me
staring at me
arms folded and crunched
hidden under their plastic cape
afraid of being cold
okay with being weak
and reliant on umbrellas for protection;
shadowing faces that are disgruntled and meek
I'll realize they have no idea
how it feels to grow thick skin of goose pimples
and to have agony washed away
and to float in rivers in the road
and to be the only thing in a world of complexity
that is lowly and simple
They probably think that they know how it feels to laugh
because they do it at parties and gatherings
But those are only chuckles
Because they never release their knuckles
They're always clenching them in restraint or force
Everybody should laugh in the rain
and not be afraid of tears in the eyes of the sun
because they'll only get washed away
nobody will know
I promise.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC