http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-17/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-ii/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/first-date-iii/
(best read in order)

He blankets her with a mist that is fine and as pure as his postpartum soul is able to manifest. He’s sorry that she is sobbing on the dirt floor. He can’t think past the hunger that is beating upon her, which beats upon him. He is angry that his ancient predatory instincts are gaping to the fore.

   For the ancient being now gently weeping on a cold dirt floor.

Why did he not recognize her? How did he get so lax in the thinking that cattle could disguise it self?  A Wolf in Sheep’s clothing? Well... it’s not like he has not donned the same costume!

   He had been a Protector for so long. Rising each Sunset with the challenges that bring on the most predatory beasts that hunger for pain. He, alone, has stood beside Humanity to bring the world a semblance of normality, morality, a passing moment when they thought they were King of the world… but their inflated egos were never touched by doubt.
Because of him.

But she brings him down to the basest level.

   He feels…
    For her
     For her hunger
      For her emptiness
       For her utter contemptuousness


   She is the creature that he has been birthed to fight. The utter savageness that she brings forth when it becomes night.

He alone, in eternity, wanders the earth to make Mortal life the one thing that is right.

   She lifts her head from the cold dirt floor to stare at him. He materializes as a persona that should scare her, one that heralds Death, but his emotions are fraught with peril. She is important to him. He may have been birthed to bring Death but he was never denied that one could become his Life.

His pulse quickens, her eyes widen, her pulse quickens, he is afraid of the sight that lays bare in front of him. His fangs are buried deep in his bottom lip, he can not say a word even if his immortal soul depends on it.

   She licks her lips in hesitation, maybe anticipation; she could be licking her lips because of the small droplet of blood that lingers in the corner of her mouth. He wants to touch his tongue to said lips and cheek and ear and throat and, well HELL, he’s happy to continue south… as long as his tongue is touching skin…

   She looks away, briefly, and cries again. She is unable to fight past her hunger even though she has recognized the Protector.

She needs protecting too!

She’s so hungry!

But from the swelling of his body, *so is he…

Some poets   make lousy friends
they'll eventually skewer you with their poison pen
their  insulting  writ of relentless nasty venom
like some  twisted performance-art-form
naked foist of un-allayed aggression
the dilettante's vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife
the very nature of chumminess segues into   adversity
a quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence
so affixed are poets to the unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face
a  horrendous starkness of  civility
justified by a requisite needy urgency of  expedience
contemptuousness brought on  by an  anxious desire to blow you off -ASAP
they'll turn on you like a feral cat

I’ve always had a fascination with bones. The skeletal system was taught to me in my fourth grade year. I learned the name of each bone that laid just under my thin layers of skin. I read books on how they were made, how they were broken, how they fixed themselves. I saw them as self-sufficient. I gazed at the plastic skeleton that lived in the corner of my classroom. I tried to match his bones with mine. ******* in my stomach to pinpoint each individual rib. Stretching my skin to watch the edges of my bones appear. I remember narrowing my eyes at the plastic toy in front of my face. It was like he was mocking me. He was showing me everything I wished I could see on myself. Staring at me with such contemptuousness in a sneer of his plastic teeth. I walked away in a mood that rivaled a hurricane, tears that felt foreign against my soft cheeks and a boiling pool of disgust deep inside my body that was covered in too many layers of skin.

I spent my first two years of middle school in quiet distaste. I forgot my fascination with the bones inside me. I never quite existed anywhere but in my own head. I was content. When my father pushed us away the first time, we fled to a different home on a different street. The second time, he shoved us into a different house in a different state. I started a new school with new people that inhabited new sets of bones. In my biology classroom, another plastic skeleton took up home in the corner. I went back to my new house everyday to my mother who I only saw once a day if I went to seek her out and sisters who had to take the blows silently. I trailed behind them, gathering their missing pieces and using the glue holding me whole to stick their parts back together. I scrambled to feed the zombies wandering around my house, shaving off layers of skin. I had to stand by and watch my own body turn into the skeleton I envied. I could peel back the skin I had left and finally see the sharp edges of milky bone.

We were pushed again. To another house in another state. I panicked to hide what was festering inside my chest. I tried to shield it from the eyes of my sisters, trying to keep them pure from fear of death or something just as scary. I pulled a veil down over my face, building a wall between the people I loved and myself. I watched as girls my age twisted and smiled and matured. I felt uneasiness as I tried to be like them, taking note of the way they flicked their hair back and tried to replicate it in a mirror. I painted my face with powders and rimmed my eyes in black to cover the red. I grew out my hair long enough to cover the bones trailing down my back, trying to bend in a shape that I didn’t want them going. I spent nights trying to find something that could bring my bones to life. I danced around death, grinning like a maniac when I dipped my toes into the ******* I had found. I watched the blood drip from the cracks in my skin as I stared by at my own face that looked like a ghost to me now. I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. With white around their nose, red around their eyes and with features almost parallel to the skeleton that had mocked me so long ago.

I came back from myself in the months following. I tried to rip off the veil over my eyes. I worked to carefully dismantle the wall between me and everyone else. I let my skin grow and grow until I couldn’t see the bones I used to find beautiful. I let myself dress how I knew I wanted. I let myself be who I wanted. I took the pain I had nurtured in my chest since I was a child and bundled it up, pushing it away because it was a friend I didn’t want to be around anymore. I had to learn how to hold my sisters up and climb up with them too. I started scribbling a new name on the canvases I have poured my heart into. I stopped trying to carve my own bones into the shape I wanted them to be and instead, I painted the way they grew. I molded creatures out of clay. I drew beautiful things. I made beautiful things. I began only drawing the things I saw most beautiful. I drew flowers and animals and the people I had allowed to help me. I drew architecture and waterfalls and insects. After my bones had disappeared and the smile on my face wasn’t pulled up by the thought of being non existent, I drew myself too.

She was like a force of nature
Manipulative, dangerous and beautiful.
Without even looking at you
she could make you feel insignificant
She made you feel pathetic
But when she looked at you it was worse,
those cold, bitter eyes fixed on yours
and she saw so deeply into your mind
that your security leeched
out of your fingertips
like spilt milk.
Those soft, harsh lips would twitch,
and her eyes would mock you.
She oozed feline contemptuousness.
But you were hooked,
from the word go, you needed her.
She was your ******
And without even knowing it you were hers.
There was something delicious about her
something refreshingly suffocating,
like a rib tightening power-cut shower.  
She lovingly despised you,
couldn’t bear the beautiful sight of you,
and pinched the backs of your arms with violent affection.
When the text came through my world jolted,
something shifted as the realisation
of a different existence slotted into place.
In only a few digitally transported words
of no deliberation,
the person I required most had stopped my heart.

Neither crystal water nor illusionary wine
(Just an appreciation of your might)
The venom of bitter potion
Of your gingery ignorance
Beating with ultrasound commotion
My heart is dressed up for nuisance
Neither hunger nor appetite
(Just an appreciation of your might)
The poison of your contemptuousness
Of your traditional taunts
Surfing with the fatal waves
My mind is now dressed up for the hilarious haunts
Neither stars nor moons
Just a ride
To my black holes..