"hitches" poems
Sludge and blood. The smell of deep red iron
filtering through the rocks and bodies bruised to the touch.
Grotesque collections of pills and broken skin;
infections and secretions and violent affections -
Spit stained fingers and dilated pupils at thoughts thick with resin.
Waking up with sickness in your stomach and bite marks on your neck
The pull of clutching hands at strands of hair and bitten lips and sweat
Pulling deeper, sharp inhale of self-done stitches
Ripped open insides and the moment his breath hitches -
aches forever. Pulsing, swollen, bleeding on the brain
Sweet and sickly, gorgeous and gorged veins
Momentary singularity in pain.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I can manage to think myself into a bad mood,
And not just any bad mood
The kind of bad mood that makes you question life,
The kind of bad mood that causes a strife.
I get these gut wrenching feelings,
My chest tightens,
I can barely breathe,
And I cry without any real reason.
“What’s wrong with me?”
I ask myself as my hands begin to tremble
‘I’m insane’ I think
As my breathing hitches in my throat.
I was fine two minutes ago
And now I’m lying on the bathroom floor
Trying to silence my sobs,
So nobody else will hear.
The part that bothers me most,
Is I don’t have an explanation for why I’m crying
Oh no, please don’t ask
You’ll only make things worse.
I can’t explain it to myself
How am I supposed to explain it to you?
This is helpless, I’m hopeless
I even write this with tear-stained cheeks.
Nobody can help me,
I don’t even know what’s wrong with me
And that’s why my dear,
Overthinking will be the death of me.
– Overthinking will be my Demise // F.C.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
I need help
so I yell and I scream at them
until my lungs give up
and my heart gives out.
silently wishing, hoping
they’ll understand that
I’m not a terrible person.
I’m just hurting
I need help
so I etch the pain into my skin
pleading, begging, praying
for someone to notice the glaring welts
I need help
so I skip one meal
then three
make a chart for the weights
and the calories
waiting to reach the impossible goal
I need help
but I shake in my seat
suffocating in my own lungs
tumbling out of control
I grip my seat so tight my knuckles turn white
wait until
my breath hitches,
my breathing stops
Sep 16, 2024
Sep 16, 2024 at 4:28 PM UTC
You lie there on your side.
Slightly out of breath.
Your face is propped up on your hand.
A slight smile is on your face,
The remnant Of some dumb joke
I've told.
I love to make you smile
I lie opposite you.
A perfect mirror of you.
I reach out and sloooowly,
(Almost imperceptibly)
I trace one finger along the enticing, promising curve of your hip.
Letting it trail up your skin,
Soft as a babies breath.
You close your eyes and shiver (Almost imperceptibly)...
Your breathing hitches
(Almost imperceptibly), but I catch it.
You roll onto your back
Making my fingers trail fleetingly across the curve of your perfectly proportioned hip
And across your silky belly
Where they come to rest
Looking into my eyes
You take my hand
And lead me...
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 11:21 PM UTC
she dreams of him at night
touching herself
under the covers
silent beautiful moans
escape her parted lips
as her dainty fingers
linger to the most
precious part of her
slowly moving in and out
imagining it's him
touching her all over
she closes her eyes
picturing his rough
large hands roaming
all over her petite body
her breath hitches
her toes curl
her stomach knots
it's coming
she's coming
all because of him
- wet dreams
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:27 PM UTC
Some part of you is like the moon
softly glowing beside me on my too-small bed,
and the monumental loneliness you wear as a halo
must be a trick of the eye despite keeping me awake,
hunched over a folder of unedited poems at 2:45AM.
I wonder what the moon dreams of when the sun
tucks it into bed at dawn as your eyelids flutter
and your breathing hitches for a moment
before you roll over, face the wall,
parting clouds with a small sigh.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
on evenings such as these
everything inside of me
finds a mirthful memory
to indulge in its revelry
on evenings such as these
my heart hitches a ride
with these soft winds
that barely make their presence felt,
and soars towards the last
swash of the orange sea
on the horizon
evenings such as these
are when
i wait
for you
to find
me
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
02.02.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
lately //
i’ve been making a noose of my own heartstrings //
but my father is a fisherman who taught me that the best knots don’t slip //
so i carry a bowline in my pocket for security and a tangled mess of forevers on my sleeve.
But I’ve also been tying anchor bends since i realized my grip was not equal to atlas’ shoulders.
And what a cruel paradox that is //
to think that a god can carry the earth beneath our feet but our hands // molded from clay and mud in the same image //could never be enough of a last resort to anchor our hearts in our chests.
so the loophole here,
so to speak,
is the anchor bend knot //
but! //
you know what’s funny about loopholes actually?? // you see, they were made to allow arrows to be shot from an opening // but the structure of that opening prevents counter arrows from being shot back in.
such an invention is why it’s always been nearly impossible to storm a castle’s wall and my, // have many a noble men fallen at the feet of such entrances.
so nowadays, i carry my trusty bowline //alongside the endless loopholes of those old-fashioned anchor bends.
however, I’m sure you know that the bowline is regarded as “the knot of all knots” right? it’s good for tying just about anything without give.
but the first time i ever went sailing // i learned about the round turn and two half hitches. this knot is pretty cool because the more tension you apply to the rope, the tighter the knot will get //
highly reliable for most things.
i guess the irony here is that // i am personally, most identifiable with this knot.
i don’t really ever use it. i am not a sailor or a fishermen. but i do have a really bad tendency of fastening myself to things that have a lot of pull.
the tightening tension of it
is similar to the mythical 13 knots in a hangman’s noose and what an incredibly genius stroke of engineering.
to think that the masterful art of knot-tying comes down to the basic idea that a knot will hold under tension is simply and utterly graceful without fault.
but here’s the thing;
as soon as i learned to tie a knot that won’t slip,
i taught myself the hangman’s knot:
a knot that essentially slips, but still holds merciless tension around its victim.
i’ve been tying nooses with what causes me the most pain.
with what bleeds the most love //
but as the one and only descendant of my father, the great fisher king,
i am starting to learn that if the knot slips,
you cut the line and start again.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Fred occupies his chair, innocently enough.
Occupying his time by
Solving the crossword puzzle, racking his brain
for the answers.
So all of the letters fit together.
So every space is filled. The beauty of solved Enigmas.
Ten across. Opposite of faithfulness.
The fire consumes the logs. Contained Chaos.
The room is illuminated in frantic light
Emanating from the fireplace.
Flames prevented from yielding to their Natural
Yearning to Disseminate to whatever matter
Will accept them. Fred sits on his chair,
Innocently enough,
But if you look in those
Eyes of his, you will witness the Beauty of
Pain, la Douleur exquise d'amour.
Loving Someone he will, invariably, love and forgive.
A woman
Whose love has changed patterns. Changed
Directions. Altered. There is a string
That hitches his heart to that of his infidel.
His wife. He feels foreign blood impairing
Them. He knows her. Without her telling
Him anything, he knows the Lies in those
Eyes of her. Confirming his knowledge.
Ten across. Infidelity. Means unfaithful.
She walked in moments ago, sat on the
Usual chair in front of him. Fred’s
Heart aches now with the immensity of the
Heartache within his wife.
He feels her heart has been broken
By the same man who usurped her from
Him every Thursday. She would return
[not quite yet]
Home on those days, Disjointed, Distracted. He
Knew this was what Falling in
Love looked like. But today, his wife's
Heart feels different. Her Lover is
Absent from their blood. Fred no
Longer is
Obligated to pump the blood of his
Wife’s flame throughout his own body.
and yet, he feels sorry for her.
feels her suffering.
feels her pain more than his own.
He watches her face, the Sorrow in
Her eyes drinks the flames of the
Fire. Fred can tell she wishes she were
In the flames. Better yet, the
Blaze itself, free from her despondency,
The places her mind must be traveling to.
Fred is fully aware that she is contemplating
Unloading her triste to him. Not for
His own Benefit, to be Honest with him.
Only to assuage her Guilt, to
empty her conscience of
Bad Blood.
She is a sinner. She will sin
Again. No doubt about that. But.
His Infidel.
He cannot stand to see her...
His love...his life...
If someone is spread out before you
Seeking to surrender to Death,
You do not Simply let them die.
Especially if they share half your blood.
Especially if your Happiness is
Contingent upon their survival.
Fred’s wife has a ghostly look on her
Face and he cannot help but save her from
Her caustic thoughts, from the
Consuming pain in her very
Core.
and so he guides
her back to him.
just her wide eyes.
he knows all.
And He forgives her.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
They say that love is between a man and a woman.
That the racing hearts and soft whispers are to be between that of a man and a woman.
Yet when I look at her, my heart races and my mind fogs.
They say it is wrong to love that of the same ***
That the soft touches and moans of pleasure should be shared between a woman and a man.
But when her mouth meets mine and my hands find her hair, I can't help but think that they are the ones that are wrong, not this.
Because this,
Her mouth on mine,
Our bodies flush against each other,
The look in her eyes,
Is love.
The soft whispered words and racing hearts is now something that both she and I share.
And when her body slots perfectly with mine
And her eyes show that there is nowhere else she would rather be,
I know that this is love.
The way my breath hitches
And my heart races
And her soft gaze is all I can seem to focus on,
I know that this is love.
And if this is what love is,
If this is what it really feels like,
It will never be wrong.
This is love.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
Our men are heroes, of course.
They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.
"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."
They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.
Beautiful,
demure
women
with
beautiful,
Aryan
genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.
Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.
I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the slope of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?
It suits her.
She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.
Heat assaults my cheeks.
“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”
She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.
A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.
A fantasy.
These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.
But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
My eyes close gently
Like butterflies finding peace.
My breathing is soft
Like the winds that move music.
On my back,
Covered with duvet,
I come alive.
Don’t you hear it?
The call to an ancient rhythm?
I start to dance.
My eyes clench shut
Like doors to an argument.
My breathing picks up pace
Like the smoke of heat in winter.
On my back,
Covered with sweat,
I come alive.
The dance begins:
It starts at my toes.
Clenching, curling,
Pirouette Princess.
Moves up my thighs,
Shaking, sliding,
Shimmy salsa.
My hands join in,
They create foreign mundras.
Massaging circles into soft flowers.
I’m blooming all over again.
The rhythm picks up pace,
The drum beats vibrations into my existence.
The process repeats,
Pirouette toes,
Salsa thighs,
And flowers blooming from fingertips.
Faster,
This time,
Faster.
My eyelids play movies I’ve never seen,
My breath hitches in my throat,
I’m coming alive.
Suddenly,
I feel everything all at once.
My head starts to spin,
The good kind of dizzy.
On my back,
Lifting up,
Soul leaving body in unspoken essence,
I’m coming undone.
In a estranged voice I’ve never known,
Your name leaves my parted lips.
The music stops,
The dance is complete,
And the petals wilt.
Fingertips sticky with nectar.
Or is it pollen?
Doesn’t matter—
It still tastes sweet.
Apr 23, 2020
Apr 23, 2020 at 4:39 PM UTC
Snags in her tights,
Chipped black on her claws,
She stands against walls,
Vulnerable to the brawls.
A skirt grazing her thighs,
Too small for her liking,
She pulls at the seems,
And feeds the old men lies.
Lips that bleed,
Mascara stained cheek,
Frame too slim,
She's in the gutter, sensual and meek.
Lady of the night,
Rolls to your car,
beckons you with her finger,
hopes you won't linger.
A ten note slips,
Into her grip.
She squeezes.
It will feed her addiction.
She has money to pay,
Children to feed,
She digs her knuckles so much they bleed.
Life carries by,
As she tries to get high,
On the fumes of other men.
But the red light comes on,
Her skirt hitches up,
She cries as he whispers
good girl.
As he kisses her neck,
She thinks what the heck
Am I doing with my **** awful life,
Selling cheap love,
To father above,
In hope she gets a better price
than the tiny sum
From every business bloke that comes, beckons her into his arms.
She pulls at her pleather,
At her last tether,
Why am I in this life?
Soho's her home,
But it leaves her numb to the bone.
She has more than budget passion,
She craves style,
She fashion.
But instead the needle pierces,
And she sinks down,
Hating the body she's in,
Women walk and they frown,
But they don't understand how the girl feels deep down,
She just wants true love.
Oh heaven above?
If there is a Holy Spirit,
Let me be it,
For this withered young **********
Belongs in your constitute,
Please, she begs, save me from the charity brutes.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
I watch you intensely,
And can't help but bite my lip.
You mesmerize me as you play.
Your hands dancing on the strings,
What would those hands do to me,
If I gave them one chance.
Would they roam my body with the same passion as they do those strings.
My breath hitches as you scream along with the song,
What would that voice do if I touched you,
Ran my hands along your body.
I watch you so closely.
Watching your face as you play.
For one brief second you look at me,
And my heart threatens to beat out of my chest.
I avoid your eyes, and watch your hands dance once more.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
She runs her hands through your hair from underneath you as your hands caress her waist.
Her tongue draws back as just your lips collide once more.
Your hands press into her hips, holding her in place as you trail slow, gentle kisses along her neck.
Her breath hitches as you kiss her, stopping on particular places to leave a mark.
Your lips attach to hers quickly, flipping yourselves over so that she's on top of you.
You caress her gently, like she's the only person you need.
But why can't she be me?
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
My knees quake violently with the urge to run so far so fast no one will even see me pass
My chest constricts so that I can feel the shape of my heart and I realize it's in two pieces
My breath hitches in my choking throat because the sobs won't fit because they are too big . . .
I've finally come to the conclusion that the human body is simply too small to hold the soul
And that's why we die.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
I am craving a cuddle like a smoker needs their
fix.
My heart's racing, fingers twitching and thoughts scattering.
I want you, need you, can't have you.
My breath hitches in my chest,
Temperature rises and I break in a sweat.
I am suffocating, losing my calmness.
I draw on my inner strength, deep breaths.
Panic seizes my unrest.
I need something, anything to take my mind off the stress.
I need you.
Do be my fortress.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
A Division of Mathematics
Adding great value to it
Multiplying its applications
Reducing laborious means
Going on logical steps
Riding on its riders
Gliding on its theorems
Solving hitches and glitches
Assuming things as “x”
Applying rational methods
Adopting sequential steps
Solving problems complex
Starting with assumption
Running through derivation
Following brilliant notion
Deciphering through perception
Grand in concepts
Grand in derivations
Grand in suppositions
Resolving problems in a grand manner
Mother of mathematics
Mother of logics
Cracking all mysteries
By initializing things as “x”
Assuming God as “x”
Following tenets and commandments
Living life on virtues and truth
Surely shall we know what “x” is
And what “I” am and what “V” (we) are
And surely shall we know that
X=I=V is Life’s Algebra.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
Looking out the glass
down over damp streets
spread like boundaries;
streetlights and stop signs
to keep everything in, or out.
This city is a prison.
Your heartbeat is steady
next to me, slow.
Beneath that slight frame,
veins pump the blood that
gives you life.
The same blood that
allows you to cry at your
worst mistakes, or mine.
This room is a prison.
There is a rotating light,
the spotlight overseeing these
midnight prison grounds.
It burns from green to orange,
back to green again.
Your chest heaves, hitches,
I can feel it as the sobs
whisper out like a jury sentence.
The prison is here in white sheets,
where sighed whispers of
blame echo out.
Aside from that, it is silent,
the window holds out
noises of another world.
I wonder, glowing orange
to somber green,
what crimes I have committed
that hold me here.
I wonder, trapped by these
barbed wire streets,
what repentance I must seek out
to find sleep.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
there are drops that tremble
along the edges of my glass--
i stare into them, trying
to see how they cradle blood
in their atoms.
they yield none of their secrets.
they slide
unnoticed
through my veins.
they are crystals that emerge
gracelessly, unheeded
to ponder the airless spaces
that clutter my lungs.
tonight they roam like ghosts
to the unclean surfaces of skin that
stretch grudgingly across my bones.
they tremble
to the lights.
they are silver pepper
that sting my cells alive yet
i can't feel them singing.
they inhabit me
and uninhabit me too quickly
for me to invite them home.
they find no home in me, only
poison
to **** into their loving atoms
blindly, uncaring
that they are contaminated with
my waste, my blood.
they carry these things from me
to pour back into the forge
that melts my mistakes.
they permeate any weakness
to sustain it.
to prevent me from bloating
with toxicity that unconsciously
finds its way inside
especially on colored nights.
they click their tongues at me
while i'm sleeping, they
can see my dirt-encrusted synapses
and the hitches in my skin.
they feed and chastise me
from within.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
I lick my lips confidently
only to taste the fear lingering there.
Would he taste my fear?
My hesitation?
My doubt?
His hand cups my cheek
leaning in to me.
My breath hitches.
I close my eyes.
And everything just vanishes.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Tip the glass to my lips.
Cunning eye and trembling fingers
watch the sick-green liquid slide
passed clenched white teeth.
They stain with the flow
Across the tongue and Down, Down, Down,
into my very soul.
My chest hitches.
I cough in surprise
- or pain.
You cannot tell for sure . . .
Our eyes lock,
Surprised wonder meets lusting orbs of excitement.
As the burning courses through my limbs
You lean closer, intent on every agonized detail.
A wicked grin chases across your face
when the tremors finally cease.
My head falls back.
The world goes black.
And then . . . at last - there's peace.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
I fixed my hair
and the reflection
of my own brooding face,
stares right back at me.
The void in the windowless pit of my eyes
is feeling a little happy today
a shadow of light peeks through
and my face lights up.
The mark of him
reeks upon my body
The faint of his words
caused the corner of my lips to turn up.
My demon creeps up
from the corners of the mirror
And with its menancing smile,
my breath hitches
It closes its eyes,
And inhales the scent of my fear.
I am nothing but a pawn
as its voice reaches my eardrums, whispering the thoughts I can only bear to keep.
It taunts me,
Daring me to take a peek,
Daring me to take a look
And the rest of my body is in plain sight
The angry marks of stretched skin
is evident in parts of my body.
My skin filled with fat sags
as if it was sad from all the years
it has kept holding up all the weight
My body is screaming right at me.
It said it was sorry to have me.
It said it was sorry to give up before me.
It said it was sorry for the way it looked.
And I cried.
I was sorry too.
I was sorry to be the way I looked.
I was sorry to be me.
I was sorry for existing.
When the faucet in my eyes closed off,
my voice could no longer speak, and
my skin turned red from all the sentiments I have cried off, I smiled.
Not because I am happy,
not because I have finally
finally accepted being me
but because it is the only remedy I have.
The only preventional medication
I could take
for me to survive the day
for me to survive the torment
of being in this skin
of one more day
I hated my skin, you know
and my skin hated me.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
Branches on the path did the rest of the work for me:
All I had to do was tear the rest of the canvas off my
Vans. The rubber sole floated where I threw it, bobbed
Whitely out of view. Now, tell me we can go
To my beloved 60s, the ones I know nothing about
While under umbrella’d leaves just touching the creek
We’re stealing kisses, my heart rides on box-car hitches
And rusted out Fords, all the way to absolute nowhere
But, something mauve glows down the way, utopias
And despots and kids who gave a **** knew what
They ought to fight for and did. Skip the ambiguity,
Stop all the foreplay, give me something real this time
While I drag my bones in a hometown I wasn’t born in
Praying the trees take back the concrete. I don’t know,
Say it’s the whiskey and cigarettes making me uneasy,
But there’s some elegance in the way I saw her move
That makes fidelity a hard, loving hand, just a little too
Hard then I’ll take my borrowed wings some vague
Direction north, past the towers of Lebanon,
Laid to rest with highschool friends, both dead
In wax and paper, tied in all these loose ends.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC