"thumbprints" poems
When she held me, I felt like an earthquake,
shrapnel cutting quick to the bone.
I’m disaster, an unknown
kind of danger is the most dangerous
When he held me, I felt like a riptide,
all control ran out the door.
With the *** and cappuccinos
I felt out of place in my new home
When she held me, I felt disgusting,
every move my own betrayal.
Yes, she hurt like a gunshot
but I did this to myself
When he held me, I felt strange,
like I should give my whole self.
He never asked, I’m thankful.
I don’t want to ruin everything else
When she held me, I felt like a secret,
like I was something small and wild.
In a room of screaming children,
we were something invincible
He never held me, but that’s alright.
Someone tell him I understand.
Take it slow, like we’re new friends.
I’m alive for once
No one touch me, I don’t want it.
Stop breathing down my neck.
My throat fills with *****
But the hands never rest
No one touch me, leave me alone.
Stop pressing on my back.
There are thumbprints on my wrist bones
and handprints on my thighs
Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
So many years have passed.
Is it trauma? I don’t care.
The filthy feeling always lasts
Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
Nobody ever has to know.
When you’re sitting by your lonesome
Nobody cares, you’re on your own
Nobody cares, you’re on your own
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Most heavenly of places, this world now
Of endless beauties, a sight that wows
They're statuesque and wax-like, but hey don't fret
No wrinkles to combat, nor ripples of fat
Gazing into their arresting green eyes
That of the rabbit's, resemblance lies
Uncanny it is, this puzzling scene
Manufactured they are, from the same jellyfish gene
And since its time to seek paradise,
My wandering hands caress the prize
To search for weakness, now I must
No amount of fondling, stirs any lust
I've come so far, and this is what perfection costs?
The smoothest of skin, has left all thumbprints lost
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:58 AM UTC
I've been watching you from the nightstand,
Eyes closed,
But hearing, feeling
Each rat tremor on top of cheap carpet
Covered in cat **** and ***** stains.
You have been sleeping too long,
Eyelids turning to flakes of skin,
Feeding your floorboard friends.
I have seen your fingers curl into messy knots of
Purple thumbprints and veins reaching
For the ceiling and roof.
You left me plugged into the wall,
And I have inched closer to my own death
With each misses phone call and text,
My predisposed convulsions.
I just wanted you to know
Your mother called today
To ask for the new street address,
The landlord says the rent is 8 days late,
But your boyfriend is ill concerned with your state of health,
In fact,
He left the state
And bought a new haircut and identity.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
Lights and colors, Lights and colors dwindle in numbers
Set a step in coordination
Fully exasperated
nonsense passes by, through images
Lenses smudged by illusive thumbprints
Who are you
Are you speaking cordially
heart trusted intuition and guts mustered
Seeping into the depths of darkness
see a surprise unseen by eyes of seekers and juveniles
Founded a resolve
Sturdy foundation like a trunk of a tree
Feed me turds quench my thirst with poison
Wrap a child sleeping soundly in a blanket of lava
Let's follow the righteous side even when full of lies
Stray from a darker path were the light of truth is easier to find
Follow the good where everything a light
and turn so you won't have to face the knife
Inject a form of lies and cast the mirage of truth over your eyes
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
Do you wanna hang out?
We can fingerpaint now.
'Cuz I know that you love the stuff
that reminds you of being young.
Witnessing the sunset (the new day will await us)
We can use our thumbprints (all over the plain walls)
And we can bend our knuckles (paired up to shape hearts)
We won't always be amateurs (we can fingerpaint now)
We're never growing older, there's nothing anyone can do.
Your hand may be in mine, your soul deep in mine too.
Do you wanna hang out? We can fingerpaint now.
'Cuz I know you love the things that make you feel young again.
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 11:03 PM UTC
i lost your direction
with my back against you i begged you
to unzip the sky
i was parched without shade
you looked like destiny
a mirage in a thirsty throat
i kissed the ground and broke my mouth
spit teeth that bled your name
but you came no closer
the pain was not divine
perception rose in red welts around my lips
mountains of flesh that held no beauty
i poured myself into this strange espousal of a world
cold cloudy glass
forever rounding walls
that held me in smeared thumbprints
on a hot day i am static
i dry slowly, paint
i am the ever madonna the lost woman
heroine heroine heroine
corrupt word that bursts like an aneurysm on the tongue
spreads like a warm solution
and we bred closer
fixing flesh on the bones of our connection
meet me when i come to you
don’t grow old with me
i can never change
the leash nerves held
keeping you that same size
until the sky seized with the threat
rain rain rain
and i was no prophet
just a woman you thought you could save
if your feet could make the steps
but i am not lost
i’m just waiting for you
you can find me under broken clouds
you can save me to soothe
your own self
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
window leaning on an old book the cold winter air
spilling into the room like it has been waiting for years
for this moment, starless sky and illuminated hands
colored blotches speaking in the hushed tone of
unobtrusive shades
there is a single cigarette packed away in the stories
and trinkets, it is whispering sweet nothings
in my ear
and you
you have been lurking in the hallways
your hands, thumbprints, lips
etched into the window glass
so every time i look to see the world
you will be there
Your bittersweet presence
brushes chalk dust across my skin
because i desire you here
but i think that is all
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC
I've read the news, and it's red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumbprints. They're not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don't
read or write such things. They may
bleed, them, but the blood isn't red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn't that,
at least not until it's too, too late
to stanch. The bully's standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn't come. Not like we
were used to. I'm told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I've been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There's no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It's fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the paper. I don't
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I've read and I'm reading.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
wheels
the night before his surgery, my boy’s body is a dark suggestion I inspect with a cell phone’s light. his brain is tucked away. his brain a self-assessing god that, created, has ceased to exist. I hate that I have as all do a floating rib. it would put me in a better place
referring to it as satan’s disabled life raft. I have no advice for those on the operating table. for those above-
say thumbprints. start missing.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:56 PM UTC
His eyes are like black beetles rolled onto their backs, thick legs like lashes flickering in the movement it requires to take me in;
And I am exposed- again- to the disease they spread from living underneath the foundations of so many homes, not unknown, exactly, but pardoned as 'harmless’ and left
to live in the crawl spaces, where his real eyes roll between the cobwebs.
Therein the innocence of beauty, with all her God given curves, is curled up inside the belly of that glutton, and the stomach acid does the devil’s work in decomposing her;
We all have bruises on our necks, blooming in lavender colored thumbprints where he turned our faces forcibly away from him;
There is nothing so damning as a woman who has made eye contact with those insects,
Bite
Your
Tongue
Girl,
This is not about you.
This is about the ‘stumbling block’ you became to him,
This is about the disastrous eventuality of outliving your usefulness.
This is about the godforsaken body you were given to spite and entice him with,
And your ability to keep it carefully hidden.
We will not bite our tongues.
We are not the amalgamation of soft feminine lines, rent into the shapes you like them best,
Or the shapes you hate,
Or the constantly transforming flame of your carnality, with it's cruel hands around your throat.
We are not our bodies;
But they are ours.
We are not our bodies,
And we will not be easily devoured.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
I was never this soft
So breakable
I was a hard cover book
Strong and new
That you bent back to read
Allowing myself to be so easy.
Now my spine is broken
Cover clearly used
Abandoned,
Alone,
Abused
How could you?
My story remains
With pages still intact
Someone else will come along
Gentle enough
To repair my broken back.
I’m fragile
Susceptible to further damage
Cracked down the middle
Barely hanging
Slowly healing
Does this story get a sequel?
Another chance for something real
I’m fearful I’ll never recover
With pages badly wilted
Discolored
Torn, and bent back.
Greasy thumbprints
Smeared along my text
Leaving permanent imprints
On my once pretty print.
My story has changed too.
How could this remain a fairytale,
After consuming the forbidden fruit?
I’m half dead
And my book
Has been read through
By someone who skipped ahead
Just to know the end
And stupidly,
I let them.
Thinking that if they knew
All the secrets of my story
The struggles
The success
My journey
They would love me
Not leave me.
If only I kept my chapters safe
Knowing I’m worthy
For a slower pace
Not rushed through
And read in a day.
You might have read the ending
Little do you know
That was the preface.
Better yet,
I’ll remove you completely
Editor’s revision says
There is no space for you here.
Backspace, delete.
Now you're just history
All that is left
Is to empty the trash bin.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
I’ve read the news, and its red
with painted lip prints, and the stain
of stranger thumb prints. They’re not
mine. Neither of them. They belong,
lip and thumb, paint and stranger,
singularly to those others who don’t
read or write such things. They may
bleed them, but the blood isn’t red,
or crimson, or cardinal, or scarlet.
Pick a shade of red, and it isn’t that,
at least not until it’s too, too late
to stanch. The bully’s standard is to take
it all, all of it except the fall crisp that led
into this strangely warmer winter. I took it,
and I saved it in my bones to prepare,
but the cold didn’t come. Not like we
were used to. I’m told the bully wears
what he takes with a dashing style. See it,
that royal blue that outfits him? The flowing
robes? The gold. I’ve been robbed. We have
been. Not of things, but of a view. A view
with no room for us in its downside-up
very periscope-unlike perspective.
There’s no upside to the up-down
and just around the corner trips
I take. To the grocer. To the bar. To
the five and dime. It’s fattened up
to a dollar. And the slimming newsprint
costs more than what I get
without the print. I don’t
get it, not the print, not the paper, not
the red lip prints, not the thumbprints
left by strangers, not the news
I’ve read and I’m reading.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Dust specks bathing in the sunlight
Floating, no purpose
In my lungs
I sit in solitude waiting for you to reappear
But it is against my will
The silence hums a melody
That sticks to my eyes
And your thumbprints
Are infecting my skin but I can still
Wait
For you
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
my favorite teacher in high school
told me that once you step in a
river, you and that river w i l l
never be the same. and i
wonder if we are l i k e that
with each o t h e r. do we
stamp our thumbprints on
people's chests, do w e
never f o r g e t the
omnipresent memory
ofthethings thatwere?
your t h i n g s are
swimming in t h e
gulf of mexico by
n o w, i assume-
that pathetic
letter a b o u t
h o w y o u
d r e a m e d
you would
losethelove
of your life
( m e )
forever
(you did)
is soaked
and bleeding
out of its creases-
but i will probably
always remember the
curve of your mouth and
the sharpness of your laugh.
i do not remember you fondly,
no never fondly, and i only ever
want to drink another virgil's
rootbeer if i can spit i t in your
face afterward, but i'm hoping
someday i will bleed like your
words and god i will fly, i can
promise you that. you did not
break me, you only taught me
t h a t hearts, t h e y need
styrofoam fencing- s o m e
padding but nothing like your
cement b l o c k s- and that i
deservebetter. ideserveorchids
a n d sunflowers, homemade
jam in the middle of the night
because us sleeping is out o f
the question and jesus *******
c h r i s t i deserve a heart that
has nobarriers. i want to bethe
r i v e r, stampeding i n t o
someone's life like the scariest
thing they've ever seen until i
have taught them everything
they could want t o know
a b o u t the ramones a n d
fleetwood m a c and painting
with your eyes closed. i just
want t o b e t h e river.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Your fingertips wandered
The forests of my skin,
for a year, three months and one week.
Your kisses lingered around my neck,
Pearls strung delicately across a haphazard creation.
Your thumbprints were inked across my ribcage,
Polka dots on my least favorite sweater.
Your fingers mined gems from the ridges of my hipbones,
Diamonds found within the depths of my self-loathing.
Your lips planted daisies the crooks of my collarbones,
Black-holes of misery turned into a rainbow of gardens.
I have not felt your embrace
Or heard your voice,
In a year, eleven months, a week and four days.
The pearls have been replaced
With the noose of your bitterness.
Your thumbprints have become plum-colored bruises,
Diamonds have turned to coal,
And, like a fool,
I mistook daisies for venus fly traps-
They catch every thought of you,
And I'm now I'm closed in.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
asleep, he was loved. loved, also, in the margins of waking. a hand on the head, or breakfast after payday. he would try to keep quiet the unclosed wound of his voice; a darkened bandage, like bacon, held to his mouth. but the morning, each morning, would leave, more so clothed than it had come. if ever you’ve looked, at noon, for your mother, she would’ve been with his. two sets of thumbprints, two glasses. he would put his thumb to one, then the other. days your mother stayed with you, his own would give him crayons. once, that he can remember, he put the white in her cigarette box and heard about it. it’s the kind of kid he was fully awake: bad. his cheeks often burned. their redness would unhinge his mother so that she would slap at the pale inquiry of his neck. seven years old, and still drawing stick figures. he could not keep himself from it. three legged figures, one armed. torsos were a problem for him, and crotches. but there they would be, middle on middle, three lines to indicate ****** or wind. his mother wouldn’t get sick but would say that she was. before dinner, she would give him ice cream. he would fall asleep without dinner and his father would come home, shower, and leave. it made him stronger, not seeing his father eat.
the stick figures, when he met them, were not like his drawings, but they wanted to be. they would contort and untangle from each other and giggle. his mother once came upon them and they broke into many sticks at his feet. she did not know what he was laughing at and tried to lift him but he was fat for his age and she pulled a muscle in her stomach. he put her on his back. she would not unstiffen. at home, in front of the fire, she was angry. her arm was crooked, aimed at him, and one of her eyes was trying to watch him. he shut the door to his room and practiced becoming many. his parts would not let. he gave up; the fire lowered. the noise his mother made sounded set aside; some special box opened in the house of a demon. he had to cut her clothes from her so she could breathe. she rose, simply; not like the dead. something, in the second box, skittered from it. the boy crumpled. his head did not roll like he thought it would, but he smiled anyway. if his mother was screaming, only his ears could hear it.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
I once heard a story
A story of a man, he
Worked under the sun’s scorching fingers
Still he lingered
Labored
And at the end of the day
By faith
Gave up his very best
Leaving the not-so-good rest
For himself.
Through his actions
He left
Something
Something for us to think about
Something for us to imitate
And recreate
And apply
To our daily lives
This man
By faith
He gave his best
And so do we.
I once heard a story
A story of a woman, she
Was blessed with beauty
Donned in a robe
Of purple and gold
Hair combed with Persian oil
Piercing dark eyes
And, knowing that she could die
Took heart
Swallowed her fears and
Saved a people
a nation
a race
By faith
She took courage
And so do we.
I once heard a story
A story of a boy, he
Had nothing to offer
Just
Five cold loaves and two little fish
That boy, unselfishly
Generously
Humbly gave
Everything he had
By faith
He gave everything
He had
And so do we.
All these people
Led by example
And left thumbprints
On our minds
On our hearts
They left
Something
Something called
The trail that you blaze
The memory you create
The footprints you leave
The mark you place
The “I was here” sort
The dent you make
The story people will tell
For generations
And generations
To come
So, wake up!
Shake off the shackles
Break those chains
Tear down the walls
That have been imprisoning you
Holding you
Keeping you
From being who you were called to be
For that is true freedom
Arise from where you are
You chosen people
You royal priesthood
You holy nation
You children belonging
To the Most High
Raise your voices like trumpets
Shout aloud
Do not hold back
For you have been set apart
Redeemed
Renewed
Reborn and
Redefined
It’s time
To be the salt
And the light
You were made to be
Not conforming
Not compromising
To the pattern
It’s time
To start being
A leader who serves
Protects
Loves
A leader by example
A leader through actions
And words
It’s time to make your mark
It’s time to throw the dart
It’s time to blaze your trail
It’s time to write your story
It’s time to quit hiding
It’s time to leave
It’s time to leave a legacy.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
I keep the pocket watch you gave me,
and it's still ticking,
ticking.
It's there beneath the pictures
with ripped edges and thumbprints on the gloss,
where I'm smiling straight into the flash
and you, you're just looking at me,
like you didn't know someone could be so happy
in a cramped booth that smelled like
asphalt and felt like 50's music.
It's there next to the pressed flowers
with missing petals and broken stems,
the ones you gave me the day before Valentine's,
because you wanted them to bloom but
they bloomed a day late, and you
waited for them til midnight because you refused
to believe that teenage romance
doesn't have to be punctual.
It's there in the old shoebox
with the missing cover and faded paint on the sides,
that I kept all the postcards in,
from all the times you went away and said
you missed me,
and I couldn't write back because
I remembered you said that my words are my heart
and I was scared
to write poems about forever.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
One room for entry
sign says slow rides ahead
A savage concrete flood
White and bright with fluorescent illumination
A suit asks for thumbprints
ringing of communication
Waves linked
wires answered
Small plastic cup extended
meant for a child's play set
Inside a billion dollar industry
Swallow it cold for some reprieve
it settles hard and nauseating
Panic inside alien euphoria
Lines crossed for a new salvation
faces spill forward
A spiritual inquisition
free wills final folly
Magnified for judgement
at the cost of dime and soul
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
Addicted to this life
and all of its decadence
There's a table in the back
for otherworldly spies
where they drown you in powder
leave you choking on agents
that will destroy your mind
so they can apply thumbprints to retinas
leaving you in dispose
denying every lie you've ever told.
The truth will find an outlet in your demise
What you thought was real
What you thought you could feel
A confusion of senses
distilled through holy water
Blinded by strobe lights
and immobilized by birth rights
You may leave when you want,
but, then again,
would you really want to?
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
When you see his mother
You remember.
You remember the fear in your eyes
Terrified at the thought of being *****
You remember the trembling in your voice
For the times he sent earthquakes through your body.
You remember the efforts it took to restore your soul
You were not an easy fix.
You took more time that he gave you
When he had his way with you
A child.
He got his way with a lot of things
He got his way when you were too fearful to take him to court
He got his way when he left no trace of evidence behind
He got his way when your father refused to see him again
But when you see his mother,
Roses in your hair
All dressed in black
Teardrops stain your cheeks like thumbprints
Pressed hard against your face.
You are not dressed for her, no
But for her brother
But for your grandfather.
When you see his mother
The damage he has done to her is comparable
To the damage he has done to you.
She cannot walk out the door
Without knowing her son is a child molester.
You cannot walk out the door
Without feeling guilty for what you have done to her.
It wasn't your fault, what happened to you
But in an odd way
You believe what happened to her
Was.
So together, synchronized
You paste on a face
You put yourself together
Opposite sides of the East Coast
Yet so in tune.
When you see his mother,
You forget yourself for a moment
As a river of guilt gushes out of your soul
You want to run
To, from, with her
You cannot escape.
To, from, with her
Your guilt lies.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
I love the way books cannot be
unread, cannot erase the sweet oils
and thumbprints like black oak tree rings
they are there for all the slivers
of sunlight and literary cafune
soft knuckles pressed into their
spines
they remind me that while I am not new
I can remain unknown, that though
opened by some I am neither novel lying in wait
or closed into his old bookshelves,
a thin draft in a library of what-ifs
he did not get to k e e p you
however you did, you did
found your
way into other hands, without much grace, albeit,
baltering from home to home
a solivigant prose--
this way, and that, small bind
paperback.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
The skin sloughs ever so slowly
As it parts from the blade and body
Slipping into the pail of past identity
On top I can see the newest addition
Eyes burning with golden bursts
Accentuated by cool emerald outlines
Staring back at their owner
Accusatory
The narrow pupil dilated in question
"Why go blind?"
I ignored the orbs
Instead turning back to the business
At hand
Where I was carefully removing
Fingernails and thumbprints
One by one joining the flesh
That had once been me
My eyes glared at me
I stared back
Empty sockets dripping
Drip
Drip
"Never have I seen more clearly
For without my skin I truly feel
Without my eyes I cannot cry
Nor nails nor prints to conceal
The real me is not outside
He's inside wanting only to heal"
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC