"tweezers" poems
Dear Brianna Evelyn Heins,
Stop Spanx sitting me, I’m old enough to take shape of my own.
Sincerely,
You’re Hips
P.S.
Stop convincing the lips to call me flab-u-lous!
I have my own name.
Stop knocking the knuckles to bone
To hear that hollow hound sound, now don’t use me in your measurement references, I want to live a day
Without spinning round the bouncy bands of your operation game
I’ve seen tweezers fall out of your eyes, to plummet under my moon shone complexion
Please keep in mind the brain is a liar.
And well, I have no twins; your pessimistic ways don’t acknowledge my individuality
The color of shame is not moving, while your red majestic
beast hair torturously tickles my clear space of face.
Brianna,
The brain is a liar!
I know you are told you’re observant;
The deception is grand
Stop pretending you know me
Let me dance dizzy
with the calves
Like coming out of the closet
I’m showing you I’ll never be straight
but brains whisper “weep, weep, weepweepweep”
at the sight of the salt soaked, taffy stretched skin
the brain sends me signals, but I beg for the heart to seep in
Please listen up
rarely do I talk,
for you think words are merely a sound
but the profoundness hasn’t shaken
I know you must feel my urges like
I’m on tonight and my hips don’t lie
beauty may lay in the fragile way I sway
said I’m below
But to hell with you
because this bridge can be crossed
but embers fly in you eyes
and the brain is a liar
a family member I wholeheartedly despise.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
Hands tied
Blind folded
And in pain
He sat there
As she explained
Explained to him
The rules of the game
*“Every day I’ll cut off one of your fingers,
And you’ll count back
From one thousand by sevens.”*
Going through her drawer
Of clampers and tweezers and scissors
She said
“Now let us, rehearse?”
She took out one of her knives
And oh so calmly
Chopped off one of his fingers
Asked “What’s one thousand minus seven?”
He couldn’t hear her over his own scream
She asked again
“What’s one thousand minus seven?”
“Nine hundred…nine hundred and ninety three.”
*“Good! It isn’t that hard you see?
Now I’ll be back tomorrow
Oh, and this is just an experiment
In ten days, we’ll see what you become.”*
He sat there crying in agony
Wishing tomorrow never comes
But it did, and he counted
“Nine hundred eighty six.”
*“Do you know why I’m making you count?
It’s a trick.
I’ll tell you about it in the end.
Don’t bother trying to figure it out, you won’t.
So just keep counting till then.”*
Days went by
And he was counting
“Nine seventy nine.” “Nine seventy two.”
As he was screaming and shouting
He lost all hope of freedom
At “Nine sixty five.”
Now the only freedom for him, was to die.
After ten long days
He finally knew what it was about
At “Nine hundred and thirty.”
She finally let it out
Unashamed as she explained
*“You see?”
It was all just to keep you sane."*
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
even teddy said i got the sickest tricks brah.
like my abilities source from some kinda legendary liquid
/ praise the lord /
monster energy should sponsor me.
a kickflip over the king’s *** hole
& a halfcab for the looky-loos.
i feel so tall when i climb that heap of asphalt trimmings
& see clear from the water tower to the bluffs.
gimme a good day, any day at the bluffs,
bottlerockets & girly birds.
her body brings a swarm of worms.
decomp,
said the f.b.i. men one by one with tweezers.
not quite the homecoming queen, still
wrapped in plastic.
look up.
see that great mess of wires, nest of powerlines and owl bones?
it crackles and croons its electro-spectral purr
all night and day.
new neck tat &
cody spends his paycheck on a crossbow.
we target practice on a bull skull.
wet cigarettes and turpentine-soaked socks for a good huff
in the dry of the roofline as it dumps.
there’s that little boy in a ghost mask again, tap-dancing
in puddles below the streetlamp,
& oversized shoes.
his grandmoms always be watchin’ from the window.
[whispers] she’s teaching him magic.
lucky unit 19: where our young dead damsel once dolled
herself up, you see
men and headlights would roll thru thrice nightly,
maybe more.
& i remember her punch red lips &
big whicker hat; while she weeded and watered her garden of begonias.
the sheriff’s deputy, hart? hicks? hogan? well he loved her a bunch.
stole her clothes in the middle of the night,
& sat beside the river sobbing into clumped fists
of bra and blouse.
i bought ******* from that guy once or twice.
harold? howard?
guess who showed his face today?
josiah, from unit 08.
since the incident with molly’s beagle, he’s been rarely seen.
took a bee line straight for the mailbox.
a package. a prize. a decoder ring/secret map sweepstakes
to be seen and deciphered.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
One evening I was walking home,
nice dress and heels stomping pavement
of the moonlit streets in my home city.
I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe.
Catcall. It's not a compliment. It's demeaning.
He says ***** but all I seem to hear is
strong. daring. opinionated. outspoken.
Because that's what he's saying
when I stand up for myself.
when I act outside the roles of a "good" woman.
What he hope, with a five letter word,
is that I'll shut up, sit down, be seen and not heard.
because that's what being a woman is:
suppressed.
So, thank you sir, because all you've really done
is given me a reason to fight harder
a purpose to speak louder
and a way to stand taller.
"I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe."
"What a shame... I forgot my tweezers."
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
land of no responsibility
except to give in to that burning urge
that prickles up the back of your neck on waking
to be off out running under sun
barefoot as soon as out of sight
adventures wait and time belongs to you
you fish for sticklebacks in a field of golden corn
where farmers wave in anger at the trail to the pond
and take home tadpoles in glass jars on string
breathless at the sight of legs emerging
pick bluebells in the wood for mother
but then arrange them in old tins
in tumbledown cottage the gangs den
scrumping crab apples in overgrown gardens
never getting that stomach ache all Adults warned of
roaming hedgerows looking for hedgehogs
hoping for signs of any living thing
all long fled at the collective noise you make
catching butterflies to look at their wings
putting crysillis in greaseproof papered jars
to watch them emerge for flight on glistening wings
when you return them to the wild
lifting up old drain pipes to look for slugs to race
not forgetting to put them back at races end so they dont shrivel
basking in hot sun after watching trails of catapillars
whose prickles mother later tweezers out
amidst a small flood of tears because they flame red
having a bath with bubbles then tucking up in bed
drowzy but anticipating tomorrow is waiting
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Headphones and fried food,
metabolisms and ****** moods.
Broken condoms; beer pong,
scraped up knees, rip the ****
Scratched wrists;
That kiss was more than just a kiss.
Mirrors, scales,
headaches, high heels.
Anti-depressants, cold sores,
***** toe nails, clogged pores.
Bare feet, torn shirts,
sweat covered forehead, short skirts.
Lace bra on the floor,
don't forget to lock the door
Pimples and Prozac;
************ and match making.
You can always tell when she's faking.
Pierced ears, cheap beers,
blow jobs and rich snobs.
To your last family party and first cigarette;
Raspberry tinted ***** and the first name you try to forget.
Stained underwear, tweezers and straightened hair.
Mascara and flat irons,
But in all honesty
What the **** is a flat iron?
To rice cakes and heartaches
Lice and love and public bathrooms.
Undercover cops,
Plan B and mushrooms.
A bruise so sore,
what's there to live for?
Can't have my love, can't have my *****
what happened to the right to choose?
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
To be a pirate the things I,d see,
the high waves as the ship goes
up and down, down and up on
the sea. Arrr I feel sick over the
side I will mostly be.
Swab the decks so they be as
clean asthey can be, **** this
boat of wood the splinters I be
getting, I be needing tweezers
and me mummy.
I want treasure, I want to bury
it where no one can see, I,ve done
this many times but I keep forgetting
as I have a poor memory.
I want to be a pirate, the things
I would see, but I want to put my
flag on themast a smiling skull it
would be.
I,m not a normal pirate as they
seem to say, I be to nice, and
I,m not very good at sea As I,m
always over the side giving the
fish food that comes out of my tummy.
I,m a pirate all can see, I dont
have a sword as I always be cutting
my tummy, I dont think I,m cut out
for this life upon the high sea.
I think ill do kids parties with my
ballon sword, no more cuts for me just
out of breath, as it keeps popping in me.
My choclate coins I must remember
are not to buried or to eat, there for
the children arrr no choclate for pirate me.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
there’s no way to describe the feeling that enveloped me once you left
but if i were to have to do so
i would say that it felt like cold tendrils wrapping around my neck
******* my every last breath
if i were to have to put it into words
i would say that it felt like dull tweezers plucking at my heart
tearing it apart
not all at once
but piece by piece
if i were to have to explain myself
i would say it was like drowning in the arctic
the cold water
a brutal reminder of the cruel reality
where you left me
to sit alone
and surrender to the insanity
that has slowly consumed me
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
How is it
That with a few simple words,
You tore my heart out of my chest,
Ripped it open as it was still beating,
Used tongs and tweezers to dismember it,
Then threw it back in my face,
Useless, a mess, and broken?
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
...blame the dreamer, the make-believer, the great play-pretender. blame the girl that picks up every drop of hope off the floor with tweezers. we all want to believe. even if its obvious how dangerous it could be, even when it has dagger-like thorns, and they stab your fingers. we want want want something still even though you will bleed. blame the ambitious one. blame that ******* time that always haunts us. blame the one that tries to defy it. blame loneliness, blame that empty space, that shadow that lingered for so long. blame the encouragement of self-sacrifice. blame basic human instinct, to see, to chase, to conquer. blame the amygdala. but what would it be like, without emotion, memory..it wouldn't hurt to forget to remember. blame energy. blame everything you've ever tried to believe in, wanted with every ounce of passion you had left. blame money, we're all just slaves. blame the unknown course of human life. blame the unpredictability of the circumstances in which you take your last breaths. wherever you would be, would the last scene in your play be a happy one or a tragic ending..or somewhere in between? blame analyzation and rationalized thinking, the fact that things could make perfect sense but your gut tells you differently. blame fear and anxiety, blame what scares you the most in this world. heights, change, being alone. blame the girl that always sees light but is ready for the dark, she is waiting by her windows. shes prepared for the part in the end where the actors bow and you realize, oh, yeah, fuck...this was all just imagined.
blame me. the director. the optimist. blame me, because i picked the thorned rose.
but it was just so, tempting, so extremely beautiful...
......i just take life as it comes.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
power rises in the production
deep in intangible factories
churning digestive juices into valuable
spittle
extracted through death in a warm bowl
battling with tweezers and collected
in spools to make silken wonders
for this you lived on leaves
gorged on mulberry
to vanish in a pillowcase
silkscarf, maybe a tie
poor thing whoever discovered
your intestinal value
give up your secrets
gut wrenching rainbows of delight.
man knows how to breed you for himself
somehow.
Author Notes
silk production happens this way.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
i can feel the worms
as they wiggle under my skull.
i dig them out with tweezers,
throwing them in a bowl.
but the more i dig,
the more there are
no matter where i go,
no matter how far.
my brain turns to mush
as the days go by
my innards begin to rot
and my corpse liquifies.
what began as concern
slips into terror.
but i promise,
i never meant to scare her.
Jan 15, 2021
Jan 15, 2021 at 2:55 AM UTC
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.
how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
lousy
ingrowth
here. how we
try
to
pluck
and erase
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro
has never had this one right. Operation is not
a game for ages four and up–maybe four,
multiplied by four, add four, and up.
Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped,
and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table:
I like to start with the Adam's apple–
carve away any trace of my origins
and they will never figure out who I am
because, like my mother used to say to me,
who is Eve without a blameless man.
Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach
flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar
but they cannot be caught, only drowned.
Naturally, the broken heart follows
but the problem with pulling that out is
the never-ending-silence,
white-noise-science, black-hole-giant,
You know, the absence that predates writer's block–
writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the
(best kept) secret IV of an author.
Is that the price of filling up your bread basket,
going to bed full on recognition and reward
and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize?
Be careful not to trip up on your own ego
or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle
and water on the knee.
I still have to deal with the wishbone,
the split-in-two-gravestone,
the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone.
And finally, I have the spare ribs
but I just might leave those there
because we see what happened when God
bothered to remove those the last time.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Morning abate
with hazelnut
spread on
toast that
surmount any
surprise with
lather that
only minutes
elongated tweezers
frequent inside
strand that
abet her
with hazing
particles for
extremes package
soon upon
her face
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
I was thinking about you the other day,
and decided that
I wanted to write about you
one last time.
Do you remember the letter you gave me
on Valentine's day?
It's a funny story, actually.
It's still in its little bottle.
There's no way I can get it out,
I've tried so many times,
I've nearly torn the letter to bits
by picking at it with a pair of tweezers.
I can smash the bottle,
however that letter was written over
4 years ago.
How can I bring myself to read something
that is addressed to someone,
that at the time,
you had said you loved?
To read it now feels as though
I am intruding on something
I have no business in seeing.
Near the end, do you remember when you told me
that I had reminded you of your father?
I have never felt more ashamed of myself.
I was crushed.
But did I ever apologize?
I am not sure.
I am so sorry.
Why did I make you feel that way,
I wonder.
Do you remember a couple years ago,
out of the blue,
I invited you out for dinner
after not speaking to you for years?
When you agreed,
I was ecstatic,
I looked forward to it the entire week,
but then you said you couldn't go
and that ******* broke my heart.
For just one night,
I wanted to show you
tenderness.
I had written a letter,
I worked on it for weeks,
it was page upon page
of things I was sorry for.
And you never got it.
You said we'd reschedule,
but I have not received a message from you since,
and I did not want to pester you.
But I've fixed some of my bad habits.
People now say that I am kind.
****
I wish that I could have shown you that.
I remember you telling me that
you had hung all the poems
and letters I had given you
on your bedroom wall
for your entire family to see.
I wonder if they are still there?
I hope not.
You should throw them all away.
I used to keep a copy of every poem
and letter I ever wrote,
but I've since ripped them to shreds.
They were terrible,
honestly.
Please throw them away.
What I regret most is
that I used to sign letters with my name.
I no longer do that.
What was important to know was not that Leo had wrote a letter,
rather,
that the letter had been written.
Leo has nothing to do with it.
Perhaps
knowing it was Leo who wrote it
would make it seem
cheaper or
worse than it actually is.
Or at least that is what you made me think
while I was eating dinner alone
on a certain night a couple years ago.
I am happy for you,
I really am.
It makes me feel so nostalgic
seeing you in love.
Your boyfriend seems like a nice guy
although I have no idea what he is saying.
Perhaps it is time I learn a language other than English...
And with that, I bid you, adieu.
Perhaps we will cross paths again,
perhaps not!
But this will be the last time
I ever write about you.
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 9:55 PM UTC
My rat had babies,
five days ago.
They are eight in number,
little pink and black wrinkly fingers.
Closed eyes,
Ears not fully formed,
Wriggling on my palm
in the depths of their sleeping.
I came home late last night,
and i was drawn to see them,
so i went and felt for them, hiding in their nest.
A hair twisted around one's neck and one's foot.
Tweezers and pins and delicate maneuvering,
allowed us to get them free.
They are ok now,
but one wee boy will limp his first steps
even though i stayed up all night,
raising his leg and massaging it,
hoping to drain fluid from his swollen limb,
giving him kisses
and casting healing spells.
Good vibes don't fix everything.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Time and drugs, the binding of our book.
How can I love when my heart beats
like the wings of a dying butterfly?
Hands shake
shake
shake hard enough that the leaves from surrounding trees
fall
and the salt and pepper shakers clang
China notes upon the table.
I spit on you, but I have no right
(nor left)
to do so.
Cut your hair, go for a run, leave yourself behind.
Dance with yourself or dance with the devil,
the two are one and one is zero.
Coffee, bass, thump, stomp,
coffee
coffee
coffee.
Ingest toxicity as the earth ingests the rain,
the rain that once was water-
wasn't it?
Bleeding eyes and tasteless lips and feet that touch,
soul to sole.
Who are you to dance, to drink, to forget,
while I stand stagnant
as a memory?
Come home to tearful cheeks and screams of pain,
come kiss my eyelids with your
punches,
or stay buried within your beautiful haze of smoke and
uppers
downers
all-arounders.
Capture a moment as a child captures an ant,
harmless at first
until the tweezers come out
and then-
oh,
there go my legs.
And in the other realms the time sweeps
through sands of soulless poison,
green and beautiful and stocked in slime enough to cover all of
Jerusalem.
Dance
dance
dance until you seize and your mind is a blank page of
uncried ****** tears.
And as my soul burns upward and the flames singe my
nostrils,
I reach toward the closest substance,
just push
push
push these flames back inside and downward,
before I combust into a ball of hellfire
right here on the grey tile floor.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
A speckle of light in the dark
a thought, or is it a feeling?
I approach it cautiously,
protective gloves, sterilized tweezers, chemical test kits
Douse the specimen in iodine, apply indicators,
flatten, view under a microscope, put the images through filters,
Compare and contrast with previous samples.
I strain myself to determine its nature most accurately.
Is this feeling irrational?
Maybe justified, yet exaggerated?
Or real, true, pure...
I can't tell.
I bend, I break, I wring what's left of my mind dry
but these methods are proven insufficient.
no way to differentiate
I take off the gloves.
ELIMINATE
So there's nothing in the way
THEM
As I crush their wriggling bodies between my fingers.
ALL
All I do is turn life to dead silence
It's safe after all. unchanging, stable.
Pure black feels almost soft.
Nothing but void. Just this.
So simple.
Sane.
but next time, I'll try again,
there must be
A different way
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
there is cotton in my mouth.
my fingers become tweezers, plucking, yanking, culling;
but there is still cotton in my mouth.
it reminds me of the time the spooky man from the shadows called me sugar
and then called me over like I was a cheap doxy.
avoiding him was obvious, but then dodging him became obvious and
the moment I felt ***** hands brush my left hip,
I knew I wasn’t safe anymore.
there was cotton in my mouth.
fragile like a pretty doe with a wounded hind leg,
I could not scream or attack; for there was jelly in my bones too.
but tonight, there is cotton in my mouth, again,
for different reasons; though, the same.
fear.
and while there is no bête noire with a knife
clutching onto my left hip, calling me sugar;
there is this certain bête noire I had neglected,
to discover radiant lights dancing above
and rich, resplendent tickles and tingles coming through my heartbeats.
I found a black spot; a hole or tear; rip in the curtain; stain on the carpet.
a darkness, a moon gone missing; a reversion to autopilot; comatose, asleep.
there is cotton in my mouth and my fingers still
cull the plush barrier; but it grows like a monster
and I have nothing more to say anyway.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
See all those people?
They're real; they feel,
they think, they aren't
mannequins.
I know this may come
as a surprise, but there are
other people in the
world with problems.
And by the way, the fact
that you can't find your
tweezers isn't a catastrophe.
Oh I know you need them to
perfect your eyebrows.
Just in case you forgot,
we are having a pandemic.
Oh, you want me to leave?
I make you uncomfortable.
Never mind it's freezing out,
and that crisis I mentioned, is
at it's peak.
And lets just forget that it's
late at night, and I've nowhere to go.
Just a small reminder, we have a
two year old daughter, and
I have been taking care of
your son for eight years.
Oh, it's your house and it's
not your job to put me up.
I wouldn't live with you if
you paid me.
I had a place and gave it up when
you called me, begging and crying
for my help with the kids, because
it was too much, and you
couldn't multi task.
So now I get why you don't
have mirrors in your house...
Even though you're a narcissist,
it's too painful for you to see those
reptilian, vacant eyes starring
blankly back at you.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 11:37 AM UTC
****** knuckles ****** knuckles ****** knuckles
it's four am and my head is all tweezers in sockets and
fingers in throats and
never enough sleep
****** mary ****** mary ****** mary
come and take my eyes from their sockets
with a melon baller
and hold me till i'm not screaming anymore
****** nose ****** nose ****** nose
it's almost tolerable
that my bed is empty when my nostrils burn
and everything tastes like pills
red to the core;
the always bleeding girl.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC