Tag: creative writing

I checked the time
before walking home.

a habit.
10:26 pm, no magic
in that but the drizzle
feels good on my bare thighs.
my obsession with clocks
began years ago,
616
313
919

everything in threes,
I am sobbing in front of the
young attending.
and I just can’t stop reading the titles.
begin to pick my lip.
sometimes I feel like I am choking.
sometimes I think I am willing it
through like it’s a choice
to breathe or not.

they didn’t check my throat,
not even once.
sympathetic nodding,
no real connection to the
young man but an hour of
purging. weeping.
wrote me a prescription to see
a psychiatrist about my
self diagnosed OCD.
I am always arranging everything.
I call Monday.
the psychiatrist doesn’t take my insurance.
can just peculiarly count rhythm
hearing a few notes.
and can align thoughts with
crescendo, and can align time too.

I decide to skip it altogether.
collect new rocks for
my mantle.
move art in new corners
spend a day composing.

later i will find out
that i have severe dysphagia,
a nodule in my throat.
and that swallowing is in fact
the most insidious
danger.

there are nights I don’t sleep.

“3:13”

it took me two hours
to let the ants out
of their  sugar container.

my vicious sneer
melting into your chest
nearby as they scrambled,
running every which way
as I considered retrapping
them, trying again to watch
them suffocate.


they say I’m a masochist
but my men know me
differently. a
sense of loneliness
led me to look for families
which left me enraptured
by cults.

I mark the corners
of my house with
sigil, command.
I’m surrounded by
five mirrors,
in the favor of
male form, my blade lined
mouth opening. 

“The sadist”

the water is lavender scented,
red, full of salt and pink roses
and
you say nothing for the hour,
allowing me this still and
grand ballet of thought.
of ramble and kiss the back of
my clean neck so
softly, I melt and stick to your
chest for the remainder.
all the ways in which we’ve sat
in water a dozen times before
doesn’t compare to just once,
in tactility, not in musing.

your eyes were green once.
and woman.
you are letting your nose
rest between my shoulder blades
and I am close to sob.
I am letting it emerge.
I am letting it rise before
beach, caught below,
the little girl with book
in hand, snickering.

one of my first memories is
taking a shower with my father.
he laughed a lot.

you just have to begin.
you hold my hand
when I speak.
I am nervous inexplicably.
just existence is a trial.
count the candles.
set the rocks.
in my waking hours,
I practice walking across a lake
with black boots.
it’s an icy sidewalk on
a ledge but I pretend
that it’s a long pond.
have 13 visions of every way
he’s cut to pieces in front of
me, swallowed by the
ground.
when he first comes around,
I notice my wrist,
then my jaw,
surrender.
I have an urge to burn the
house down first
but in a long quaver,
forget the nonsense:
the counting of the pulse,
the spotty mason jars,
my blood dripping on a red
throw blanket, laundry,
my childhood–effete,
mold speckled shingles,
my sullen dead father
and his one last breath
alone,we think
sometime after midnight.

if you shrunk her to the
size of a pine needle;
remember her
previous stature–
platformed boots,
four inches taller than she really
was and towering some men,
not just in height but in
arrogant loquaciousness,
abrasiveness,
wealth.
but if you shrunk her and
hid her in the bunk of
a barn underneath the bales,
I don’t know,
he waves his hands,
for revenge.
you could even tape her mouth
shut, quell the
squawking

I bet
she would shine
like a comet;
self immolate,
ignite herself and
begin to set the barn on fire
so you could find her.
I bet

yes every time
that even hidden like a penny
in a cornfield
she’d grow vowels, legs,
a scream.
made sure you would
find her.

“how guys save me in their phone #3”