Unfinished Prose

They’d lived in the upstairs of the train station for as long as she could remember. It was an old architectural marvel that always drew a crowd, gaggling over the buttresses and curvature of the cool stone. She’d sit on the roof sometimes, taking in the rich scent of steam and food wares: soft, questionable pretzels and hot coffee brewed far too long. She smiled at the thought of passers-by gazing up at the magnificence that was her home.

Her room was a tiny thing, and the door tilted sideways with the wear of the building. She’d jam it closed and have a little piece of somewhere to call her own. Each day she’d wrestle with the bed sheets to place them properly - properly, as she was wont to do - and each day she’d rack her head on the askew bookshelves that lined her walls. Her books were well-loved and musty with age but she still carefully dusted each one, lingering over the spines, touching the names of forgotten authors from a time since lost.

Often she’d catch herself gasping for breath when the room suddenly seemed to close in upon her, blackening before her very eyes. She would place her hand upon her chest whispering, “Not today.”

On one such occasion when she felt she was losing her sight for good, a man knocked upon her door with a force that knocked the air back into her lungs. Panting, she opened the door and gazed up at her savior.

replaced

dad sighs, he’s heard this all before
and can do no more than he ever could,
he can’t do anything at all.
the spaces inhabited by me and mine,
my thoughts bouncing, encompassing
the walls of my childhood room,
a room in which my childhood was stolen
by a monster, too crafty to hide in the night -
she hides in plain sight.
boxes packed and passed on through,
empty walls, dust-covered blinds,
temporarily blinded by uniform light —
a stranger to this forsaken land.
new paint changes nothing;
they’ll still find the desperate carvings
in the corner of the closet where i hid
(unsuccessfully) from fisted fury,
the blood, browned from age
fallen from bitten lips and slit wrists
still hiding within these walls.
i look back, i curse myself.
i am far too old to be so broken,
but i can’t help but be broken by you,
and i think you know it.
break me again; bring me back to that place,
and spare the others - they know not who you are.
deliver us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re getting better at obeying now, although sometimes you think I’m playing with you. Anyone who knows me knows how serious this is - but they all just laugh! They think it’s funny that you can get me riled! Soon you will understand consequences, though!

11-1-92. I was 1 year and 2 months old.

Oh, how I understood. And will always understand.

You won.

Dream Boy

I fell so in love
with a boy from a dream;
which serves now to show
things are not what they seem..
The slippery slope ahead
leads to nothing but pain,
but what I wouldn’t give
to see my dream boy again.
From now on I’ll sleep
a little earlier each eve
and pray that he comes
and takes not his leave.
So then when I wake
he’ll stay here with me —
the venturesome boy,
escaped from a dream.

delinquent

broken bones cupped in hands held outstretched
phalangeal wings
twisted, curling mischievous smile forming,
"but mommy, i didn't mean it!"
signs all point to the inevitable;
the unmistakable truth
glass walls for prison cells and
he sells his modesty, honestly
while crushing those helpless in his hands.
they were made for strangling,
wrangling hyperactivity passed off
as normalcy but
behind double-sided glass,
toys strewn, pen scratching, tapping away,
his normalcy fades into concerned glances,
shrugged shoulders, and,
"well, we can't seem to find the problem."
this is how serial killers and abusers are made
they appear from mangled dolls and
broken wings, they come from magnifying glasses
and missing pets, a collar collection
hidden in a secret place.
they are made of honesty and promises,
manipulation and enabling mothers,
too sick and tired to do much of anything else.
this can only end when, exhausted,
they throw up their hands and scream,
"enough is enough!"
hands cupped in handcuffs,
the wind carries her baby away.

Vanishing Act

If you’ve a minute, please -
if you have time to spare,
I’ve got a few things to say,
come with me and I’ll take you there.
Through brambl’d, twisted paths,
crossed a Narrow Sea,
I found my way back to you,
and you found yours, to me.
Sweet symphonies praise you
with every passing note,
songs I’ve kept on repeat
perpetually drawing you close.
So now, my dear, sweet love
where do we go from here?
I hold fast to these moments
lest, like dreams, they disappear.

AD 2014

Words spill forth from your pretty lips:
they hang in the air, crystalline -
I can part them with my fingertips and
they become a part of me.
Sweet, bright, everlasting beacon,
you bookend my days with starlight;
you pierce darkened corners with
radiance, illumination -
wickedness lingers not with you near.
Secret smiles forming,
cheeks reddened with desire,
memories of times since passed
and pangs of guilt for time lost.
You carry Venus within your crest -
passing over, enduring…
I hear the chorus chanting -
their voices swelling
with adulatory praise for you:
Eärendil, hail Eärendil!
Brightest and most beloved of stars.

2:37 am

it blinks in the night,
piercing blackness
with dim, back-lit dreams.
hands clamped around controller,
as a toothless “stranger” strolls —
interrupting sweet silence.
frozen in solitude,
this was my haven.
slimy fingers trace
paths on unwilling thighs
(muffled sobs, stifled cries)
excuses made, blame’s taken,
three proverbial fingers
pointing back to me.
fifteen-year-old fuckup,
run away love
seeking naught but
gaining attention.
what went wrong, sweet girl?
nights turned to weeks alone
loneliness abound,
when suddenly surrounded
by swirling orbs —
assumed human forms.
two fingers split slitted innocence
wincing pain and breathless confusion,
never felt the need to doubt trust -
as strangers go, you were the strangest;
the newest, and i
will never trust again.