“The Haunting”

A darkness fleeting.

Your own light bulb,

crushed under your own two feet.

A smear of blue.

A drop of red,

on your stomach,

the side of his bed.

A danger,

a relic.

“Convince me,”

he says.

You can still see his voice,

a shadow,

dripping in barbed desire.

Something tangled up,

between your thighs,

around your pretty neck.

It was only the sheets.

 

 

“Me Merciful”

Fighting by your hands,

lingering in the stairwell.

My fists tucked between my thighs.

You breathing my breath,

stealing much more than my sunrise.

How did this happen?

Who is to blame?

Was it the night sky,

who brought us together?

Or was it the rain?

Caking my skin with marble,

encasing by your touch.

You were gone

before I had a chance to dry.

“Afflicted”

Crossing the abyss,

where my heart sits,

waiting.

She’s weeping,

ugly,

her thick legs stretched in front of her.

Stabbed with pins,

arms behind her back.

She’s surrounded.

No beauty, just a beast.

Her eyes won’t leave my face.

She won’t give up.

I know that, because she’s mine.

What should I do?

Her eyes implore me.

Now I’m the one crying

diseased tears,

ruining,

running.

She doesn’t understand:

I can’t.

I can’t free her.

I’m not enough,

I never will be.

Can I learn to love,

the way I see?

A tightrope walk of shame,

to be vulnerable.

Her ugliness is a feat of pure strength.

I wish I was that sharp.

“Manifesto”

She crumbling in places,

too modest to lower her collar.

Not a nun,

named after a dead relative.

Paint-splattered and weeping instead.

In the downstairs bathroom,

she’s Roxanne.

Roxy,

to the bartender,

and Rox to the milkman.

In Disaster,

she’s just another pretty face.

She can’t afford a canvas,

so she uses herself.

Waste not,

want not.

She refuses to turn the light off.

There are goblins downstairs,

and bottles under the bed.

Life’s never like that,

her real name is Mary.

“Grain of Perception”

There she stands,

a pillar of salt,

an obelisk.

Her lungs were taken from her,

because she looked back.

She with her eyes like desert pearls,

now covered in sand.

How dare you,

dripping ink on her canvas like she is something to be written. There is no story here.

No one wins the battle and the war does not exist. It is only her, standing there forever because she dared.

And when the night finally falls, tears drip from fingertips,

only you do not get to be the one to wipe them away.