Syntax

I want to write you the right way, vowels for feet and parenthesis for ankles. I will scribble all the way up your legs, until I reach your thighs. This is where the writing slows and I devour you. Words start and stutter against my tongue and spill into your lap, covering skin with the sweetest expressions. My mouth holds more definitions than the dictionary. Sloppy spelling and elongated verbs, I scatter consonants like kisses. I skip the exclamation point and lavish your chest with adjectives. Apostrophe nipples enclosing my mutterings, patiently praising your soft parchment. Faint trembling and my words wobble, becoming illegible before I reach your mouth. Our lips meet; this is where the tale unfolds grabbing words, licking into paragraphs. Between tongue and teeth the greatest stories are told.

Guest Writer: Daron Woodson

I read a story once.

The main character is the narrator. He works in an office, like me. Some villain has slain his wife for a reason I don't remember.

It is a revenge story, and he is talking about his dead wife. Beaming about her. The author is trying to sell me an idea. The idea that this man loved his wife. That he really did.

The man says this and that. He says:

"She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty."

I retroactively buy everything he's said about her, and everything he ever will. I believe he loves her. With that scrap of honesty, the author's sale is a success.

Who would not forgive a man for remembering his dead love more gloriously than that? Who would hold a superficial embellishment against a grieving husband? Surely he is entitled to an exaggeration of memory.

But none for this man!

"She wasn't beautiful, but she was pretty."

And so we the readers know that this man - this character - speaks the truth. The man saw his wife for what she was, and so, when he speaks of his love, we believe him. He says she was kind, and we know that she was. He says that she was silly, and brave, and usually patient, but not always.

And we know that she was.

What speechcraft!

My love, I wish that you were not beautiful. I wish you were not so lovely. To say so is flattery, surely. It's pretty words and brownie points and sweet nothings. It must be. To your mind, it must be.

I wish I could say:

"She isn't beautiful, but she is pretty."

That I could sell you my idea, like that forgotten master of his craft sold me his.

My love, you are beautiful. I wish I could say less.

My love, you are beautiful.

Parting

his forehead touches hers, he sighs
her chin starts to tremble before the tears come
hands squeezed gently by love’s tender touch
or is that parting’s tragic tease
she can’t let go- too much of a pull
she feels like she belongs to him
but the powers that be won’t let it be won
he brushes away her hair, kisses her cheek
as she tries with all her might to stay strong
she burns this image into her mind
as she wishes desperately for time to stop
her heart tears, shatters into a sea of pieces
as she breaks the final embrace
never will she forget his expression
as she walked away with his beating heart
and left him with hers- torn-ripped
still bleeding
still beating

Body That Is Not Mine

Shower is hot and wet
And sooths my aching body
While stinging the open parts
The bleeding parts
The broken parts .
The heat of the water
Begs me to sleep,
Lulling me into false safety.
Do not fret
The walls tell me
The tile is here to catch
Bang.
My head aches close to true death.
All I want to do is shut my eyes
And feel the pitter patter of
The droplets against
This skin
That does not feel
Like mine.
Water consumes and moves
And sways me back and forth
Close to slipping…
JOLT.
Awake again
In a body
That is not mine.

Toy

I was a toy on a string
In your box
and you brought me out to play
every couple days.

I was a girl on a string
on your shelf
and you took me down
to wipe me off every time
dust began to cover me.

I was a toy girl and I
had chocolate locks of hair
and you would dress me
up in your favorites
and showcase me to
your friends and family.

I was a girl toy and I
was perfectly un-pretty
but you didn’t see
who I really was
because you’re too busy
making sure I was working

properly

in the way you had
programmed my (in)sanity.

What a Doll

Rags. My entire body is made of them. You stuffed me with your dirty cotton. The fibers you’ve dabbed on the gaping wound on your chest. Soggy, crimson- almost dripping. You didn’t bother to scrape off the specks of artery, the bits of heart stuck on the strands. Now look at what you’ve done. Don’t you notice the gore?… Ah, that’s right. Your eyes are bloodshot. Your bitterness has cleaned off all of your revulsion. You can’t feel anything now. Your entire reality is focused on a singular intent.
What was it that you told yourself? That this was some sort of remedy? A homemade heartbreak doll with which to store your hardcore suffering; an epic human-shaped gris-gris of your own creation? What did you hope to accomplish with your witchery?
Forgive me. Am I laughing? I can’t help it. This is the funniest thing yet. You convinced yourself that I could make you forget your afflictions. For what? So you can move on with your maudlin existence? Pathetic.
I was a good sport, though. So by all means, you did it. As much as you pleased. As much as you needed it. You stuffed me up real good and tight. You made my face swell and my insides rip. A ragdoll for you to abuse. You filled me up with your scarlet cream until I overflowed. Filled me up with your violent impetus. But do me a favor, will you? Next time, fill me up in my throat first. I don’t want you to hear my maniacal laugh. This is one for the books, asshole. This is the most contemptible chapter yet. You got this all down to its aesthetics. Ignore me and continue. I’ll be laughing for days.
Bottom line is, you’ll never be safe. You’ll never get away from what I represent. You think your filth will disappear if you poured your sludge into an effigy and discarded it? You are small and scared.
Throw me in with the skeletons in your closet and I will still crawl out, clenching at the ground with my nails, pulling myself into the light of day. Bury me under six feet square of dirt and I will dig through it. Burn me up and I will reinvigorate.
Why do you think I’m verbal, physical, sensory? Why do you think I can spit all these vile truths remorselessly? You think you’ve killed a part of you?
No. You gave me life.
Like a recurring nightmare my torture will follow you to wakefulness. I’ll probably survive you, too. My essence will transcend the blanket in the morgue. My echo will linger above your headstone, like a black bird cawing your infirmities. The world will hear my requiem, my dreadful bliss, my evil merriment even after you’ve faded away.
You can’t kill me. I’m the specter that haunts your bedroom. I’m the spider that lurks and creeps around in your head. Don’t try to execute me. Your efforts to blot me out are flimsy. Why don’t you embrace me, instead? Who knows, I may just grant you reprieve- but I have friends who’d kill you in an instant if they only had the chance.

Sleep Calls

I must steal away
for sleep calls.
Innocence drained
by the charlatans
of this world
must now be replaced
by bright dreams
so that then
I may be
renewed, reborn.
I can smile and face
the darkness
of yet another day.

Slowly, Love

Slowly, love
build me up
into a castle
worthy of love.

Slowly, love
give me new
windows so
that I may see
the world more
clearly, and so
that I can feel
the gentle breeze.

Slowly, love
work me with
your gentle hands,
smooth me over
so there are no more
cracks in my surface,
and give me a moat
to protect myself
in the future.

Slowly, love
just walk away and
leave the masterpiece
you made, and as the
tide comes in, as the
light of dawn rears
it’s head, let me be
swept away.

Mistakes

Altered my mind tonight
and went flying without you.
I know I promised,
never without your guidance,
but I wanted the risk
and I wanted to soar
the skies of my mind.
I’d say sorry but you’d know,
I don’t mean it at all.
So I’ll just keep on,
flying high,
and when you get home,
you can bring me down,
because that’s what,
you’re best at.

Puzzle

I am the puzzle you spend your sweet time on. You go back and forth, trying to figure out the very edges of me to first lay down the foundation. Those are the easiest of course, so why not get them out of the way? See what my favorite foods are, the hobbies I do in my spare time, the subjects I love to study… Then you’ll start trying to delve your way deeper into the enigma that is me. You’ll jam a few pieces, in places they do not belong, but it’s a process of elimination, right? You’ll shower me with your attention and I will never want for another pair of eyes. Soon, after many trials and tribulations, after many breaks and mistakes, after parting and rekindling, you will figure me out… It will be a night of joy and love and elation. We will celebrate and you will spend many moments only staring at me and admiring the image that you worked so hard to craft. Then, as you have finished appreciating the beauty of me, you will break me into a million pieces and move on, to a new puzzle, to a new challenge.

So Fucking Easy

Would you like to
Peel her top off
With a vigorous
Tug of prose?
Her pants are only waiting
For a line of poetry
To slide her zipper
Down and expose
A dirty haiku or
Limerick will be
More than enough
To remove the lace
And frilly stuff
From her hips and
Shoulders alike
You know that she
She wants to be
Bare beneath
The love of your hand
Crafted words that she
Has come to crave
So much

Tonight when the stars are high
Let’s commit a lusty collaboration
Under the night sky’s silky darkness.
The moon can be our witness
As we twist and writhe and kiss
Finding new ways to drown
In each other.
We’ll lie in the grass
Wet with dew
And lay out our souls
As our bodies become seeds
Being planted.

Guest Writer: Roxanne Moaveni

The Scorpion, The Spider, and The Snake

Stomachs glistening, sweet sweat dripping
clothes swirling fluidly around solid pillars moving
to the beat of insanity and the gasps of reality
encircle the circlers; the prey become predators.
And so the dancers dance their dance
and drag the audience in to trance
whether screaming or in ecstasy
they beg for more and oh, they plea!
The Scorpion, the Spider, and the Snake
(each have their own fair share to take
of adoring admirers..
glassy eyed followers.)
Begin their real performance.

Draining and disfiguration,
Kiss the steel, love your temptation,
Death has booked your reservation,
My freedom turns to dust.

Sleep

Warm blankets and cool pillows comfort my bare skin as I snuggle deep into the safest place I know. The ache behind my eyelids eases as I adjust to the darkness and try to close my eyes, finally. Tired tears - those that sneak out and stream away slowly after a long yawn. Feeling my own breathing decelerate and making a mental note of it between things I have to do tomorrow and things I want to tell you. Knowing somewhere in the bottom of my skull that this isn’t easy, but pushing that connected knot in my gut further down. Shrinking into the smallest form possible around my core. The smell of clean sheets. The ticking of my internal clock. The realization of being alone. The actualization of loneliness. Things much greater than myself and love much lesser than my own. The tiredness, sheer exhaustion hitting me in waves. This is how I fall asleep these days. I think myself right into a deep slumber in which I dream, sometimes about you. I am never without you, even when I am completely alone. And I know I can always call.

The tea leaves spell my future as they stir uneasily in the depths of my mug as I sip gingerly. I don’t mind the temperature. It reminds me of the easy, languid heat of a boy-man’s mouth.
I have not forgotten the leftover desire our bodies left in the rumpled up sheets that we’d slept in together. It lingers, even though he’s been gone a while. He left to go back to his corner of the country with my name twirling and bouncing off the walls in his mind, leaving chaotic cracks and destructive dents in what he thought he had already figured out. Although my name remains in his thoughts, it dare not be on his lips.
This is the alternative life where I say yes. Where I have to not let my voice grow cold on the telephone that connects us like an umbilical cord, even when it hurts to love. Here, my flesh still remains over fat over ribs that hold my lungs. As I saw him depart in the dusk of that chilly Monday evening, those lungs were stepped on, ribs cracking as I wept for love.

Bright While Light

Bright white light bulb
Bathing my bedroom
In artificial sunshine
Trying to purge the space of all its impurities.
I burn in this crucible
I bathe in the purging of my own poisons.
Razors push themselves out of my pores
As I rest on my white fluffy coverlet
Letting the white light beam down
Illuminating each and every
Imperfection.

The death of lust
Triggers fear
All will be invisible
In the earth
Someday
With no trace of sadness
Except for open-eyed grievers
At how many harbors
Can one lose their way?
Unlearn this path
Don't you dare
Try to remember
What it once felt like
To kiss me