Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
Slipping from my
knowledge, growing
out of reach.
You coat yourself
with foreign smells
and mask yourself from
me.
I glance back fondly
at the one you were,
and rise to see
this new person
I no longer recognise.
Can I love you all
the same?
My answer is
forever silent.
Light dawns,
and makes
your purpose
unnecessary.
And now you
stand in despair,
waiting for darkness
to cover the world
and make you
wanted once more.
Presence a memory,
touch long faded,
smell lost in the wind
and voice drowned
by screaming.
A memory or
a dream?
I no longer know.
Gnashing gums clamp
down, drawing blood
from her cracked and
helpless nipples.
She screams awake, with
a throat dry for
a hundred years, now
unfamiliar with itself.
Vision is blurry, a
painful shock of colours
with no sense.
A weight on her
chest wriggles
and her free nipple is
captured, a satisfied
murmur as it drains
milk and blood.
Small fingers dig into
flesh, spreading
a jolt through her
damaged body.
Awareness of limbs return,
and another scream escapes
at the pain from her
sacred place no one should touch.
Her life blood dripping out
and staining the sheets beneath,
gunge from inside her
still slipping from her body.
Her nipples are released
and wails begin, assaulting
dulled ears with demands.
She remains still, her
weak, naked body unable
to push off the invaders.
She had been a beautiful
virgin when she fell
asleep.
Selling spring began with
a carefully placed smile,
not too full, but
enough for lines
to be attached.
A tilt of the chin
illuminated the growing
flowers, ready to be
plucked and admired,
caressed against your
flesh to marvel at their
soft existence.
A small stroll to
capture the beautiful
scenery available,
inviting brushes
against your now
sensitive skin leads
you further into
the meadow.
A teasing push
lays you on your back,
the grass parting before
you and revealing spring’s
core beneath.
Hands reach and clench
the root, pulling and pulling
until it rips from the
Earth.
A flower you can take
to pluck away,
petal by petal.
Your nakedness shadows our safety.
I’m the one left to wait.
Emotions cannot be filed,
you’re strong because of what you protect.
Solidify the presence of flesh,
worn so long the weight goes
unnoticed.
How would it feel, to finally
lift it off?
Nobody is born whole.
Hoover of the ocean floor.
Water glide,
dancing with a mouth he can
never see.
Only a nose breaking through
the surface
to greet the salt-free
air and taste
poison.
An honourable inflation of the truth meant to save lives.
Chest light, a smile on every breath.
A presence addictively eerie
shivers through my being.
Solid, yet uncatchable.
Silent, but all consuming.
Dried tears flaking
on the skin,
mourning their loss
as they chip
away. The emotion
they carried remains,
heavy and painful
but invisible,
pressing and
pressing until
breath is short
and life becomes
suffocating.
Loss is heavy,
crushing,
crushing,
but all you see
is flaked away
tears and
a watery smile,
as life carries on.
The first week was pain,
an agonishing sting to
the heart that struck
over and over.
Nothing eased it,
you could only be
consumed.
Distractions were the
key, later, to
functioning with a
normal life again.
Don’t think, don’t
react, just keep
going, with jobs
that don’t need doing.
The loneliness
will become bearable,
one day,
but it will never
be comfortable.
Time goes on,
you begin to feel
again, happy
with new relationships
in your life.
The pain is still
there, but distant at
times, giving you
guilt that you
enjoy life while
they no longer exist.
The whole day goes
by, life back to
normal, when the
sting suddenly
returns.
You’re dead, you’re dead.
You’re really dead.
Six weeks later
and you haven’t
come back.
You can never come back.
Scribbled Thoughts