A wide path, safety and warmth
Carried me deep into myself
But the narrow road
Tempted the wild wanderer
Deep into the woods
Towards the sunset
Even down, into the earth
A girl with a dark heart
Doesn’t follow
The yellow brick road
She seeks the edges of oblivion
The adventure, the danger
All the stinging sweetness
Of pain and control
I never wanted the security
I needed the wild
So I snuck off the path
And fell into a hole
I couldn’t climb free
I couldn’t go back
Discovery gave me direction
Forced me out of hiding
Back to the fork
In my road
The decision
Which no one could ever make
For me
I brought lightning down
All around me
Boiling the very blood
Of everything on both paths
Burned down my woods
And my pretty house
The end of everything
Maybe even me
But you sat it the rubble
And showed me how we could
Rebuild
Pick up the pieces
And craft a whole new world
Bigger, tighter, brighter, darker
Give up the moon
Watch the sunrise
Find purpose
In the middle of chaos
Could this compare
To the blanket fort
In my dreams?
In my hiding hole?
In my soul?
The gold & diamonds
Resting silently on my hand
Makes the decision for me
As it whispers in your voice
Mine
So here I am, sorting through the rubble
Crafting a sculpture
From our past
Making something pretty
From all this ugliness
Finding my words again
Even as I know
They will hurt
this must be underwater love by siibel via DeviantArt.com
I wondered if
you felt it too
that tidal moon
waning
leaving us both
bereft of the drink
that
stimulates and
sustains
you do your daily chores
keeping up the
pretense
the thirst
unabated
am I changing?
turning to vinegar
that honey wine
spoiled
by all of the
bitter pills
I force myself to swallow
each day
perhaps it is me
forever changing
my heart
and my head
never quite in sync
but always
always
always
seeking something
to settle upon
searching for something
to give me
purpose
to keep me from
slipping
deeper
into the blackened acid
of my death
I am a fixer
embroidered deep
upon my soul
but I cannot fix
what I cannot reach
have I spiraled too far?
can the sun save the moon?
with only minutes
to gaze at her
every night?
No.
the moon must save
herself
don’t let me pull you in
as I drown
in the angry dark
of forever
I slipped it in there to hide it from sticky fingers and perplexed glances. It was a greedy gesture, sure. But it’s not for them.
It’s mine.
It pokes through the fabric lining a few times, digging into the skin of my thigh. But it isn’t painful.
It’s a thrill.
An injection of femininity. A sharp reminder of the girl I leave behind so often. A symbol of the self I long to set free.
I reach into my pocket to feel it’s faceted petals and silvered leaves. I hold it in my hand, letting the buzz of touching something so fine, so sweet rush through to the deepest darkest places that need it so desperately.
She stands about twenty feet away, a gorgeous girl, fingering a strand of beads and wearing a self satisfied grin. The kind I would wear, if I’d only chosen a dress, if I’d only worn the kitten heels, if is only slipped that flower in my hair.
It’s me.
As I glide it from my pocket, watching the light catch the pastel ovals to make glittery lights sprinkle across my skin, I stop thinking.
I let it find its way into my hair, and the buzz turns into a high. Wings of sparkling daisies glinting in the sun of my imagination, lifting me and my mood, brightening the world all around.
“Oh, how pretty!”
It’s only a barette.
But sometimes, the little things are so much more.
It was my hunt
a quest
to tame the rage filled
bear
coax him into
the warm, soft haven
of my mouth
to taste with
ravenous hunger
the far edges
of my bravery
and desire
when this beast
laps sweetly
at the honey
between my quivering
thighs
it is then that I take
my prey
captured
within the net of
my passion
and in return
I am
conquered
completely
ripped to shreds
then pieced
together
in loving renewal
made better
and more whole
by the healing balm
of keening kisses
and rough,
raping
snuggles
from
my precious
beast
Peeking in the windows
Of broken houses
You make your judgments
Assumptions
Based on perception
Instead of knowledge
Marking the walls with the
Graffiti
Of your supposition
No compassion for the souls
Who reside within
You think you know
That your circumstance
Gives you the right
To use
Someone else’s world
To convey
Your twisted message
Fueling the fire inside your heart
With the silence
Of that house
When really
Your muse is screaming
Trapped
Inside
One day you’ll know
How it feels
Some day
Someone will
Throw paint on
Your battered shell
Use YOU
As the
Un-indemnified muse
For their art
One day
That day
Maybe you’ll understand
What it’s like
Inside
I poured this concrete
Mixed together
The burden of love
With the sandy
Salt of reason
And the
Soft sweet liquid
Smiles
Of babes who would
Never understand
Otherwise
It churned
Inside me
Until it grew too toxic
To hold in
So
I poured this concrete
Stepped in
Waded out
Until it hardened
All around me
Now
I’ll spend my nights
Coloring pictures
Of what true love is
And lying
About the color
Of the chalk
Nothing could ever prepare you for seeing your home destroyed. Charred by flames and smoke so lethal that the life inside barely stood a chance. Then every opening bashed to pieces by men you respect and appreciate.
It’s difficult to see them the same way, after.
The smell was the worst. Acrid smoke mixed with burned timber. There could have been the faint odor of burned hair, but the melted carpet and singed insulation buried it beneath a thick plastic stench.
An arson investigator stood next to the claims adjuster, speaking a language born of their careers. Stony faces and rigid postures earned dutifully during decades of sifting through the aftermath.
Their hands were cold and rough.
A confession would make things easier, but they had the proof they needed.
The metal paint can had melted inward as the contents burned for fifteen minutes. Or more. Before the carpet in his room ignited.
When he left, he’d been smart enough to close the door. Or smart enough to not close the window.
Fresh air fed the flames until it overtook the walls and ceiling.
Then, the roof.
Molly was in bed, dozing through reruns of Friends. Spike had been sleeping on his spot in the hall closet.
Max had returned for my wife. But didn’t make it to my best friend in time.
They tell me he died in his sleep, from smoke inhalation. He never even knew.
But I know my dog. The smell would’ve woken him.
I saw the door. That closet door that we never, ever closed while he was in there. Deep grooves along the handle and sides.
Spike could’ve opened that door if it was unlocked.
In his Carhartt jacket
Broad shoulders
Slumped
Tall but unmeasured
Ruddy skin from
Working outside
In the blazing heat
And the cutting cold
Three days of scruff
Dirt lingering beneath
His fingernails
Despite showers
Every morning
And each night
Sitting on the street
In his
F150, extended cab
On his way to
Pick up his crew
For a day of
Hard labor
And
Little reward
He sits at a stoplight
With a CD in his player
No one else
Around
It plays on
Repeat
It plays that song
Her song
As he imagines all the
Minutes
They will never share
Remembers
All the times that they
Laughed, cried, fought
Made love
Ached for one another
Promised to never
Leave
Her smile in the dark
Her fingers in the light
Her sitting next to him
Toes on the dash
Drawing out a future
In kisses and laughs
He stares ahead
In the hour before dawn
At the light telling him
To go
But he stops and
Wonders
How he got there
Singing along
To that silly song
Her song
And when will
He
Ever
Stop
MelDouleur.com 