I fucked it all up, didn’t I?
and what I did can’t be undone,
I thought I held us firm
wound up squeezing too hard
now I’m left staring at the dust
it’s much more painful than looking at your face
(which remains angelic, by the way).
I’m a prisoner to my own Hades
the fires that burn, well,
they’ve burnt cinder back to cinder
ash back down to ash
in a recycled mad chaos of sorts.
I wish I could tell you how much
I ache for you
doing so would only cause me to
Doing so would cause you to
don’t be so coy
you know you’ve been blowing him out in the parking lot
leaving your half eaten panini beside me
leaving me sick in the mouth
how he stroked that fleshy thigh of yours
it’s none of my business, of course
but you’ve intruded all the same
with that yuppie glass of Pinot Grigio of yours
beside my sterile snifter of Scotch
don’t be so shy
did you let him cum in your mouth the first time out?
the residue of days old coleslaw beside me
leaving me sick on the tongue
he’ll only admire another next week
much like the half eaten panini beside me
you’ll grow cold and forgotten.
In this darkness I have longed, yet only now do you approach beneath my canopy of sentinels. Wordless, though I have screamed centuries for you. Guileless, though now indeed you have been warned.
I shall devour your pretenses; leave shorn your bravado. I am your beast, and under granite columns shall you be reborn. You cannot flee, because I have been yours all along. Your heart pumping with my blood.
Embrace me, then. Succumb to my wild. From this moment on know that I shall be your shadow in the woods. This timbered palace holds a refuge, yours and mine.
One thing that my fellow Pen of the Damned members and myself absolutely love are our flash projects – one picture and a hundred words, no more, no less, in which to tell its story or convey its emotion – Damned style. This particular photograph was taken by our very own Nina D’Arcangela, and it is truly stunning! Join us every Tuesday for a new telling of angst and horror, only atwww.PenoftheDamned.com
Your purpose seems hell-bent on serving to demassify me –
when will you learn that unlike the storms that have reshaped your landscape,
I will never seek higher ground.
I will not compartmentalize to fit any ideal but my own;
bowed still I stride,
and when your voice hits hurricane pitch in protest, I will know I lived free of compromise
The E.R. seemed quiet
a ruined man coughing up ghosts
sneezing lies of what home should be
an overweight woman bleeding from her soul,
condescending son lamenting his late night
and they avoid my gaze (well they should)
for my pain would serve only to break them.
Pretty nurse takes pulse, pressure
eyes sparkling as they meet my own
“Sir, this may hurt a bit” (needle penetrates my joint).
I laugh, make one thing clear:
The E.R. seemed quiet
now the pretty nurse choked on ghosts
wheezing breaths where life should be
if only she had looked away.