(meth)enhim

I’m not going to lie and say this is my best work. I’ve had trouble writing for a while now, but I just needed to get some thoughts, some things out on the paper tonight. If you couldn’t tell, I’ve been reading a lot of Ellen Hopkins lately. 

 

Schllliipp

the noise of matches

in the darkest hour

of his existence,

crushed up against

the inner workings

ofa glass tube

hoping to find

the last drop of innocence

oozing in the empty buzzing space

that lies

inwhatshouldbe

brain matter.

 

Teenage doubt

is not the only stench in the air,

wafting from alcoholic lips,

emotional fingertips

and too much cologne

hoping to cover the sweat

of too many monsters

found under the bed.

 

There’s a party going on

in bedroom closets

where sevenminutesinheaven

has tick-tocked into

a life-time of regret

and the reek of need

is stronger than the

perfume of confidence

and holy things like

his lips on her curves,

toes wedged in floor cracks

as they rock back and forth

in the celebration of too many

canvas paints

spread together into one color.

 

Rainbows have come

from more haunted spaces

than the cavern

that dwells beneath

aching atriums

and twisted tongues,

clinging to the mass

of the last shipwrecked

dream

America fed him,

mama singing nighttime

lullabies between

tears,

trusting this time

willbe better,

that his smile

wouldwreck the world

wash wicked souls

into the ocean

of fire.

 

I wish I could tell you

that at least this part

was true,

butI still

have not found yet

who decides

what holes need plugging

first

when a ship is quickly sinking

into the sunset,

leaving memories burning

in the opening of your mouth,

shattered in the scent

of his high-

tened need,

crawling into the teeth

of the monster. 

 
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Ruptured

can I kiss you with my scars,

make love to the littlepieces

you leave tucked in your

missingletter crosswords?

would it make for a better story

when our souls go out at night

and you are left with nothing

but the pale shadow form

of your sweat left behind

in the shape of your heartless body

from the night before?

 

and when I make sense

of all these tribulations

will you extinguish them,

or will you peel back

the exoskeleton

and add me

as another slash mark

splayed in your wallet,

as another discovery

conquered,

nothing more?

 

I want to be what moves you

when the world is full

of languid desire,

a restless form

sprawled neatly

across the pillowcase

as time ticks,

disintegrating our heartbeats

in brilliant unison. 

 

There’s still so much youth

that needs to be aired out of my bones

and right now

it’s lying smothered beneath my frailty

finding itself

in the rings left behind

after shots

taken alone in the kitchen

after emptiness

is wept out in the wind

and whispered

in broken book ends.

 

world,

I’m ready to puncture

every imaginative impulse

you’ve attached my name to

branded on pieces of rocks

to weigh me down,

leaving me to wonder

why pride

was my bedpartner

taking half the covers

and more than that

of my heart.

 

I shouldn’t have to explain

what fragments

of my past

lie on the path of destruction

for today.

What moments replay

–monumental against

the grain of the sunrise

I’m swiftly running towards.   

 

so tonight

is it okay if I just sweat out

the pain

and breathe in the mist

of your frantic longing

until the cradle

of this bottle

exhales me

as a full blown woman

and no longer

a frightened need,

a mist on the seas of change

hoping one day

to blow like the lilacs

and change the tide of the world. 

Inner City Hauntings

This one was just published this last semester in my community college writer’s publication. I was blissful, as it was my third official publication. I foresee many more to come in the future. Again, sorry about the stupid spaces between lines, I’m still becoming familiar with wordpress.

Inner City Hauntings

 

At age fifteen, Diandra knew all too well

the frustration that came

when she couldn’t get her baby

to stifle its cries for her loving

at two in the morning,

after she’d spent the darkness

at her best friend’s house,

putting her nose to too many

countertops, hoping to find her sanity

in a life full of mistakes

and midnight makeout sessions

in the back of his car.

 

She wishes she could rid herself

of too many demons

floating around in her bloodstream,

making her veins heavy,

and her heart slow.

 

But when she looks into the mirror

all she can see are the bulletholes in her eyes

left the day she saw her father

writhing in the street,

the blood around his head

a perfect halo

painting the muddled image

of the thug life

he chose at eighteen

as the only way he knew how

to provide for his family

on the streets of Brooklyn

when all he wanted was out

of the rat-infested apartment buildings

and the cigarette cloud

of frequent attempts

at amnesia.

 

So she cries

to the razor she calls a paintbrush

leaving perfect little designs

Picasso would be proud of

hoping to hide the ghosts that pulse

between the temples

where her goddess

is suffocating 

from too much wrong adventure

and not enough breaths

taken in the sunlight.

 

Last Thursday night,

when she couldn’t stifle

the cries from the baby crib

Diandra figured a little whiskey

in the baby bottle never hurt anyone

so she cradled him in her arms

breathed kisses in his formula

and prayed the Lord to keep

him silent while she slept

the afternoon hours away

in regret,

tangled in the blankets

on an adventure only her brain,

high on pixie dust,

could feel between the memories.

 

Maybe instead of being afraid

of the monsters hiding under the bed

she should worry

about the spirits dwelling

beneath her fingertips

when all she wants is to find peace

at the bottom of her wine glass.

 (c) copyright by Rose Kendall