By Your Bedside

Caught in between an unparalleled universe
Where young meets old
Together
Two worlds apart
Joined by a bridge
Of blood and heart

But you and I are not different
We’re alike
We were all born
And we all die

He says
I hang from every word
As he tries to catch his breath

He holds my hand and caresses my face
Marking this moment as bittersweet
And unforgettable
A moment I want to run from
A moment I can’t erase

And although he is weathered and tired
He is full of life when he smiles
He grips my hand tightly
It’s his way of telling me not to worry
But when I look into his eyes I see Fear
Cancer is a bully

And time
Time is flying by
It’s shortened when death meets life
A Rolodex of memories flashes before my eyes
He asks Why do I have to work hard to die?

My eyes are damp
Because of what I cannot change
Because of what cannot be undone
Cancer has won

I pray that God won’t give you what I can’t beat
He speaks
Words of selflessness
And power
I feel defeat

Is there a God? I ask myself
How could he rob a gentle man
Of his health?
He looks into my eyes
And says Where there is a beginning, there is an end
He has faith that where there is love
Hearts can mend

There is
He says.

m.T

(Photo credit: annstreetstudio.com)

The Evil Counterpart

cat and mouse

I stand here before you

A

fr

              a

                       i  d.

I can’t run anymore. I don’t have the strength to climb
Anymore
So I descend, from your pillar of shame
Calloused.
I scrounge for whatever bravery I can scrape from the ground, starving for what I have never tasted:

Beauty.

I look up, and there you are

Again and Again and Again

You present yourself unannounced, following my every move- mocking me. Taunting me. You stand behind a protective layer of glass, far from my reach, where my hands have the desire to choke you. And the desire to smother your face.

That is everyday
Tomorrow
And yesterday.

I am afraid of everyday.

You’re everything I don’t want to be, are the words that roll off of my tongue, naturally
With truth.  And with conviction. Without effort
Or thought.

“Look a little closer”
She sneers
She snarls.
I refuse to look within her prying eyes…

Deny Deny Deny

Two fingers, which I have declared to the world by pointing them in a V, are now used to demonstrate the opposite of peace. They cover my eyes from what I don’t want to see, because I am at war with myself.

The girl in the mirror knows
I can’t
Be
Freed

And you caused it.

Her eyes insist a kind of honesty I have replaced with animosity. The girl in the mirror has changed
The rules
I refuse to follow.
I refuse to look.
I refuse to engage.

She disappears behind a layer of fog I have marked with each exhaled breath.
Unable to see her
I find comfort.

Face your fears- we are told. And so I’ve heard.
But what if the fear I face is… me?
And who the hell was I
Clenching onto
Every minute
Every second?
In front of you
When it was all a waste of time.
Who are you to inspect my mind?
You’re not inclined to think like I
I and I
We meet with eyes
Eyes, which are the window to your soul
A soul, which you do not have
My soul you will never steal
For you are
Just
The girl in the mirror.

m.T

(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)

The Sky is Falling

Above roofs of the same looking houses
Was a sound that pierced the sky.
A mechanical bird,
Which squawked
And cawed the sound of grinding motors
And propellers, which roared
Look at me I’m flying.
A million little sound bytes crackled in the sky
Scattered
And fell through the air
Like torrential rain
And penetrated the walls around us
And the shelf above our heads.
The invasive sound brought life to objects
While we lay still holding our breath.
We absorbed the vibrations
And images, like the ones we had seen earlier
Of bombs
Explosions
Gunshots
And people covering their eyes and ears in terror.
In the dark
We listened to the activity around us
Conceiving thoughts like
There is danger outside
We are not safe

-m.T

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Hello was the last thing I remember hearing, before I was paralyzed by him; before I had any recollection of what occurred before what occurred; before the effects of alcohol drowned out the noise around us and intensified the energy between us bringing our bodies closer; before his flirtatious tongue wrapped itself around every word and caught me by surprise; before a sudden collapse of morality covered the both of us in dust.

We were strangers among strangers.

There was something compelling about this man I didn’t know. There was a feeling of excitement, which consumed me, all of me, and traveled from my heart and moved beyond the waist down. And there I was- speechless and confused and tormented by his presence. We stood in plain view of one another, among hundreds of thousands of other people passing through the wired space between us. Despite being afraid of this feeling and the inexplicable transaction between our eyes, I couldn’t look away. The way he held his stare and grazed the grass with his feet in an effortless charismatic way; the way he interrupted the space between us and claimed it as ours made me want to devour every last bit of him. I was smitten.

There we were, amid the sound of chatter and the sound of bands playing fiddles, trumpets and harmonicas. Safely tucked away, we disappeared beneath a canopy of trees and twinkling bud lights strung together with wire. Caught in a whirlwind of sheer freedom from our inhibitions we were swallowed by our words and the alcohol buzz.  There were no walls between us, or bold yellow lines etched in the ground, declaring that we stay on our own side. There were no signs claiming do not cross or beware of broken heart. For the first time I felt a sudden urge I had never felt before and this peculiar voice behind me tickled my ear and whispered, Go in further. There in the middle of the field, among thousands of people, I was kissing a stranger- a beautiful American stranger.

And there you were- a witness to what I had been a victim of many times. You stood there and watched him indulge in what you claimed you never wanted- me. And it made you angry. I dared him to go in for another and while he kissed me I thought about all the times I stood in your shoes. I remembered all the times I wanted to disconnect myself from your displays of affection with other women. I remembered all of the times I hoped our conversations would end with, “I love you.” I remembered all the times you told me how proud you were of me and how special you thought I was. I remembered how you drove to my house to kiss me and wipe away my tears. I remember the snowstorms we got stuck in, the times we discussed politics, literature, music and philosophy, and the nights which turned into mornings. I remembered the time you looked at me with genuine eyes and said there’s just something about you. I remembered the time you told me we should just be friends.

We couldn’t be friends and we couldn’t be in love with other people.

 

-m.T

(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)

Dear Mr. Lackluster,

Fuck you. I would have ended the letter there but that would indicate I’m a lady with few words. Perhaps I’m a lady with few wholesome ones but I can assure you that I am never short of vile ones. The thought of you squirming while reading fuck you brought a tiny splash of delight to my day.  I would have left you with those two fine words -words I cherish, words you despise but then that would give you a reason to reply and frankly I could give a shit for lack of a better word. You’d prefer “care less” but I could give a shit about your haughty uptight appreciation for clean words or your mundane use of them. And while you take a gander in your safe cluster of words I will go ahead and pick pocket any insidious, undesirably yummy word I can think of just to ignite the ball of fury within what you consider a skeleton with vital organs- one being a heart. Do you have one? How do you feel? I prefer soulless, blah blah boring empty carcass. It has a better ring to it. You may not think so. You’re dead inside and so are your words. They don’t have passion or an appetite. They’re not voluptuous or sensual, nor do they drive one to sink their teeth in them. They’re not filled with lust. They’re not thirsty. They haven’t got balls or an urge. They don’t chase you until you’re out of breath. They don’t ache, desire, or tempt. They don’t penetrate the mind with emotion. They haven’t got vitality nor do they bounce about with pizazz.  In fact, your words shrivel up the moment they leave your mouth because they lack life. I suppose the only way to save your words from dying is to pop your bubble wrap containing them. I will free them. I will expose them to a tongue, which isn’t afraid to lather itself in shock and disdain- a tongue which pleasures itself in getting dirty.

Sincerely,

The girl who plays with fire

 

-m.T

House of Cards

 

Fuck what we are and what we’re fated to be
There’s a deeper story of make-believe for me
And there I was imagining a world of my own
A world with no faces for I was alone
I found myself in the weirdest of places
In a house of cards of spades and aces
Where the Queen of Hearts was screaming, “Off with her head.”
And there I was, not knowing what lay ahead.

-m.T

(Photo credit: annstreetstudio.com)

The Seamstress

Here she is
Something
For you to look at
Something
For us
All
To look at.
She is looking back at you
She dares you to look further
To look beneath a sewed canvas of skin
Which covers life within
A body containing trinkets collected along this journey
You call life
She calls fantasy
Because it’s always been better this way.
She stands upon a wooden stool
Holds her breath
And tilts her head back
To the fluorescent lights she imagines is the sun.
She stretches out her arms
She imagines her arms are wings
Wings she can use to fly away.
Her feet begin to levitate
She frantically flaps her arms
And defies gravity.
Her spirit is seamless
Her wings are broken
She falls to the floor.
Seam-less
She is pricked with a needle
A knotted thread weaves
In and out
He pulls
In and out
Sometimes catching the knotted thread
Between her open flesh
Every now and then.
She doesn’t bleed
Her body won’t allow her to
Sacrifice
Herself
For something she doesn’t believe in.
She withstands the pain of the knotted thread
And her gaping flesh
Which absorbs the air she cannot breathe.
Still she stands
Eyes shut tight
Lips pressed tight
Hands clenched tight.
She leaps forward
And opens her hands.
Her fingers comb the air
And time holds still.
She grasps the needle
She can sew her own skin with
Skin, which is not tender and soft
But rough
Covered in sharp fibers
Splinters pushed into the skin of another
A touch, which electrocutes
You
Electric shock, which pulsates through your body
Channeling the message that
You
Do Not
Have
The right
To
Touch
But you felt you had the right anyway
Because
THIS
Is
Not
MY
Body
But YOURS
For the taking
Dear Sir:
Who I thought was kind
You are mistaken
I am Mine.
The day I bleed
Will be the day
I have sewed my own skin
With my own needle
Sterilized from the disease which you spread
And while I stitch
I will look back at you.
Now look at me
I dare you.
Now touch me
I dare you.

-m.T

(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)