Tag Archive | Writing

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

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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)

Absent Memory

 

I took the letter you wrote me
Lit it on fire
And let the wind carry it
To the place
Where we shared
Whispered
Laughed
And lay
Between blades of grass
And blades
You used to cut
To rid yourself of the pain
You could never
Ever
Numb yourself of
When I placed my hands on your wounds
And on your heart
I tried to absorb your pain
But it wasn’t enough
For you to lose something
For me to gain

m.T

(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)

A State of Mind

A gallery of words displayed in her hand; what she will write hasn’t been planned.

A lot like her life.

Her pen moves on command, by a thought not molded by this world she sees, instead by a thought held as a secret by this girl and what she believes; a girl who does not live by the words she speaks but by the words she bleeds on a paper so white it loses its purity. The ink spreads intricately and imperfectly, where it’s allowed to be. The words she wrote are sacred, opposite of his temple of hatred. She is naked. She has come undone. One by one, one by one, words fill her world opposite of a reality she lives. She doesn’t give a shit. She imagines what isn’t real so that what is real can feel like something she imagined. She is damaged. An infliction of contradictions. She doesn’t give a shit. She takes a hit. Vulnerable and guarded, she is hardened. Exposed and closed, she takes a dose. Each word she releases into her veins travels from a needle filled with ink, numbing her and giving her the power to think. She feels freedom. She struggles with this demon. She calls it a poisonous blessing. Her pen does the undressing, of what is inside. Logic and emotion collide. Emotion wins and strikes her heart, she holds her words close so they can’t be ripped apart, like that day they tried to rescue her from her mind. They were denied. She couldn’t admit her thoughts to a world so blind. So her words are held safe and sound and bound, to a place, which can be closed and re-opened. Her words prove she can’t be broken, on pages, which have stayed intact and bound together; a life in words is a storm she can weather.

m.T

(Photo Credit: annstreetstudio.com)