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Sunday, December 14, 2008

Her nose


crinkled in a scorning disbelief. A scoffing disgust. She knew that he meant it. She hated to believe. Her insides resisted, but her chest still heaved. With the weight of his love, flooding in from somewhere, and lifting her ribcage inspite of itself.

"You're lying."



Clara stated. Her eyes dark, flat, matter-of-fact. Voice low, empty, hollow, small. "You're lying," she stated. With steps even, simple, direct, away. Hair indifferent, casual, careless, straight. You're lying. Like she meant it. Like it didn't hurt.

Clarence is



tightening his tie and looking uncomfortable. He's looking uncomfortable like someone may say something which will make him feel so. It will make him uncomfortable because he won't be sure quite how to answer without being dishonest. And Clarence is the type of man, my friends, who in those crucial moments, knows not how to lie.

In an effort to ease this imminent discomfort, he had unbuttoned his shirt collar and tugged loose his tie. Subconsciously, and in advance, he was bracing himself, he was easing his breath. He was hanging his head, with his eyes to the side. The question approaching, crawling slowly all the while.

But, then it paused, poised. Lightly, slightly, surely, slyly, teetering, teasing, sitting on the ledge. Letting the unbalanced weight of its uncomfortableness pull it torward--- now totter forward--- falter, l e a n--- and finally fall!

He had loosened his tie, looked down, to the side. Yet in doing so, he had thus exposed.. . the flesh of his neck. And if his neck, then his chest, and if his chest, then his heart. Spoiling any attempt at false, feigned response.


So, Clarence is clutching his shirt collar; he is tightening his tie. He doesn't want to tell untruths. He doesn't want to break, to cry.

Finally, he feels her hand.
Nothing more, now, need be said.
It is sure, she feels, she knows.

She will die.













[And this is death]

Saturday, December 13, 2008

it hits like a




flash, like a slap, stinging whip's crack. then she's recoiled with claws poised, awaiting attack, or waiting to scratch. don't come near now. can't comfort a spooked cat.





[curse of insecurities//can You heal me, set me free?]



Thursday, December 4, 2008

five : forty-five a m


the black beyond the screen is inky. blotting out features and figures and furniture, thoughts. my shin is sore from who knows what. and i still feel faintly like a failure from last night. but even with the wailing and vomit and the sad frustrated face, she did fall asleep on me. she slept so soundly and so sweet. waiting or not waiting. awake, but still waking.



* * *


this is my warm up.
my first breath.
my break up.
my new start.
my new day.
my long say.
my heart's sway.
my hold on.
i'm holding on.





[ goodmorning princess ]