Honed fangs behind
sweet lips.  

Lips made to caress my
skin as they travel along
my throat.
So gentle he is,
For a monster

His tongue against my
jugular;
Heartbeats quicken.
Shallow breathing
as his dark eyes
bore into mine.

"Take me," I plea, "make me into you."

You are mine...
His voice is thick,
laced with seduction
but also some sort of
tenderness.

His movements
careful
slow
calculated.

He plants a
kiss on my neck,
fangs barely brushing.

*And I do not destroy that which is mine.

she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell

simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs

and so it is -  the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas

the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-

and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below

- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-

leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go

the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...

i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -

- autumn, you know?

r ~ 10/6/14

Smiling politely in the local store,
another happy shopper that most would ignore,
but what torrid secrets lay under her grin
the tainted stigma of that hidden sin,

she wraps up her fears with the things that she’s bought,
packed into bags without a thought,
the knots in her stomach drive her insane,
for she knows that tonight there’ll  be anguish and pain,

She drinks her coffee and stares at the clock,
It’s ticking hands seem to laugh and mock,
her doleful eyes are starting to mist,
as she thinks of the bruises made by his fist,

Violently  thrown onto a bed,
pinned down and stifled as if she was dead,
pretends not to feel the hatred and pain,
as her virtue is stolen again and again,

She’s sick of the broken promises and lies,
prays to a God who never replies ,
Its all tucked away where no one can see,
longing for the day that her soul will be free.

Next to my alarm clock, on my bedside table, I keep a note
It simply says:
"It was a dream. He's still gone."
And every morning when I wake up with a smile
And roll over to trace your lips good morning,
I see the note
I don't have to read it anymore
I know what it says
I memorized it like I memorized you
{bcg}

I didn't cry today
I can't write it in a resume or post in a status or sing it in a song
But I didn't cry today so maybe that means I'll be okay
Maybe the unprompted tears or sudden screams are over
Maybe I'll never sit in the shower hyperventilating
Because I accidentally pictured his eyes
Again

When I hear his name
It’s like every one of those horrible moments all rolled into one
It’s like every time I pick up the phone to call him
And the universe waits till the third digit to remind me that he’s gone
Because that’s what he is: gone
But I can't forget the way he held my face
Or his laugh at three in the morning

I avoid sitting in certain rooms
Because when I walk by his spot
It's like it’s mocking me
"You're still here and he's not"

So I'll celebrate the first day without tears
I'll ignore people who may mention him
And when I walk into the dining room
I'll keep my eyes on the floor
So I'm not reminded that it's no longer his chair
And he’ll never be there
Again
{bcg}