parallels and metaphors

I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blood;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:

The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
-Sylvia Plath (of course)

Totally worthwhile purchase. Buy it.

cold coquette

I pull one of my legs up under my body, curling myself into the couch irrationally determined to fill the smallest space possible. My manicured fingers grip the Camel Wide cigarette, chunks of ash dropping onto dirty hardwood floor. I shift my eyes around the porch resting them momentarily on various faces, their features alternately contorting and relaxing in the ease of conversation. I take a long drag from my cigarette and allow the smoke to uncurl lazily from my lips. Then a swig of wine from my glass. "God, it is fucking cold out here," I think to myself, shrinking deeper into the couch.

It is Alecia's birthday party and the house is filled with the usual faces. Conversations take place around me and I listen in, not quite eavesdropping but not quite a part of them either. I breathe in my own stillness, engulfed and drowning in the rise and fall of cacophonous voices. The sweet smell of hookah and pipe tobacco wafts over from the other corner of the porch. I know the crisp night air should feel pleasant on my skin, but the biting January wind crawls up my leg, searching for a way into the crevices of warmth under my skin.

Swimming up from my thoughts and taking a desperate gasp of air at the surface, I turn back to Jahred and Jamie and rejoin the conversation. Jamie is reading The Art of Seduction by Robert Green, and she and I have been tirelessly trying to categorize our friends by the various types of sexual seductors.

“I’m the cold coquette” I declare, to no one in particular. Jahred’s inquisitive eyes turn to me, begging for further explanation. Jamie leans forward in her chair.

“What is a coquette?” he asks, one eyebrow raised and skepticism lining his words.

“Coquettes bait their targets with the hope of physical pleasure and happiness, but they never really follow through. They are self-sufficient, reserved and often manipulative.” I explain methodically, while Jamie nods in agreement. Nobody challenges my self-assessment. Why would they? I am those things; cold and reserved. I don’t need anyone, not really.

I take another drag from my cigarette, and stub it out in the ashtray. Uncurling my legs, I stand upright, straightening my black cotton skirt and brushing stray ashes onto the floor. The porch spins, the very first indication that the alcohol is doing its job. I’ve always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication— a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head. This party was filled with sharp thoughts and shitty memories and far too many familiar faces, and I needed my armor tonight.

I steady myself and pick my way through the crowd, slowing every few paces to greet people, give the requisite hugs, compliments, and empty promises of coffee the next week. I glance in the mirror on the wall as I pass, and force a smile. I look pretty good tonight, I made sure of that. I saunter into the kitchen and pour myself another glass, filling it to the brim. Armor. Protection. Right. Sonny hands me a glass of scotch, and I drink it in one gulp. I half-smile at him. But it's false, and he knows it. I take a long swig of my wine, shrug my shoulders at his probing stare, and turned to face the crowd again for my journey back.

My head reels and my legs feel a little weak. With an uncoordinated stumble, I sidestep my way back to the front porch, tiny waves of liquid sloshing out the top of my glass and onto my hands and ankle boots. I settle back into my empty spot on the couch, the cracked dirty leather once again cold from the freezing night air.

I shiver.

tiny vessels

So one last touch and then you'll go
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
and you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me.

splinters

It dropped to the floor. Splintered and broken, I swept the fragments into my hand. Clumsily I tried to glue it back together, but after a few feeble attempts I reealized that I was missing pieces. I recall leaving a large piece in the smooth hands of my first, his freckles and green eyes melting me into a pliable mess. I handed it over to him, it was still whole back then, and he cradled it in his gentle way. For a time. But something shifted and the ground shook and it slipped through his fingers, shattering on the pavement. We stooped to fix it together, and when my back was turned he deftly shoved one of the fragments into his pocket. I imagine it stuffed away in his guitar or perhaps his army-issued gun case. A holy temple to love lost.

I moved on, the gaping hole in the pulsating flesh making my movements difficult and laborious. My health suffered. The next sauntered along, his dark hair and shifting eyes were both charming and dangerous. I did love him, in a different way. It was volatile and violent. Words thrown back and forth as grenades, the craters left behind we patched up with false hopes and disillusionment. I was a child then, as was he. It was doomed from the beginning. But he still has his fragment, probably hidden in the liquor cabinet behind the half-empty bottles.

Others I did not love have held onto pieces I never freely gave away. Treacherous thieves that swept me up in their empty promises and saccharine words. Some have jagged pieces that cut as easily as knives. Others have splinters, beckoning for infection. There is the dark shadow of my past who comes and goes, crooning sweet lies into my ear with perfect pitch. He fools me every time. And so I kiss him, and we swindle ourselves into thinking it is so much more. There is him, his tattoos and piercings or the All-American with his blonde hair and blue eyes. There have been those in between. The mysterious charmer and the blatant asshole, the sincerely hopeless and the casual smooth-talker. I no longer care for any them.

I just want the pieces returned.

ineloquent truth

Well, fuck you then.
You were just like the rest.
Spinning your glittery web,
Entangling me in your lies;
Saccharine words spat out,
to rest in their grave
along with my pride.
In the enveloping dark,
I whispered distrust
But I relinquished, my love,
Resolve no longer strong.
Here we are, my adversary,
as I originally predicted.
You, victoriously satisfied.
Me, vengefully bitter.
Well, fuck you then.

galaxy tango

So minimal in chance-- When stars collide.
Possibilities. Phenomenons of the universe.
Two neutrons join-- Magnitudes swallowed.
Within each other, they become one of the same.
Glorious light, strengthened by the rendezvous.
Or there is us-- Each entity meeting its match,
Counterpoint in the other. Unfalteringly stubborn.
An astrophysical train wreck. Inevitable.
The explosion! Translucent, fiery. Milliseconds.
Unstoppable shock wave -- Flash of brilliant light.
Pulses and energy gone. The universe left with nothing.
Nebulas defying predicted stellar evolution.
Lone blue straggler remains. Weakened and dull.
The death of a star. What does it matter anyways?
Stars are just old light. Brilliant, disintegrating bodies,
Incandescence of years old. Supernovas and Casanovas.
The death of two is inconsequential, unimportant.
Countless remain -- raptured in the glittery death-dance.
Life goes on just fine, I suppose. The planets encircle.
The galaxies watch on, in spiteful scrutiny. Lurking.
Globular clusters bemused and entertained. Hypocrites!
Taking pleasure in this entertaining destruction.
Sadists, the lot of them. Enjoying the shining demolition.
As the luminary slowly dies – Old light extinguished.

acetic

"My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart."

"Jilted" by Sylvia Plath