Lonely Men

There's something about lonely men

Who stand and wait for the world to start

So they can live. 

It's not anything that you can put your finger on

Watch him smile and laugh 

But his eyes

He leaves with a woman every night

Same, different, they're all the same

Spends his seed but not his soul

There's no soul to spend

Or there is, but it's just locked up tight

He has no key. 

There's something in you that screams

To save that lonely man

Even though you're still the same girl

You can't. He's spent

And you'll be spent too, and just be

Another lonely

Spread the disease

Spread the loss

Spread yourself too thin

Spend yourself in another, find 

A bright flash. For a brief

Dream in another's embrace

There's something about lonely men

Who laugh but make you cry

You want to hold him but

His loneliness will be yours

He is just a mirror.

There's something about lonely men.

On Being Unique

It was the morning
After
That I woke up and realized

I was not
Important.
I knew
Deep in my
Heart that I have no
True defining characteristics
Which set me apart
From the rest. Others have had
My opinions thoughts hopes dreams despairs
Jokes, even looks. I am simply here to fill
An empty space, to warm your bed.
At night while you wait
In breathless anticipation for your
True love. I would scream
And gnash my teeth and pull my hair
But guess what-
It's all been done before.
What use is a scream which sounds
Just like another scream?
If I decided to take my life?
That too is an option chosen by
Too many. No matter where I go
Someone
Has been there before.
The path less traveled? Fuck,
The world is a parking lot.
We all sound and look and breathe
The same
And crave
To be set apart (but not too far)
I think the funniest bit
Of my realization is- it's something
We've all realized before.

Just A Doll

I wish that you could see the way

That I see me every day.

I guess I will begin by drawing you a doll.

Now, starting with her head which

Is inhabited by

Strays and Frizzy tufts of

Not quite curls. There are a couple

Bald patches where unkind  hands have

Yanked. I don’t mind really as I am just

A doll.

Maybe unkind is too strong a word.

I’ve been carried and dropped

Again and again by my hair

In the arms of Selfish

Children. Maybe not unkind, but

Uncaring. Because I am just

A doll.

I am missing an eye, and the other

Wanders aimlessly- flitting nervously

But never settling on any one

There’s always something better

Beyond my sight, or so I’ve been told.

I can’t really remember the color

Were they blue and deep as the sea?

Or green glass? I guess it doesn’t matter as I am just

A doll.

The stitches of my mouth

Are frayed and a smile won’t stay.

Would I be lying if I said I’ve tried? Probably, yes.

But in the end it’s silly to make

Any attempt as I am just

A doll.

My dress is threadbare, and not quite

Long enough to cover, as I sit.  

Some maintain this as a tool for judgment but

Parts have been ripped and torn and

Lost over time. In some places, it’s patched

Where someone had enough care to try

To heal, but the more common

Are the little holes that don’t quite let one sneak

A peek. It’s all in fun and no harm’s done as I’m only just

A doll.

The dress really can’t quite hide

That I am missing my right arm. And

If you would ask me where did it go?

I would laugh and say I hardly know.

I think really, it was I who left it behind

And not the other way around.

And really what does it matter? In all honesty

I remain essentially the same and just

A doll.

One of my legs does not really bend the

Way its supposed to and I guess

It is supposed to hurt but really I’ve grown

So used to the discomfort so that if it’s gone I will

Feel more broken than before.

And before you say I should probably get that checked out,

I’m letting you know right now that I won’t.

It doesn’t make any difference because as you

Probably know by now I am just

A doll.

I think that it is safer

And easier to remain this way.

Dolls don’t bleed or cry.

We can lose our limbs but never

Our lives. I take pride in saying I am only just

A doll.

Empty Space

Have you ever stepped between a dream and a nightmare?

And seen nothing there?

I have stepped inside that space.

And choked.

The rising bile in my throat

Burned.

And each swallow forced it up more.

Tears have ripped my face apart.

I wish I could scratch off…

Have you ever had truly violent urges?

That have left you shaken?

Not stirred.

I am afraid of that empty space.

Between dreams and nightmares.

It’s a much smaller space than you could imagine.

A shallow puddle that stretches to the ends.

I have stepped off the edge of the earth

Only to fall to the beginning again.

I am stuck in a stupid song.

A simple scratch on the record.

I have set myself on fire

Cut red rivers into my skin

I don’t feel it anymore.

I see your words and I want to die

Because you mean nothing.

I’m stuck in some empty space.

I would ask you to save me

But you’d only walk away.

A New Book

Every once in a great while

I feel the need for a book.

So I go to my library, and look

For something I haven’t read before.

But somehow I have the uncanny knack

Of checking out the same book again and again.

I really am not such a great fan

Of the ending

But still I read and hope for something different.

I swear I’ve made a list

Of the titles to never check out again

But if this book can change its title and cover, and hide

Under a new name-

How can I avoid it?

I listen for all the tell tale signs

“I’m not a jerk. I’m a nice guy.”

These are my red flags that I’ve willfully ignored

I know the story now, I know how it ends

So what’s the point of beginning?

Each page I turn I know what will happen and

I dread being right.

I pray to be proven wrong.

I really don’t see the worth anymore,

In going to the library and getting a book.

Knife, A Haiku series

I could sit and stare

For hours at an empty chair

Waiting for your touch

I’ve dreamt of that touch

The smooth caress along my

Thighs. The thin white lines

That show our story

Whispers of our broken past

You’ve penned into me

You’ve ruined me for

All the future men that see

Signs of my distress

They know I’m empty

And have nothing left to give

As I’m still waiting

For your silver kiss.

I know your kiss is poison

But still; I need it.

I need your frigid

Bite. The methodical cut

Burning peace at last

Every day I stare

At that stubbornly empty

Chair. I won’t give in.

I tell myself this

And hold you in my trembling

Fist. Just leave me be.

Go away, let me die.

Please release me from your cage.

I swear I will not.

Musings

I am an untapped well of
Bitter bile. Run while you can.
For the slightest push of your hand

Is poison Overflowing.

“I’ll grind your bones to make my bread,” you say.
“Please do, dear Giant, for my bones are glass
And everyone knows what wonders
Ground glass can do for one’s constitution.”

My bones are glass, my heart is stone-
Broken into two pieces, three, four, five?
I’m too exhausted to care, really
Let me know if you can find it.

Be sure to dust off the sand and dirt
Use duct tape to put it back together
Everyone, dear soul, knows duct tape cures all.
Too bad it hurts like a bitch when you rip it off.

It hurts like a bitch but I promise
It’s the only time I ever really feel.
So please, make me scream like a little…
I beg you to just let me feel something.

If I scream too loud so as to annoy your sensitivities
I’ll let you pour sand down my throat.
Let me choke and stop pretending to try
Unless, of course, you get off watching me drown.

I guess that’s ok then, too. You’ll just
Build me back up again because don’t you know?
The more heat you apply to sand,
It just becomes glass again.

A Mother's Wish

Her hands are cracked,
Aged and calloused from
Long nights filled with warm soapy water and

Soaking dishes in sinks.

Her husband is loud,
Aged and boisterous after
Lengthy meals with multiple courses; he loves to soak his
Bread in soups (though she tells him time and again it's uncultured).

What does she know of culture?
No time to read, or see
No time to even watch the changing world outside
The window over the sink where a yard is
Shared with the neighbors and their son.

He's tall where her husband is short,
Slim where her husband fell to seed.
She watched him go from ungainly colt towards agile youth-
And glowed with pride whenever he gained some triumph,
As if he were her own.

And then, innocent pride turned towards
Something else. Something frightening, and scary, and
Thrilling. A new emotion clouded her mind when she
Saw her own daughter's change come.

As her daughter began to awaken and to question
The woman began her own reawakening.
She began to question the stolid filth of a man she once loved
And her own worn and wearied hands.

She saw the smooth unblemished fingers of her daughter,
Delicate, thin, and spritely- symbols of her youth and freedom
And grew jealous. And when she saw that
He also saw her daughter's fingers, her heart turned to stone.

She began to dream then, that it was she with
The beautiful fingers. That she would run them over
His trembling lips and lightly brush his eyes.
She dreamed with her daughter's hands and mouth.

For months and months, the three danced this
Quiet dance. A mother pulling strings, and living through
A loving daughter. A boy in love with ideas and words and women
And fingers. Gentle, young and nimble fingers.

And as quickly as it was begun, it was over.
A young daughter ran into a welcoming mother's arms and
Cried out, saying "He's in love with another!"
And a mother's heart skipped a beat.

And later that night,
As a mother bent over her familiar sink with
Familiar smells, she saw a light from his window
And saw his beckoning hand.

The Wall

There is a man who stands behind the wall.
Is he mine? Can he hear my call?
If so, he’s still standing behind the wall.

Does he see when I bring home
A friend? Does it matter to him that night
After night after night the friend is different.

More than it matters to me, I’d think
But still, he doesn’t move,
From his place behind the wall.

Does he watch or turn away
Giving me some modesty I don’t deserve.
I don’t know because he’s standing behind the wall.

I rip into their backs with my nails
And pretend I am tearing down the wall
But I don’t want to see him standing there.

A face of silent sorrow, or a mask of hatred
How would my man look on?
As he’s standing behind the wall.

Does he stiffen with each scream?
Faked or unwilling?
Can he hear everything behind my wall?