I dare not look

inspired by Jacob Ibrag’s “Crawl

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I’ve put myself together,

too many times…

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my jagged edges protect me no more

from examining eyes,

nor protruding words

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fissures streak down my cheeks’n  limbs

barely visible to others;

hiding under patches;

covered by lies…

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Cutting myself when feeling for my heart,

unknown regions of  emotions –

safely ribboned off,

like a crime scene;

I dare not  look

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I dare not breathe the dark atmosphere

I dare not touch the chalk white lines

on the wet concrete

I dare not look

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– at you

London Dispersion Force

inspired by ‘Hold on‘ by Jacob Ibrag

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Gray comet ice melting in green ocean water,

that’s what your eyes remind me of… salty cold.

Our time, the bright of friction heat and falling,

the mess this ‘Us’ refuses to be –

I remember, grasping, understanding, holding,

clinging – all the same to me: believing, hoping,

My love can keep both of us safe, I’m sure

becoming haven to stormy waters…

And the comet crashes. Burning, bleeding,

consuming all I have to give, and all I am

My hull  keeps you company,  memory of warmths

I have lost, I crumble…

and let you go…

I let you live, to find your own idea of… happiness

first times

inspired by “Last Time” by  Jonathan Safran Foer

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I remember the sand between my toes

remember the first light invading the beach

remember the cold salty water

licking at my ankles, fingertips touching

remember your lips on mine

funny how seeing you – maybe – the last time

makes those first times so preciously vivid

treasured, under my veins, not zombified…

The fortuneteller told me…

Part 1

DARLING,  SWEET,  DON’T  YOU  KNOW?

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Why do you wear only black?

Nothing will bring

him back.

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Why do you cry yourself to sleep?

Love is something beastly steep?

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Why do you call your hurts your only home?

You made it an art form, a syndrome …

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Why do you keep looking back?

Nothing can change you back!

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Don’t scratch your ear with that paw!

Bleck your fangs darlin’, move your jaw.

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I think wolfsbane is your only hope…

Or you’ll be your whole life a misanthrope

Part 1 – My New Thomas

(content warning: abuse, drugs, violence) 

this is an ongoing project inspired by my headstrong weird grandma

Life has a twisted sense of humor. I always felt, the joke was on me.

Eight years ago I quit work. My hands got too shaky to pull the widths of material over my desk, too achy to slice my scissors through the fabric, too clumsy to hold a button and sew it in it’s place. My hands stopped working properly. I had to give up being a dress maker, at the age of fiftyone.

I always feared that day. I’d come home, knowing I had to stay in the morning, the noon, the afternoon, the evening. I’d have to stay the whole day. There was no place to go to, nothing that needed doing, no escape from my husband, Thomas.

Dread filled my heart, dread and disgust. Forced to be alone with him, gave me chills. I would miss work, and that was a fact. I hated my aching and stiff joints for it.

Thomas was a thin, sinuous man, with short temper and unsteady icy fisheyes darting through a room looking for hidden shadows. A nervous man looking for trouble. His drinking, the jealousy, the fights over money, the beatings – he put me through hell, for thirty-nine years. Every week, he gave me new reasons to divorce him. My sense of duty kept me by his side. I had no explanation why, not even to myself. I suspected that there was something wrong with me too, that I wanted all this horrible mess… After all, we both have been through war, as orphans, through a different kinds of hell, and we helped each other to overcome our everyday’s struggle for survival. We made it, only because we shared every scrap of food and clothing we could get our hands on.

He made shoes and bags, and I sewed and washed, till my fingers bled. We figured, we were safer, if we stuck together. So what other choice was reasonable?

We married, after the war was over.

He was jealous, a coward, a drunk. His violent outbursts made my days bitter. He kept accusing me of adultery. His drinking got worse by every day. I started hiding money, so  we wouldn’t starve.

I told myself, it would get better.

One particularly bad day, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I begged him to kill me. It was a shock to me. Hearing myself saying those words, I thought I would never speak. By that time we both had split lips and bloody noses. I almost crushed his windpipe and he broke my hand. Clutching my long kitchen knife, he screamed for money. I pulled my shirt up and pointed to the lethal spot, where he could end it all.

That day, we nearly killed each other.

Instead he fell sick. He had no more money for liquor. Delirious as he was, he wandered out at night, so I had to tie him to my waist, so he’d wake me if he moved. Nightmares rocked his emaciated body, he screamed for help, for his father and mother. Even with eyes open, he saw decaying bodies everywhere he went. His delusions sat with him at the table, they were with him in bed. He often asked me to remove the flies and the rats. Of course there were non.

A few days later, his liver gave up.

I thought he might too.

I hoped for it. I prayed for it. I wasn’t proud of my euphoria, but I felt my freedom in reach…

I waited.

I waited three days and four nights, but he did not die. He lay there, unconscious, in the fresh white bedsheets, soiling everything, with stinking brown liquid leaking from his pores. His face had the color of ash, lips parched with dried black blood. I kept changing the bedsheets every second hour. If he died, nobody would see his filth, not even the reaper himself.

On the forth morning, he woke up a different man.

The old Thomas was gone.

A new Thomas was there instead. A man, who forgot about the last thirty-nine years; one, who cried if you raised your voice at him; one, who was scared in the dark; one, who helped, if you asked him; one, who kissed my hand, when I cooked and washed for him. One, who held my hand, when we walked down the street. One, who bought flowers, because he knew I liked them.

I started to like this man.

This Thomas was a Thomas I could live with.

 

part 2 

Love, isn’t it?

All deadly things possess cruel beauty.

For soul, a hungry fire, consuming duty-

for eyes, charcoal and diamonds,

for voice, a guttural growl, then silence.

For skin, a hot summer night ‘n bright stars.

Light headed music oozing from cheap bars…

All deadly things possess magnetic pull.

You bite trouble, poison just a mouthful,

better you nibble, or lick…. Kiss! Try’n inhale.

Immune to that rush? Don’t worry, you’ll fail.

Tingling under your fingers, a nervous tic,

Lips on lips, teeth meeting with a click…

All deadly things make you sincere…

So greedy, so wolfish, so ready to disappear.

green goes great with bruises

  • content warning
  • HWWF 2015 assignment

„Nice…” Mary licked her lips with concentration. She bowed down over her right hand. „Careful now!” She whispered to herself.

The nail polish brush stroked evenly over the arch of her right middle finger. The creamy butter yellow of the coffee table clashed with the sparkling aquamarine of her nails.

The dull metronome on the kitchen wall ticked away a bit too loud. Shabby thing, she thought. The new photo wallpaper of King’s Cross Station, she put up herself, didn’t go well with the white and green porcelain clock. Mike brought it back from some garage sale. Yesterday she saw a golden rimmed station clock on the shopping channel. That would go just fine.

On the big TV screen, Emily Garner’s Jewelry Show flickered on mute. Pearl earrings and pendants waltzed into full shot. Mary leaned back and chuckled. Those earrings were pricier when she bought them last week. „Ha!” She felt lucky, hunting down the best bargains. That was her world. She could start as a pro-shopper. That’d be a great job, her dream job, in fact. Being the wife of a private eye was boring her out of her mind. Mike was nice, but never glamorous, or mysterious. Mediocre at best. The last time he wore a smoking was at their wedding.

The keys chimed as her husband rammed them into the lock of the entrance door.

„Home, hon!” Mike’s voice disturbed Mary in her admiration for the peridot pendant on the screen. She turned up the volume.

„Kaaay!” She said, eyes glued to the TV.

„Dinner?” Mike asked head poking into the living room, but Mary didn’t answer. After waiting several seconds he went investigating the kitchen instead. Nothing. The stove was cold, and there was nothing prepared in the fridge. The freezer was stuffed with frozen lasagna, and something that looked like mac’n cheese. “Dammit, Mary.” He closed the freezer and sighed. He had enough of these kind of welcomes. He felt like someone had put his head into a bucket full with ice, and his heart on the grill. „Hey, Mary? What’s for dinner?”

„What you order, Mike!” She hollered from the couch. He just stood there, head hung, arms perched on the kitchen counter. He tried to breathe in deeply. This wasn’t what he wanted to come home to. After all those hours in the car, on stakeouts, he longed for something home cooked. For something that could warm him, from the inside, like the thanksgiving dinners his grandma had made.

Mary was different. She ate like a bird, when she wasn’t on some weird diet. Everything to fit into her fancy clothes. She had absolutely no passion for cooking, music, or movies. Everything he loved. The only thing on her mind was money, jewels and fancy clothing. She worked hard for her ideal beauty, that he had to admit. But beauty was only skin deep.

Mike picked up the phone and dialed. „H’lo, yeah. I’d like to order a big pizza. Yeah, uh-huh. Top it with extra cheese, anchovies, olives, onions, salami and bacon.” Mike walked over to his wife, poked her on the shoulder, and pointed a finger to the phone. She shook her head. „Yeah. To 2352, Remington Avenue. Yeah, okay. You too.” Mike put the phone back. He thought of a shower, but decided to have a smoke instead.

Mary didn’t allow him to light a cig inside. It made the curtains yellow, she used to say. Somehow, it was convenient. He wanted out, so he could breathe again. He grabbed the lighter and threw a look at his wife, marveling at some stupid jewelry. Shopping channel. Again. He decided to take a closer look at their bank account. He’d be damned if he missed her addiction, or something. His shoulder leaned against the door, he slowly pushed down the handle.

In the living room, Mary snuggled into the couch cushions. That necklace with jade and gold was breathtaking. Only four hundred ninety nine! They were kidding. So cheap! The dark haired model wore it with a dark green satin robe, with a deep décolleté. She looked astounding. Mary scrambled to get the phone. She dialed.

The entrance door blew open. The sound made her jump, and the phone fell to the ground. „MARY!” Mike roared from the entrance. She stood. He was hunched over, carrying something big and heavy in his arms.

„What the… Stop that! Don’t carry the trash back in!” No! That was a human! It dawned on her the instant she closed her mouth. Dirty sneakers, black jeans, black hoodie, a hand flopped down and dangled lifeless from Mike’s grip. She couldn’t look away.

“Come on! Don’t just stand there!” Mary didn’t move, eyes bulging. “I found him outside, behind the trash cans.” He groaned, the man was heavy.

She scrambled to make room. “Is he… Is he?” She stuttered.

Mike laid him on the couch. “No.” Now she saw, it was a young man, limp and dirty and senseless. Blonde hair, bleeding from several cuts on brows, cheek, nose and mouth. His face was blueish purple on the left side.

„Oh god,” she gasped, hands covering her mouth. Mike turned around looking at her. She’d pass out, if she had time to get worked up.

“Water, towel, peroxide. Now.” She rushed into the bathroom. Mike’s hands seeked for a pulse. His face relaxed, „strong and steady.” He stroked over the man’s brows with his thumbs, then on the jawline. No crepitation, that was good. His hands checked shoulders, elbows, hands. Seemingly okay. Nothing broken, as far as he could see. He pulled the lower eyelids down. White. Eyes rolled back into his skull.

Mary came back with everything he asked for. “Most likely, it’s a nasty concussion. Don’t worry,” the pained expression on her face didn’t ease. He smiled at her. She was pale, her eyes glowed with the fire he used to love. There was a glint of the magic Mary meant, so perfect, so kind and caring. She was still alive in there, just hiding all these years, in the skin of this person he married. He was relieved that it still existed. For a moment, he imagined Mary’s beautiful face and her burning eyes above him, glowing in the darkness, rocking above him… Rocking him. His mouth went dry.

„Hon, I’ll go check outside,” she looked at him anxiously, „please clean him up a bit.” She was just nodding holding tight the bowl with the water. He needed to breathe.

Mary knelt down beside the man. „Why us?” she asked. The man on the couch looked peaceful, like a sleeping child. In fact he seemed to be in his early twenties, a lot younger than she thought. Her fingers wetted the cloth. The smell was overwhelming. Carefully she touched the face. She could tell, it was beautiful, even with dirt caked on his temples and the back of his head. His brows were long, lips arched like a Mongolian reflex bow. Under her hands, the skin became brighter and brighter. She set the bowl down and cupped his bruised cheek with her hand.

His eyes flew open. Green!

That moment broke into her, like a green bottle’d burst into million shards glistening in the sunlight. She gasped. The green focused on her, it begged her barely audible. “Please…” How gorgeous he was… She’d cut herself on that green. How sweet that pain would be! The green hid again behind his eyelids. A tear ran down the bruised cheek. She felt the young man sink back into the softness of unconsciousness. Mary stared in awe. She smiled a little embarrassed smile. She blushed and wondered how anyone could hurt such a lovely being.

She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll take good care of you now. Everything is going to be alright.” She whispered into his ear.