Anatomy of Manipulation

Body tense

Mouth dry

Leaving her without

As much as an alibi

You scream

You yell

It’s all her fault

When she stands for herself

And tells you to go to hell

But you shame

How dare she call you names

Her hands

They shake

Neck sore

Fist clenched

She keeps edging toward the door

The urge to run

The need to fight

Not knowing which one

Is wrong or right

Heartbroken

Tear soaked

As she cries out in mental pain

She forgot the good times

You blame

How dare she do this to you

To your good name

All is not fair

In love and war

When you spilled her name

On every bathroom floor

You chose violence

You chose this path

She didn't choose

This aftermath

You slandered

And handed her

The excuse to leave once more

When every red flag

Led her to that same door

The one she’d avoided

But could do so no more

Because what was left to fight for

When your love was no more?

Poem: Villain Era

 I’ll be it
the villain 
of the tale you tell
To make the shell 
Of who you were
An interesting man
For striking down the snake
In the grass you watered
Until it was too much 
To be bothered 

Poem: Fools Errand

​Paranoia dripping from words

That spin out of control

Caught off balance 

By foolish thoughts

Of course you’re wrong

Right?

They tell you nothing exists

As panic starts to rise

A hateful parasite

Attacking sunlight

Ushering darkness

Falling on knees

Gasping for breath 

An assault of the will

Held at the point of a gun

Loaded with lies

Cocking back insults

Like they’re at the range

You’re the target

Tied up with red strings

Once tying you to yours 

And yours to make believe

Poem: Normal Isn’t Mine to Hold

​I no longer want love.

Once upon a time

maybe

but watching the internal collapse 

of my entire world 

snapped me out of the thought 

of living here happily ever after. 

I wish for the peace 

that being a living ghost 

of who I used to be 

can afford me. 

Slowly shrinking away from those 

I once knew

glancing back at memories 

Of living silently in my thoughts

And dancing in my dreams.

Let me live in my land of make-believe

just a little while longer 

where my heart can’t be broken 

by loving 

Or by living.

I would rather live in peace

live in the made-up world I create 

Instead of giving myself to someone else

Just for them to break.

There’s no beauty in the breaking 

when you’re used to being broken. 

There’s only so many times 

you can mend the wounds 

That someone else gave you

until you decide you rather live 

vicariously 

through made-up characters 

in the books you read 

and the worlds in which you create. 

Poem: Here Lies the Summer

I guess I had to die

To lay it all to rest

An unmarked grave of yesterdays

Memories scattered

Like wildflowers

Around my wounded hopes

Pens slicing into dark thoughts

Disguised as pretty poetry

Set to the tone

Of hopeful and healing

I guess I have to cease

For the words to die as well

That stabs through me at odd times

Opening wounds and lancing boils

In an attempt to heal

Something I didn’t break

Hurled like insults

On a cloud of fake concern

A cruel reminder

That I can’t take a positive turn

Your words burn through skin

Thin from the war

I rather be buried under sarcasm

Then, repeat them in the mirror

Reopening the chasm

I guess when I depart

The voices might stop

I hope

From its endless tirade

Of remembered slurs

Spoken out of turn

With pleadings dried on my tongue

From trying just to hold on

I hope in the end

I’ll go out with such grace

Without the blood of the past

Smeared on my face

I guess when I perish

I might get the chance to grieve

In silence

For once

For everything

I once loved

And lost so dear

By employing my voice

And losing all trust

So that maybe in the end

With the final push of earth

Beneath my weary feet

My dust will learn to settle

And I’ll learn to speak

Short Short: Darkside

Writing prompt: May the force be with you
Song: Darkside by Alan Walker/Au Ra

--

            It's like I had tripped and fallen into a pit of my worst nightmares where their talons and claws poked into my skin, made thin by savages disguised as those I loved. Their dead eyes stared back, accusations like the tongues of Christians burning me with blasphemies saved for devils and demons. The poisonous gas filled my lungs, bruised for holding my breath and voice, waiting for safer days. 
            I gasp.
            I claw.
            I break the skin.
            Trying to climb out of the grave leaves me shrinking to the comfort of the dark; instead, here I am, fighting for the light. With shackles around my ankles, cuffed to arms that drag me down. Each act to save my mortal soul saves no one in the end. I heave, pant, and transgress into worry that my war-weary soul will exist no more. As I'm dragged further down, I tug and pull, my faith in living failing under the weathered woods—the knocking of nails again of the coffin, hammering hard against my aching head. My neck was sore from looking up, my head bent back, gasping for help, but no one was left. 
            Maybe they were right, to shun me and set me down through the floor for the atrocious, salacious worded whore I turned out to be. Rejoice! In my silence. My tongue cut from knives I pulled from my back. I bleed my truths left unheard, the pools of regrets I drown in nightly, pulling me deeper into deaths entirely unknown.
            For years, I had slunk in the shadows, no friends or foes alike; my demons played me like a harp and left me alone at night. Now they had faces, and this was by far the cruelest joke by far; when the demons plucked my strings, it was to slowly tear me apart. I unraveled in the hands of those who once lifted me up.
            No longer dark faces looked back at me, but the faces of the savages who were once those who loved me. 

Short Story: The Office Party

 

Socializing was never my forte. I usually linger on the border of being an active participant and wandering off to an unknown corner to nurse my drink and hiss at passersby who got too close to my hidden lair. Being the center of attention wasn’t something we reader/writer types enjoyed. We like laughing at a few jokes, contributing our awkward part, and then merging into the shadows of a room while hiding behind a book.
At least I did.
It may be what I’m used to doing because I transferred colleges and now teach with a bunch of strangers that I don’t know and am now stuck at a social function for our department. The two people I know are talking to a slightly larger group I’ve turned away from to scan the room, picking up locations I could go sit in semi-peace; there are two doors to sneak out of and an area where I could probably somewhat comfortably sit and read on my kindle. I just downloaded a new Megan Quinn rom-com and got a chapter into it at lunch since no one needed a conference.
As my eyes scan the room, I come to a jarring halt halfway through and am barricaded by the warmest pair of melty brown sugar-glazed eyes I have ever seen.
They gave me the same feeling as seeing fresh chocolate chip cookies, minus the mouth-watering. We’re in public, and even we bookish writer folk have enough courage and propriety to show up on Book Tok.
What made me most uncomfortable was how he looked at me; the sheer fact that he was looking at me while I looked at him back was unnerving.
No one ever looks at me, like, ever. Well, maybe he isn’t looking at me, or maybe he is, I don’t know!
Cool, I’m spiraling.
I turn back to my group, noticing that the circle had closed off, leaving me to linger with my straw stuck in my mouth because I can’t be trusted not to completely unravel under a gentlemanly gaze set aside perfectly for book boyfriends. It’s the type of gaze I mentally take notation of in the back of my lady's brain to save for future writing expeditions since it caused some butterfly infestations in the anxiety-filled pit of my annoyingly foodless void of a stomach.
Annoyingly, even as I look over my shoulder again to make sure I am hallucinating, my stomach freefalls because mister melty eyes is headed my way. Instantly, I’m trying to determine if I had met him at another function, had food in my teeth, toilet paper on my shoe, or had an impromptu wardrobe malfunction.
Do I embody a manic goddess of overthought? A raw, lonely book-wielding heroine of English department fame!
I haven’t had enough booze to make coherent conversation yet! I am out of my league with his baby browns, wave chestnut hair, and a stylish button-down.
Don’t say anything stupid!
Don’t look at him like you’re stupid, either. You have your master's degree in the art of all things communication. Even though it’s a Master of Fine Arts in fiction writing, you are typing to be understood.
Embody THAT for the love of all that’s holy.
And don’t….
“Hey,” his smile is bright, white straight teeth, his eyes shine, and I turn, gravitating toward him, and witness divine masculinity, “are you— “
“Your next wife?” That was out loud.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Abort! Abort! Run! Existence is futile! I flush to my roots and watch as his grin widens, and he tilts his head back and laughs.

“If you care to know, I would very much like the floor to swallow me up right about now,” I murmur as he wipes the corner of his eyes with his cocktail napkin.

“Please don’t. I don’t want to be the only new teacher here scanning the room for somewhere to hide.” He takes a deep breath, melty eyes shining.

“Am I that noticeable?” I frown, shifting to look behind me, noticing everyone else grouped up and chatting casually.

“I doubt anyone noticed.” He grins. I turn back to him and pucker my lips.
“You noticed.”
“Well, my social inaptitude, noticed your antisocial prowess, and here we are in mutual antisocial, new teacher-ness.” Oh, thank God, I’m not the only dork, which makes me relax and chuckle.

“You must be Rome,” I wipe my hand on my jeans before reaching my hand out.

“And you must be Lacie.” He takes my hand in his, and it’s a nice solid shake, and his hand is warm, gently calloused. “Where did you transfer from?”

“Brown. I finished my degree over the summer.” I smile softly and roll my eyes a little. “Thought New York in fall would be so romantic.”

“Then you get here, and it’s sweating your socks off hot.” He chuckles, adjusting his empty plate as I momentarily eye him.

“You?” I ask, slightly distracted.

“Boston.” He shrugs. “Similar culture and heat issue.”

I nod slowly before looking toward the almost empty buffet line. I swing my gaze back to him.

“Hey.” I perk up.

“Hi.” His eyebrows lift.

“Want to pile our plates full of food, snag a bottle of wine, and hide with me?” I point my empty cup toward the food as he swivels to look at it curiously, then turns, grins at me, and hitches a thumb toward the lineup.

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

Poem: At the End of the Day

​I chose to walk away

At the end of the day 

Tucking my shattered heart 

Away once again

Hiding the shards that refracted the light

That refused to warm

My once calm and mellow soul

Hoping for better 

Has done much worse

Instead of guarding my own heart

I left it open from the start

Because at first

I was positive I was good

Open to take those in

Who were treated like me

When I was a kid

If I just showed love

And acceptance too

Maybe one day

Somewhere

I’d be accepted, too

Time only told a separate 

More sad tale than mine

Causing calluses 

To form on soft parts

Of my soul 

Now withered and corroded 

With harmful observances

Of malicious intent

Words piercing my hardened heart

and war-weary soul

And on that last lonely note

No matter what I did

No matter what I do

I’ll never be strong enough

To get past you 

And who

You thought

I was

At the end

Of

The

Day