In this ink,

through these words,

A tenuous hope

is entwined.

Our words reach out

to find refuge

from our loneliness.

To find a way to stop sabotaging

ourselves

And start saving

ourselves instead.

Shock Life back into us,

Connect us,

Remind us,

that we are electric.

I'm missing audio.

Still, twisting silences.

Ears bleeding memories,

My moments transparent.

It's about believing

in moments unrealized.

I cannot recreate

this dying sentiment.

She awakes magical

like daylight transcending.

I whisper gratitude,

lost between syllables.

For a syllable challenge. 3 word lines. One then two then three syllables.

The sum of me does not add up.

The blonde swish and the carefree laugh

Does not portray the darkness

Squirreled away inside me every day.

An extrovert, it had been firmly decided,

And I didn't want to let my labelers down.

Only tragedy could upend this decree,

A shock to my entire state of being,

And I broke my shackles,

As pain set me free.

A self imposed introvert,

I studied hard for the role.

To thrive I ran, without looking back,

To escape the me that had been created,

By everyone I'd ever known.

I became an expert in my field,

And reveled in the freedom and joy

of the solitude I treasured,

Marveled in the enjoyment I took

In my unpopular preference

To distance myself from the crowd.

But my stun has dwindled to an ache,

Time has dwindled by bravery away.

And once again,

I smile for the world,

And the world in turn,

Misunderstands me,

Doesn't think to look into me,

The rays of light blinding them

And defining me.

April showers brings

Mayflowers, but in my state

All I get is snow

#haiku #comedy #MinnesotaSpring

Within the depths of my being

in an exercise of futility

I try to fill

the unfathomable void

of my soul

with a kaleidoscope of substances

sex, alcohol and drugs

all of which temporarily

give me respite

from the raging madness

of alchemical dreams

burning in the moonlit mirrors

I seek a complete derangement

of the senses

suffering from perfumed sounds

on seas of shallow thoughts

as cadaverous flotsam drifts by

I find myself at odds with life

I found her in the garden, surrounded by my skeleton. My ribs, a clamped-shut jaw. Her fingers white-knuckling my moon-bleached bones. She doesn’t raise her head, until I am close enough to touch her. I want to touch her. She’s not wearing anything, and her skin is an eruption of nerve-endings. Her eyes are frantic. Fluttering, pacing, glimmering-ghosts. She is unfocused. Kneeling in fresh soil. The earth pooling around her. I’m caging her in. I’m holding her hostage. She’s still. She’s pacing. She’s looking at me, but not. Eyes glassy. Spectral stare. Staring, but not. I want to touch her. She presses her face between my last two, true ribs – T6, T7. She opens her mouth. Staring, but not. Her tongue is shining, too red for this world. Her tongue is made of rose petals. Her tongue is licking my bones. Not moon-bleached. Sucked dry. Expertly cleaned. Her red roses are tumbling around my sternum. She is my sternum. She’s eating me from the inside. She’s stealing the meat of me. She is licking her lips. Salivating. Staring, not-staring. She’s pouring out ghosts. I am losing time.

“I haven’t been able to sleep.”

The tonguing ceases. There is wet glittering at the corners of her mouth. She nods.

“crows?”

It echoes across my bones. Rattles my innards. Feathers kiss the inside of my mouth. Wings beat and float around inside my windpipe. They’re trying to escape. Her voice clangs against my internal organs. Resounding cacophony, clashing through costal cartilage. Roses bloom from the spots she touched. Thorns caressing my veins. Symphony of growing sounds. Growing blossoms. Growing birds. She’s flourishing. She wants out. I break the floating ribs – T11, T12. They splinter away in shards. They’re rushing through me. Targeting my heart. And I am the sternum. And she is the cage. I found her in the garden. Surrounded by my skeleton. I’m peering between bars of thoracic cage. I’m surrounded by my skeleton. Or is this hers? She’s licking the bones. She’s planting seeds. Is this mine or is this hers?

My tongue pushes between my lips, involuntary. I’m salivating. I’m resisting. I’m losing. I’m tasting her ribs. I’m lapping up marrow. Is this mine or is this hers? I am insatiable. Ravenous hunger overpowering insomnia. We are eating to burst. Resistant-tongue grazing petal-tongue. Tastebuds brushing velvet. I am the sternum. I am the hunger. I am the starving. I’m filling with perennial, rebirth. There are vines bursting through me. Climbing my walls. Rebuilding my structure. My bones are wasting away. Saliva eating at the surface. Whittling me down. I’m eating myself out of house and home. I am built of glass. Botanic conservatory. I am transparent. I am spectral. I am verdant. Our eyes meet. She is my resurrection. We are becoming one. We are many. We are one. She is we. I am we. We are we. We are swallowing light. There is no light. What is light? Floral nectar rushes through our veins. We suck out life. We are filling. We are flourishing. We are one.

We eat ourselves, raw.

(this excerpt is from my novella Swallow - available in print here https://www.amazon.com/Swallow-Emily-Perkovich/dp/180016291X/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3P8FEJBR0B4Z2&keywords=swallow+emily+perkovich&qid=1680132930&sprefix=swallow+emily+perkovich%2Caps%2C156&sr=8-1 - or lmk if you'd like a complimentary digital copy in exchnage for a review)

Time is something I write about a lot. Time is standing still. Time is flying by.

There's never enough time.

Time is a construct of our own mind.

It lives only in perception. Created to help keep track of what a day is and to separate it from the last.

It's a new day.

If only yesterday.

There's always tomorrow.

But that isn't true, is it?

Tomorrow only exists in your mind. You could walk outside in an hour and get hit by a car on the way to the grocery store. And then people may say, "It's not fair, it was too soon. We wish we had more time."

More time. As if it's something that can be acquired and bargained for. I think what people really mean to say is, "I wish I hadn't wasted the time I had."

Time can be a warden of the prison in your mind,

the kind that traps you inside memories,

the memories that trap you inside your pain,

the pain that replays the memories of things you wish you could change; mistakes you've made, people you miss,

and oh, how you reminisce. But what if tomorrow doesn't exist?

Take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale.

Time just is. And you are here. Now. In this moment.

What will you do with it?

I fell in McDonalds

When I was three

Deprived of fries

Woe was me

The floor was wet

I was excited

Events blended

Danger unsighted

There may have been

A warning to heed

Not helpful

When you can't read

I got up fast

I had a mission

I did not need

Further permission

"She's fine", they said

I agreed

Not caring when

I began to bleed

Stupid chin

Cut on the floor

A rising pain

I chose to ignore

More important

Were other things

Crispy fries

That heaven brings

Carried away

I shoved and fought

They said I was injured

I cared not

Tears of longing

Couldn't bring fries

An opportunity wasted

Upon fate's surprise

The day was over

Chin gushing and bleeding

At least I learned

The importance of reading

Never thought,

life would feel

just

like sweet dreams,

as a child,

with nothing wrong,

just a heart,

beating strong,

yet enemies,

who can not see

with hammer and chisel

these,

impossible,

beings

are,

sclupting the heart,

into there favourite shape,

no no no,

these shapes,

these whispers,

sing in the ears,

of the decieved,

by the pain,

of that,

unwanted visitor.

that autumn wind,

brings troubled times,

no lies,

no hate,

no suspicion.

Just this porcelian heart,

No,

An impossible force,

striking, that,

ancient

pillar of time,

no button, no simple rewind,

Nonense and hatred arise.

No more lies

No more lies

No aliens inside.

No more pain,

No more time,

trying to live

without,

the thought,

of this porcelian heart,

ticking in that hollow half,

marching to the beat,

of some rotten part,

that friend or foe,

depends how one,

determines,

there worthless

no worth,

there worthless

no worth

no place,

when you are cursed,

with knowing,

a knife in the gut,

tape flowing out,

crimson ribbon flows out

like the wind,

violent and bold,

and all because,

some wretched soul,

wanted to restart,

there precious heart.

—love is dead. The slow

red rush, & in the absence of love we

raise steel walls

& castanet airs to dance

by. Love is gone

& all tenderness faded,

& in its place castles of knowing

in which we

pass our time from

hand to hand.

Hands which once pressed

earth into the shape of men & earth

into bowls for holding

nothing but sound, between sound

silence, melodic, & if dissonance

then beauty in dissonance as well, but always

the bowl,

shaped by hands,

made of earth & music

for lovers to dance by, & when the age

of dancing passed, to mourn by, & the when the age

of mourning passed, to burn

& lie in death.