split lip
I split my lip once when I was little. Being at the time just a little too raucous and taking up far more cubic inches of space in the sticky air that had housed my family in the long, miserable summers of the south than necessary, I found myself promptly plopped down into the rickety lawn chair of the back porch, isolated from the rest of my cousins, and chastised about dangers of running too fast, running into blunt objects, and running too fast into blunt objects as my chubby, calloused feet swung restlessly in the breeze. I had needed exactly seven stitches -- three disclosing themselves shamelessly in the front, four hidden on the inside of my bottom lip -- and for nearly two weeks I could feel the scarring flesh wrapping uncomfortably around ice pops, around soup spoons, around cool edges of dangerously full glasses of lemonade, the sensation each time rendering itself new and tender and painfully, painfully present. The faint, crooked mark of a line perpendicular to my bottom lip merely reflects itself in the mirror now, having long since ceased its throbbing, but my mother brings it up every once in a while, comments occasionally how much prettier I would look if I took the efforts to cover up the imperfection with a dab or two of concealer. So it's still noticeable. To this day I can still feel the sting of my mother accusing me of injuring myself for attention, for only something to be remembered by in my backwater whirlwind of a childhood, and the memory of splintered ashwood nestled within the blood remains fresh in my mind.
I can only imagine that the distinct appearance of the scar is precisely why this cologne-reeking, spectacle-bearing wire of a man has bothered to place his thumb on the blemish, curious. Testing it, probably, just to see if it would try to bite the way I had wished the first time had gone, or if it would simply remain still and quiet and vaguely, passably compliant like the way our coerced joining had actually proceeded. My professor taps the patch of skin once, twice -- no movement, of course -- before settling my chin for me into the vice-like grip between his forefinger and thumb, satisfied. As if he hadn't already attempted to explore everything once already. And out of all the reasons that could've stood for an explanation as to why I'd been called back down into the privacy of his office again, I'm thinking that he wants to kiss me and that I'm scared and that I really, really want to cry out to the stuttering intern down the hall, maybe even tear him away from the ever-propped book sitting in his lap if I have to.
And then I think:Would Mama still tell me I was only looking for attention if I did that?
He clears his throat suddenly, and the abruptness of the break in silence is enough to force me straight-backed against the chair again, attention drawn. Something like amusement passes over his features; thankfully, he makes no comment on it.
"Now, Scout," he addresses instead, "I understand that you may be a bit upset over the events that have transpired recently and that you may be slightly concerned and confused over the manner in which those events occurred, to say the least of it. Maybe even a little angry, a little frustrated, a little -- well, I'm not you, Scout, but I imagine that calling you down to my office at a time like this may seem a bit incriminating in regards to my character. Am I correct in that aspect?" The words are slow, stagnant -- aggravatingly so, actually, as if he were speaking to an eight-year old child instead of a woman on a scholarship just a decade over -- and the one-on-one humiliation is difficult to choke down underneath the inherent fear. He doesn't wait for me to respond. "And I imagine, also, that your rather troubled state of mind may be exactly the key to the road of repercussions that lies ahead of you, should you choose to report the details of our previous meeting. You're a smart girl. I like to think you've read our policies in regards to second and third offenses after your little incident last month."
Of course I had. The academic scholarship keeping me afloat and away from my dying flat of a hometown had been stressed in meetings that I would have never thought necessary to be extremely strict in its rules and codes of conduct, a marginal but prevalent nod to the socially disastrous events of the antecedent years. As I assumed, anyway. I'd pored over the tiny blocks of text over and over and over again out of the fear that I'd missed something, that I'd be caught in some hidden loophole to toss out my too country, too-accented-to-be-intelligent self, that for one slip-up in letting a friend borrow my fridge to store their whiskey would lead to losing everything that I'd worked for -- and he had been there. Holding my hand, rustling knowing, understanding fingers through my hair in an attempt to soothe my panicked sobs. Whispering into the frizzy, disheveled curls that everything was going to be okay, that he'd take care of this, that all I needed to do was let him do one thing for me and could I do that? Would I let him do that? Even in the air-conditioned rooms of the northern cities there still remained a sultry, heavy hot spell in the air, and my worn shoes and cardigan and hair tie had come off over the course of the conversation in an attempt to ignore it. And he'd told me everything was going to be alright again, voice husky, one hand pressing my head to his chest and the other creasing his graying strands, and he'd asked me what I'd be willing to --
"You understand, don't you, Scout?"
I do. He's running his fingers through my hair again, eyes tracing over the scarred lip that had provoked his curiosity so intensely that first week of class, and it's all I can do not to flinch. I like to believe there's some power to be claimed in the lack of obvious fear. I don't flinch when I begin to feel the pressure on my thighs, in my mouth, in places I would've never expected to hurt so much. I don't bite into the inside of my wrist to keep myself from crying, from screaming, from calling out to someone who would only further incriminate my actions in the situation that I'd put myself into. The ceiling -- like I imagined my mind would be like in the youthful days of hours upon hours of chiding and punishment -- floats somewhere above, distant, and aside from the occasional stab of pain that had emanated from the bloody bottom left portion of my lip in the first of a long line of displays of disobedience in my childhood, I had learned quickly how to become unattached.
As a child, I'd always wondered if splitting my lip would lead to the tearing of my entire body.
MADLove
thought you were a proper boy
with your top hat crown
and satin glove touch
stacking teacups
on the brim
thought i was a proper girl
with my pinned up hair
and parasol laugh
hanging china
from my curls
thought we were a proper two
’til your teacups slipped
and my china crashed with
your satin glove touch
and my parasol laugh
thought this was
a proper crush, but
it’s just mad,
mad
love.
State of Nature
Collapse of Law
Loss of Order
Death of Society
Freedom of Mind
Freedom of Body
Total Anarchy
Left to our own devices
We become filled with
Evil vices
Chaos erupts
Darkness engulfs
Absolute Freedom
But at what cost
We are so free
Yet we are not at peace
We cry for
The end of Innocence
The darkness of Man's heart
Woe for the lost
Savagery
Overpowers
Civility
Absolute freedom
At the cost of our
Morality
Blood of the Covenant
Water of the Womb
All abandoned for
The sake of Desires
Civility lost
Morality lost
Freedom is not free
We need to leave behind our
Past
To return to our
State of Nature
We even forget our own
Names
Called It.
Dear Diary.
Its Chaz. Sup.
So the reason I’m writing here and not on my computer is because I want this record to last and soon computers are going to be ancient history. Why? Because the Zombie apocalypse is upon us! That’s right all you losers Chaz was right and all you jerks can go suck a lemon. But Chaaaaz your paranoid! But Chaaaaz it's impossible for the government to put nanites in our dairy products! But Chaaaaz you think everything is a conspiracy! Uhh yah! Because it is you simpletons! When I saw that video of that girl eating the homeless guys face I knew I was right all along. The videos gone beyond viral. It hit 71,000,000 views already and its only been like 5 hours! Now all the lame brains are rushing to Walmart and all the super stores to stock up on supplies and junk. What a bunch of noobs! That’s like rushing the cornucopia during the hunger games. It’s a total blood bath! Now people are trampling each other like wild animals and we haven’t even had the 1st horde yet. If you weren’t smart enough to stock up ahead of time (a.k.a. people that are not Me.) then you can get all your essentials at almost any type of store with ¾ less risk of getting killed. That includes food, water, 1st aid, or raw material. Use that grey matter people! Well anyway. I'm here at my grandpas old dilapidated house. Its best to hold up somewhere that doesn’t look like much. It still holds up pretty good though. well isolated everything works and there a basement so, a yah this place is like A+ on the zombie apocalypse check list. My Mom and my dumb step Dad were all like were going to New Mexico it’ll be fun! But I was like screw that! Once you let your guard down then Bam! Zombie apocalypse! That’s why I’m always ready. I have like 5 years of canned, dried, and camp food, all the game of thrones books, and all four Phantom Nexus directors cut games for hand held. That’s like 320 hours of game play a piece and that’s not even counting the side quests! But let’s be real, it’s all about the side quests! And I have my potato powered battery charger. So there pretty much no reason to leave. And if I see anyone coming close to the house I’ll just shoot em with Gramp’s hunting rifle. I’m a pretty good shot. I killed a deer once. Well ok Grandpa shot it but I almost hit it and Grandpa gave me the credit so… ya. Bottom line is if I see someone getting close to the house I’m gonna shoot em. Well unless it a hot girl. But she has to be like super-hot not just zombie apocalypse hot. And she has to be single. But if anyone else comes then I’m gonna shoot em. Anyway I guess I’ll go ahead and stop writing for now. We’ll have plenty of time to talk for the next few years but once the Aliens make their move…Well one thing at a time. T.T.Y.L.
Chaz
Remembering Old Joe
Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsELQHY6RNA&feature=youtu.be
She stopped at the spot
The car left the road:
Skid-marks on the highway,
Flowers on the shoulder,
Near the rumpled-crumpled guardrail.
Someone plugged a cross
A foot into the ground,
Marking the location,
Old Joe took
His last, deep, earthly breath.
The cross was plain wood,
Scribbles scattered on its face:
“We love you & miss you.”
“Thinking of you! ALWAYS!!!”
“Do not go gentle into that good night.”
Someone placed a poster
To the left of the cross.
Who knows why?
Impulse, maybe.
An existential overture, perhaps.
“I should leave something,”
she thought. “Something special.”
To remember Old Joe.
So she put a red solo cup
On top of the fresh wooden cross.
You’ve Come To The Right Place
This is day 6 of your binge,
And I have watched from across the room each day
As you ingest the poison
As if it were a life sustaining elixir.
Drown your shattered heart in the alcohol.
I know what it's like to be reduced to a crawl.
I've been there,
And I will never forget
The day my still beating heart was torn from my chest.
Such darkness...
But I've glued my shattered pieces back together,
And stitched my heart back under by breast.
Though the scars still remain just under the surface,
And some of the pieces are still frayed and cracked.
Yet, I no longer need the bourbon and prozac
To get through a day.
For I found my redemption in this place.
Beyond the alcohol and smoke haze,
Our dance with the devil is well known,
And we never disown one of our own
For we have all known this darkness.
Look around you, my dear.
We are all broken here.
message in a bottle
we’re just sailboats, aren’t we,
two rickety brown dots
lost in the vast blue,
drifting
ever further
apart,
no matter
how far
we reach,
lean over
the edge and
yearn for
the touch
of the
other.
our love is just
a message in a bottle, isn’t it,
one bobbing speck
that rides
the waves
like the birds do,
the only one
that doesn’t
soar but
sinks instead,
water seeping
through the
cracks; broken
glass blossoms,
petals that
unfurl and
wilt,
twist and
flutter away
into the
deep,
deep blue.
in the end, we
were just pollution, weren’t we,
salt-tainted spatters of parchment,
floating far
beneath the
waves, where
no light illuminates
the ribbon
I tied
round the
rolled-up scroll
before sending
the bottle
to sea,
or the
way I
crossed
my O
when I wrote,
Love.
all that’s
left of
us is
the ink
of my
fountain pen,
bleeding into
the murky
depths,
black text
billowing in
wisps
off the
sea-soaked page,
curling like
smoke and
ebbing with
the Atlantic
drift.