To love-

Time had softened the man's figure. Sharp angles had long since been replaced with gentle curves. At his peak, though, he had seen a great deal. The pocketknife in his hands was a testament to that. He clutched it like a security blanket to his chest, and seemed only able to relax when it was firmly tucked between his fingers.

We all have our scars, I suppose. His are just more visible than most. He tries his best to smile despite the pain, greeting new recruits from behind his father's desk. The father he had lost so young that some nights he couldn't quite remember the curve of his face or the stubble on his chin. Those nights were the hardest. He couldn't change the past, but maybe... just maybe... he could help the two boys kneeling before his chair.

To hate-

He was a piggish man, with a stubby nose and skin that glistened with sweat. He smelled of death, and had the peculiar habit of running the tip of a pocket knife under each fingernail, grinning from behind a black mahogany desk.

This was a man you would do well to not run afoul of. He was just a bit too familiar with the blade in his hands. He always made the children kneel when they entered the room, if only to put them in their place. The kids were too young to realize they worshipped a man made of lies. He had hurt so many in the name of so-called salvation. This man wouldn't know salvation if it came knocking on his door.

I'm watching the shadows dance on the ceiling, while losing myself to the magic and torture of my mind.

Or I'm binge-watching a really good show where I need to know what happens

Or reading a really good book where I cant stop flipping the pages.

three o’clock in the morning

and i’m sitting by the fireplace

a glass clenched in my sweaty hand

(helping me to forget)

i can’t think of anything but you

i close my eyes to get away

but your face is painted there too

seared into the underside of my eyelids

like a hot brand against a calf’s skin

(you’ve claimed your property)

i don't know why you won’t let me be

i shouldn’t be thinking of you

you did nothing for me

but push me off the deep end

(you made me a mess)

you tempted me

lured me in with the promise of love

then chained me and left me to rot

until the flesh melted off my bones

and slid onto the floor

(a piteous puddle)

and yet i cannot help but cry

as if our brokenness

were truly my fault

(like you always said)

Falling

Twirling

Dancing

The endless stream of my thoughts are

Dark

Spiralling

Falling

Dripping

Slowly

As the pain takes over and I become blind

Burning

Terrible

Pain

Thoughtless

Empty

There is nothing left to think, only to feel

Hurtful

Longing

Pain

Broken

Pieces

Beyond repair, my heart can't beat anymore

Loveless

Souless

Dead

Slow

Peace

In death, I long for peace, for eternal sleep

Pillow

Blanket

Comfort

Gone

Forever

To a land of dreams

No one will remember me

And my broken thoughts

That just won't stop hurting

My broken heart that's lost all blood

Now I am....

Falling....

Twirling....

Dancing.....

Drifting off to sleep.

What do you do at the witching hour?

My feet pounded against the cement. My breath was ragged and my vision blurry. Sweat stinged my eyes and joined with tears as I forced myself forward.

What do you do at the witching hour?

The moonlight lit my path from above, guiding me like a divine savior. But, it also illuminated me. Put a spotlight on me for those for followed, like a backstabbing traitor.

What do you do at the witching hour?

As I sprinted down the street I watched as every window, every door that wasn’t already nailed down with wood slam shut, sealing themselves in. And me out.

What do you do at the witching hour?

I felt my body lurch forward as I tripped over a rock. My body slammed against the ground, shattering my kneecap. I couldn’t run anymore.

What do you do at the witching hour?

I gazed up as ebony black silhottes surrounded me.

What do you do at the witching hour?

You try to survive.

But not all do.

I saw my hands getting lost: (1)

Their size never amazed me

too big for my body.

I dipped them into a new task:

capturing

june bugs

in winter. (2)

I imagined the unimaginable.

My hands are still too big.

My eyes even bigger.

Yet I learned to love the grit

under my fingernails. (3)

I cannot explain

because words

In plain meaning

corrupt the truth of

metaphor. (4)

_____________________________________________________________________

1. I sometimes am a bit too giving I feel like I have nothing left over for myself.

2. I have always had a strong imagination and get lost in my thoughts so I remember the stories my father would tell me growing up and how I wanted to make stories of my own.

3. I wanted to show that there are imperfections in myself as well as a determination that I am learning to love as I grow up.

4. I sometimes think that there is more truth in metaphors than in plain sentences because life is full of metaphors, staring us right in the face that we just do not see.

The witching hour,

is when the clock strikes 3.

Up all night,

from insomnia filled dreams

body pumped with loads of caffine

from my morning ride home

in something thats not my dream limosine.

So what do i do

to make up for this pain?

The answer is simple

i scavage my brain!

So when 3 a.m hits

i am to like a train.

By of course insparation

from this mornings game.

I write about almost everything

nothings off limits.

from my 20 word poems

to poems that take 20 minutes

its been a long time

so enough with theses gimmicks

We all know 3 A.M

is the time for conjugal visits.

And thus ends my time here

so sad to see it go

as said before these are conjugal

so don't be filled with woe

My 3 A.M. insparations wrote this

1 hour to slow

But my demon says hi

I think i'll name him bo.

or maybe edward, i like edward.

I thought I’d lose myself

In poetry, or other bullshit.

I thought I’d lose myself

In the rain, or the wind, or

The vastness of the ocean

Because everything was beauty,

And what better way to go

Than to fall in pursuit of more.

I thought I’d lose myself

In the burning of it all,

In the brightness.

Because burning out was romantic.

What I knew, all I knew, was

When a candle goes out,

It’s mesmerizing. It smells good,

Like summer-

A power trip.

The truth is, I lost myself

In the inbetween. It’s cold

Here- My eyes hurt.

Optimism was not a virtue,

But a deficit; kindness was

Weakness.

Of course it was weakness.

Of course when a candle goes out,

It doesn’t smell like raging, or

Wildfire. There is no fall.

It smells like smoke, for a

Moment. Then,

Nothing.

He always comes at 12:04, on the dot. Tonight, I was lying on the sofa, watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air when he slipped in through the crack under the door. The room got colder as soon as he came, and I could feel him when he sat on the couch with me. We never talk anymore, not after the Ouija board incident, but he claims he still loves me regardless. I felt his cold hands as he wrapped his arm around my waist, and felt his breath as he laid his head on my shoulder, just as before.

"I missed this," I whispered to him.

I swore I felt his lips graze my cheek. We met in this old apartment complex, Herb and I, about twenty years ago. I had been carrying flowers in from my job, and he was going out to catch the train to meet his girlfriend. We bumped into each other (literally) and he looked at me like he hated me. I avoided him after that. If I heard his door open before I was going out, I waited until he was long gone to leave. But, one day, I didn't pay attention and we ended up in the lift together, essentially pressed against each other. I looked at the ground for most of the journey, until he spoke to me.

"I think i got some of your mail," he said.

I didn't answer, just clutched my purse and cursed myself for living on the eighth floor.

"Do you not speak French?" he asked me.

"I learned in school," I murmured. "I think people could understand me, but talking is just so hard."

"I understood you fine," he assured me. "but if you need lessons, I'd be happy to teach you."

"Really? That would be awesome," I told him.

Finally, we'd reached the ground floor. We ended up walking the same way, talking the whole time. Herb quickly became my friend. We would go see the Obelisk and walk around the Louvre together since he had a friend that worked there. We would hang out in cafes and take trips ot the store together. It made his girlfriend so jealous that she left him. I thought he'd be mine forever, especially once I got pregnant, but of course, it didn't last. He liked to drink and when he'd feel sad or upset, he decided he needed to. Around the second trimester, he lost his job and drinking became an obsession of his. It led to other stuff that I wanted no part in, but I wanted to stay. I wanted it to work.

It didn't. He started turning his rage on me, verbally at first then gradually it became worse. He would threaten to throw me the down the stairs when I stood in front of the door and insulted me constantly for my accent and skin color and weight. He would tell me he'd stay sober when i lost thirty pounds and try to cut my hair in my sleep. Finally, I had had enough. It was month eight when I called my brothers who helped me pack my things while my lover was in a bar doing God knows what. We all went back to Rabat where I had my babies. Twin girls that looked just like their father. I stayed for five years but they looked more and more like him, and I couldn't do it anymore. I left them with my mother and never looked back.

Returning to France, i tried to find him, but was unsuccessful for years. When I finally did find him, he was clean and was with a French woman and their young son. The sight shattered my heart. I drifted for years after that, watching my kids grow up from afar. They were the top of their classes and were beautiful and smart and made me proud and depressed at the same time. I figured as long as I was away, everyone I loved would be happy. I saw my old apartment was free, so I moved back in. As soon as i opened the door, the memories hit me. The pain of being with someone that hated themselves hit me every time I opened the door but I stayed. It was better than being anywhere else.

A friend came by a couple weeks ago with a Ouija board, saying my place was the perfect place to test it. We were both in our forties, but the high school desire of seeing what's on the other side of living still had both of us eager. We set it up and Herb came through, instantly sending tears down my cheeks.

"You left with no explanation. I never got to see our kid. I never got to show you I loved you. I made some mistakes but I didn't think it meant you'd leave. I know there were signs but to come home to nothing just took everything that was left. I killed myself in this apartment three years ago when i saw that our daughters OUR DAUGHTERS had graduated with honors and been accepted into the best colleges around. It just hurt more than anything, you know? To know I never got to know the only successful parts of my life. I've been divorced three times, roped into raising five kids that weren't mine. The only kid that was actually mine is prostituting himself because I failed him as a father. This was the last place I was happy. I never stopped loving you, Semi. That's why I answered. I wanted you to know that I thought of you every second of every day while you were gone."

I remember the warmth leaving, my friend and I both pale and surprised. I cried myself to sleep that night. That was when I noticed him there and the clock. 12:04. I felt the room get colder, the blankets get warmer, and the cold wrapping around my body. It returned every night at the same time. Now, I welcome it. I anxiously watch the clock, biting my lips and hoping he won't disappoint me. He hasn't since then, and for once, I can say I've never been happier.