then the grass

firm beneath my feet

seems to become unsteady

he's sure to look for me

every man i see

looks a little bit like him

but i promise i wont die

im not going out like this

but then again im tired

and woth him i'd have a place to stay

but i have to stay strong

and focus on getting away

because though i'd have a bed

i'd have a hard time sleeping

scared of the knife

and he's scared of the secrets i'd be keeping

so off i go into

the woods paranoid and naked

and hopefully find a town

and find a police station

but if i dont

cuz i know i wont

i can say that i tried

if it kills me

i tried

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in despair. She broke all the rules and found herself possessed by the masses. She became a weak and pitiful thing. She felt like a castaway because she could not “feel” emotionally distraught. She believed she was broken and lost. So, she took to the streets—

Her forsaken becoming. She played in the dark despite knowing that all she wanted was a savior. She circled their towers and took from their wells—she housed her holy delusions in their power.

She continued exploring within the damned and found herself a holy whore. She took from those who thought it natural to fornicate voraciously and without will.

What she brought to the table was the illusion of lust because she neither kissed them nor performed for them in the sack. She despised watching them pound her against the wall, but found more atrocious her ability to overcome.

And she waltzed in the dark pretending that all was fine and dandy. She defiled herself further and became a ruthless mercenary to any sister whore who defied her by disturbing her gory sanctuary, for the heads on the platters were hers, and hers alone—her trophy’s, the evidence of shame.

Yet, she felt nothing. Confusion was in her thoughts but not emotional distraught, not chaos, remorse, or guilt. She continued laughing, singing, preying, waltzing in the dark, circling around and around—shifting partners ever so often as required to “feel” alive.

Then one day she had enough, and she blew down their castles like the big bad wolf that she was. She stood there in the silence of her own despair, and noticed nothing in the pitch black—her body vanished the raging wars and she ushered out to the sluts: “this is my body given to you, you can have it no more”. She exiled herself not because they were bad, but because she had learned all that she needed from them. She conquered their world which had been hers too, and a new name emerged from the wreckage.

It was very becoming of her, and she feared it greatly, but she contended it was time to penetrate the system without a disguise—

She threw down her Clark Kent suit and traded it in for her truth—she yelled to the masses: “armageddon is here, and with it, I am, the exorcist, throw down your swords—fearful whores, redemption is here.

I loved her. I loved her so much, that I didn't like letting her out of my sight.

But things changed. She would smile, but it wouldn't reach her eyes. I would look at her, but whenever she saw me she would look away.

It hurt me. If she no longer loved me, why was she still here? I came to the conclusion, she must have still loved me, but had a hard time showing it. I had to make up for her lack of affections.

I started hugging her more. Grabbing into her hand while walking. Even giving more verbal compliments, but she still seemed miserable.

So I thought we could stay in the house more. We watched movies from our bed, ate dinner on the couch. I thought it was more comfortable, and I truly felt even more in love with her. But each day that passed I saw her move less and less, barely smile. It wasn't long before she hardly moved, the only reason I knew she wasn't a doll was the faint pulse I listened to as she slept.

I woke up to no pulse, but a piece of paper. I unfolded and was met with scribbles that I had to squint my eyes to read. It was a short note, she must have used the rest of her time packing her things.

'I had to escape'.

The sting on her face, the bruises on her legs, the tears in her eyes, the rage in her heart.

"Never again!!" she shouts to an empty room.

The flowers, the hand to lift her off the floor, the tears in his eyes, the apology and promise that, "it'll never happen again".

The vicious cycle begins, once again.

This time a black eye, glass shards in her hands, a lump forming on the back of the head, and heart screaming to be heard--to be set free.

The lies are told to neighbors, friends, family and onlookers. "No, I just broke a dish"; "I just hit my head"; "I just fell down the stairs"; "I can be so clumsy."

But how do you lie to a 3 year-old? A little one standing at the door, clutching his teddy bear to his chest while listening to mommy's screams, daddy's shouts, and watching his daddy turn into the monsters, like on tv?

What kind of lie can hide the truth? No more lies!

Suitcases packed, secret bank account emptied, plane tickets bought with cash, new adventure on the horizon. Little boy hand in mama's bruised one. Big brown eyes searching deep grey ones. No questions asked, just ready for Never Again!

Everything depends on what I do with this blade. I could sink it into the skin and let it all end, here and now. But a tiger is always replaced by a lion. Or should I let a murderer live? I can’t just let him walk away with what he has done, but then again, I am just a barber, doing my job. I am not a murderer.

My hand passes over his chin. It is clean, soft and healthy. I plunge the sharp blade into the basin on the shelf. The warm soap, foaming at my wrist. He gets up and walks over to the counter.

“How much do I owe you”, he asks.

“No charge, Sir”, I reply. I will not take money, gained through service to butchery from this man. My pockets shall remain clean. I shall not shake his hand nor smile at my work. My duty is done.

He smiles and walks towards the door. Opening it, he lets a clawing, musty breeze into the shop. Warm saliva bubbles up my throat and I feel my breath catch deep within. He was so close and I let him go. The door swings shut and I am alone.

The players in this story will be given fictional names, as this is a true account of my twenties. I'm not protecting the innocent, because as you'll see, they didn't deserve it.

James was 10 years my senior and a man's man, because had he been a woman's man, he might have known better. Because how could a man so much older than I -make such a dangerous mistake, if he had an inkling of a woman's fears?

I still wonder at it.

We moved far up North. He was beckoned by a "head hunter" who I'll call Mark. Mark decided to befriend us. Being new to the area, he reasoned, he could show us around so that it would be more hospitable to us. He was a friendly guy.

It didn't strike me as strange that a recruiter would strike up a friendship beyond professionalism. I was young and inexperienced in the professional world though. In retrospect, it was pretty weird.

It seemed like James and Mark spent a lot of time together, drinking and hanging out. I was a homebody, always kind of had been.

It was with a lot of gusto that Mark would try his damnedest to get me to join their frat boy style frolics. I was uninterested.

It was with tremendous prodding one snowy, winter night that finally I agreed to go. They had already been drinking at Mark's - for a while- by the sounds of it.

I was placed on speaker phone.

"I don't have chains on my tires. I don't feel comfortable driving in this."

"Mark is sober, he'll pick you up."

I sighed, out of excuses and got dressed.

During the night, Mark told a story, intended to be humorous. I didn't laugh.

He shared he had been on a date with a girl who had passed out in the cab they shared. She wasn't able to consent.

This was meant to be seen as "cheeky", I guess.

I was quietly horrified.

The night progressed, at my annoyance and growing trepidation- with both men drinking and I, constantly declining. But it was only James who really seemed out of it after a while.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" They pressured.

I watched Mark like a hawk as he poured my one, single shot of vodka. I coughed as I swallowed and declined more.

I conversed with Mark for a short time, trying to be normal until we could leave. It wasn't long before I noticed that James had left. I found him on the front porch. Head in hands.

"James? Are you okay?" My heart pounded with concern. He looked confused. Mark and I managed to, between us, pull his large frame to the couch to lie down comfortably. Mark assured me that James was just very, very drunk.

I can't remember what we talked about. I just remember requesting every 10 minutes that we be taken home. Mark declined. I was overreacting. James was fine. "We" were having fun.

Mark got up abruptly and came back with something in his palm.

"Oh hey! I want you to try this!"

"What is it?" My heart jumped -in a bad way.

"Trust me, it's good stuff. It'll be fun."

I saw it now, pressed between his thumb and forefinger. A little. Black. Pill. It looked dangerous and he wouldn't tell me what it was. I froze.

I remember the way his face changed from a smile, to intense frustration as he tried to shove the pill into my mouth. I clenched my teeth. He tried again and I doubled down and met his eyes with my own. He drew away. I'll never forget his face.

He didn't argue when I demanded he helped me get James to the car to take us home.

The next day, James admitted to taking one of those black pills. I shook my head.

I never spent time with Mark again, nor was I asked to. Had I been a little older, I would have demanded we report him to the police and would have stood my ground.

James remained friends with him a short time after and I'm certain he never confronted him. For such a big man, he was a coward. But this is one of only many reasons I lost feelings of affection for him.

I'm no longer bitter, because I kept myself safe that night, and that was what was most important. I don't remember Mark's last name. My only regret is not holding him accountable. I wonder how many young, sweet girls trusted this man? It hurts my heart to think about it.

How high above be the one kind,

angel in simple garb of man.

Light of above that cometh down!

How rare be they to find!

Light shineth through thee can

reverse the despair'ed frown.

Soft chant, gentle hum that flow

the air alive, when the kind find me

in the darkness of my despair.

The tears from heart that glow!

Naught before hath I found be;

angel of above, gentle and fair!

Fall not into despair of dark,

A light remaineth in darken world!

There be angelic souls amid foul men,

For thee of above left ever thy mark.

The gentle touched doth unfurled,

A sweet blossom amid chains of the evil fen!

In April, I found love, twice

And I paid the price

One was a crush

The other not so much

In April, I knew sunlight

And I also knew night

One made life beautiful

The other made it dutiful

In April, I knew flowers

I also knew power

As I left March to April's scent

I also left it to find what life meant

In April, I saw life bloom

And I read Eliot dress it in doom

It is out of this womb

That I saw a day loom

April's day is a difference

Between closeness and distance

Where a heart hurries a distant memory

And close memories are not a remedy

Because one April day my love was born

Another April day my love was sworn

I didn't find my love among the touched

And I touched that which I didn't care for much

So, can the next April be the same

Where I see a face that doesn't have the name

And tell myself some other time

I'll split the stale from the sublime

In April, I learned a lesson few learn

It's possible to yearn

But the clock has no hands to turn

This April: Change is everyone's cocooned concern

Penis, penis, o penis so fine,

Penis, o penis, I'm so glad that you're mine!

Rock hard and throbbing or limp like a noodle,

You make me slobber and shake like a poodle.

Penis so wonderful in my mouth and tongue,

I look at you and think, "Holy shit, he's hung!"

Just thick enough and not too long

I love you so dearly, you fabulous schlong.

Boner, penis, dick, rod, or cock,

Whatever you call it, my world it does rock.

The thought of losing you brings tears to my eyes,

And I thank God daily that you're circumsized.

So here ends my poem and here I will stop,

With a sigh of relief that you're not a top.