Last night I dreamt I ate a woman whole. Not just the meat, but the hair and the teeth and everything. Why would I dream such an awful thing? Why would I think these things? Is it something wrong with me? These thoughts- these intrusive thoughts almost seem to be like distant memories. Wasn’t it Plato that said that true knowledge is just the immortal soul remembering what it forgot in the trauma of birth? I think that was Plato. Could it truly have been I that dreamt such a wicked dream? Perhaps it is just my imagination. She tasted absolutely vile- but, I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t stop thinking about her face. Who was she? She didn’t seem afraid- she almost seemed to want it? Almost as if she had asked me to- no, that’s not right. Who is she? I can almost feel her black hair still caught in my teeth, even though I know it was just a dream.

A dream? Why do I keep calling it that? It must have been a nightmare- but no. Nightmares make you wake up in a cold sweat, make you shiver and be thankful that you awoke. This dream left me feeling… full?

That’s wrong right? The thought of it now makes me want to throw up, but I’m almost afraid to. As though I may lose that phantom woman if I do. But what if I lose her? I don’t know that face. What’s the use of losing someone I have never seen?

It’s like going into a small town and feeling that pang in your chest; the pang of nostalgia and homesickness- but you’ve never been there before. Nostalgia for a time and place that never existed. That’s her. I yearn to know her name; I yearn to devour her again; I yearn for her to beg me. Is that sadistic? Am I a freak? I must be.

But I’m full. She’s within me- somewhere. Is this what a pregnant mother feels like? To feel the heartbeat of another within me? Have I suffered the trauma of birth? Why did she taste so bitter? Almost like instant coffee. Her nails were dark like soot and her forehead caked with sweat.

But yet I still see her beauty. Such a beautiful expression in her repose- like Ophelia in the water. Is that what she wanted from me? Did my fair Ophelia want me to swallow her whole to escape her evil fate? But what fate would be less evil than that? No, there’s another reason. There must be another.

You must think me some kind of fetishest- some kind of freak. I don’t blame you. What kind of man writes his thoughts about such morbidities? About such curiosities? Did he really swallow a woman whole? His teeth catching her hair as a sink drain does? Did he choke on her as she went down or did he wash her down with something after?

My dear reader, it is much more sinister than that. Or- at least that’s what I think I would think if I could remember. You see, I have these thoughts- these memories of someone else’s. They frighten me. I forget them though if I don’t write them down. If I don’t write them down they fade like those dreamt in a mid-morning nap. Such ephemeral spirits. But her- I can’t shake that face. I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten her once before and that I’ll do it once again if I don’t.

But- whose thoughts are these? I swear I know I’m not losing it. She makes me full. So full and warm- such warmth. The warmth from a bottle of liquor that makes your face feel flush with fire- that’s her inside me. Pulsing. I feel her move and I’m comforted to know I’m no longer alone. But of course I know i’m actually alone- it was just a dream. But what if there is some truth to the dream?

I remember swimming in the lake back in the backwoods of Minnesota. I would hide under the docks and listen to people’s conversations. The underside of the dock covered in algae and I would stay completely still as to make sure that they wouldn’t know I was there. What fantastic stories they had.

Oh. What a nasty thought I’ve just had? What if I had swallowed them as well? To taste their bitter flavor? What then? Would they have stayed with me? I could have crawled out from under the dock- no pulled them under and swallowed them whole. I could have those memories forever- no! What a nasty thought.

But if it’s so nasty- why does it make me feel giddy inside? Like I’ve just received news that a meeting has been cancelled when I was dreading it so?

I’m afraid dear reader that I may have made a grave error. These thoughts are completely mine and mine alone. I’m afraid I’m the wicked one here. I cannot blame someone else for these perverted actions.

I feel warm and full.

What a pity.

#Creepy #Diary

It’s

best

not to

linger on

the surreal abyss

growing outside

your door.

Breathe a little.

Your lungs

seek indulgence

before

the battering

of the storm.

And as the horizon

darkens,

and the method

to your madness

walks out,

you are

left

to the innocence

of your past

when

everything was possible

and the negative

never shadowed.

But now,

you know.

You know

the truth

your mind

concedes.

Everything is still possible.

#poetry

sometimes, it feels... sad

draining, stuck to your skin

like wet darkness

other times, it’s so loud and bright. a wild beat in your heart, the

explosion of stars under your feet, as you walk towards freedom

but oh dear, it’s gorgeous, beautiful - reminds me of

home and dreams. feels so close and far away .

it envokes thoughts, causes you to reflect (every time i see it, i see

myself staring back) - it draws you in with its honey whispers and i can’t

-stay away

The sun in this part of the country makes me miss you. Even when the air is crisp, the sky is all incessant heat. You’ve always been sunflower locks and honey skin. You were dripping rose-gold and champagne, while I was busy coming in too-hot. And I still love you most days. I love you most days. I love you through the drowning. I love you through the abandoning. I love you through the paranoia, and then I wonder who did the abandoning. And does it matter when I’m abandoned? And does it matter when I still love you most days? You were midnight-caffeine and matching tattoos. And I let you fade into cooler, black and white memories. But I spent my teenage years in darkrooms. Orange-glow, red filter, pouring over underexposed film. And even washed out frames will still print if you hold the right light up to them. And the sunlight here always makes me think of you. Just let me think of you.

the astonishing color of after

she twisted her hair around her finger

strands of blue faded to the color of broken sea glass

the sun buttering the windows

the taste of the oolong tea is colored by the smell of smoke- salty wisps

the sky had turned electric

and the sun was cutting stripes across his face

giving him a mask made of light

butterscotch smear and the faint wash of carnelian

moon-cold floor

colors invert

crumbled to silty ash

tessellated.

ribbons of black smoke

purple-grey seeps into the sky

stained in charcoal

umber of dusk

crunchy pieces of autumn sprinkled across the lawn

the sky is a velvety indigo with the hint of dark silvery clouds

my mother once told me: the clouds you see at night hold promises.

buttery soft sleep

the morning light pale and water and shattered. broken into a million pieces.

black, spreading, fissuring

she burns like a star.

i

forget

how to breathe

when my mind wanders

to you.

bittersweet

memories

caught

in my throat

no room

for

air.

x

x

x

I remember the sunlight softening the crease of your thunders of laughter, the stain of your breath in the air. You were running wild, untamed and bare feet. The sun had you caught in its orbit. I met you there. Your eyes were black but when they caught mine, they were blazing red gold. They were pits of fire stars. I died in each one. I met you in a wrenching collision of aftermaths. I met you in loud, summer hallways, cold nights, silent mornings. I met you on February 5th. I know the exact point where your heart used to meet your eyes. I remember your hands. You had a birthmark on the inside of your wrist that fit the shape of my cupid bow. You kissed sharp, loud, short but deep, intense and drew blood; like the way you talked, walked - like you belonged. It’s September 30th and I still have the shape of your teeth tattoed on my soul. It’s September 30th and I still have the shape of your fingerprints tattoed on my soul. I know how you liked your coffee, two drops of sugar plus a drop of honey. Sweet; with a bitter aftertaste. Like life, you said. You tattoed my name on your skin; big, wild and bustling with colour and carved deep in your skin. Like fire; like it was a dare. You looked like you just grabbed the sun with your bare hands. I can trace the past to you. You and your smile. You and your silent kisses. You and your warmth like the sunrise. You and your words. You, you, you. Saturday 2nd March, you were sprawled across the couch. Your eyes glinting as smile hides behind your hands as you watched me. Heat pools in my stomach even at the thought of you. My heart heavy with something indescribable; something dark and very, very oh soft at the edges. It was Sunday 15th. The window was open and I remember the cold air on your face. I remember your smile. You red-faced, cheeks hollow as you tried to gobble the stars. You were drunk and laughing. Later, when I was alone, I could still feel your presence: heavy, soft. I could trace the exact shape of your fingers on my heart. In a sky full of stars - you were looking at me, wide-eyes breathless. And in the end, you ended up swallowing my heart. There’s a spot in my ribs in the exact shape of you. It’s December 31st and I knew what forever tasted like: thunder, summer heat, lightening, laughter and madness -

(You.)

And then:

You forgot my name.

ORIGINAL: https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz8nE_mlSr2/

This is the way it was told to me:

Evelyn was just turned fifteen when, on a lovely April morning, she and her two younger sisters were allowed a Saturday diversion from their chores... a picnic. They cleared a spot beneath a pecan tree in the front yard to spread a blanket. The trees were in bloom. The azaleas soon would be. The sun was warm again, the wind soft.

Pearl made light. Susannah laughed. Evelyn bided the time, enjoying a rest. Life on the farm was hard. She was the oldest, but Evelyn understood the younger girls’ childish desires to play. She even joined in, strumming her guitar before giving blessings for the food in the basket, for her sisters on the blanket, as well as blessings for their mother in the house, and their father in the fields. The girls unwrapped their simple meal of cornbread and butter from its cotton napkins.

He trotted down from the Hatley side of the farm’s road. He road bareback, shoeless and shirtless, his skin still pale with winter. He drew rein when he saw them, wheeling his horse from the road and right up to the girls' blanket. The ground beneath Evelyn shook when the animal stomped a heavy foot, and blew through its nostrils. She was a tad frightened. The rider saved his longest look for her. She had never been wanted. It was a new feeling, but rich.

”Hi.”

She would have mounted behind him then and there, had he asked. She would have ridden away with him, but done right these things take a little more time.

When he was gone the younger girls looked wide-eyed at their sister. Evelyn was the smart one, the mature one. What had happened seemed out of her character, but nothing had happened, had it? Oh no, they all three knew it, as surely as they knew there was a God, “something” had most definitely happened. But what?

”That,” Evelyn stated unabashedly, “was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.” Her siblings were struck dumb.

When he returned it was appropriately, in shirt and shoes. They were married within weeks, and were with child within months. They had only three years together as husband and wife. Two of those three years he spent in the war, Italy, while she raised their baby alone. He would never return.

It would be even sadder, the story, but for that one year, the one they spent together.

She called it, “that year with him” when she would talk about it, but she rarely would. The sweet, warm memories became painful when spoken aloud, so they stayed inside, tied away from curious ears with pink and blue ribbons. Everyone assumed it had been a bad time for her, and an ungodly one, but no, it had not been that. It had not been that at all.

It had been a year of music and laughter. A year of guilt free passions and unrestrained lusts, but it was never ungodly, that year. In fact, she had felt closer to God than ever before. It was over quickly, but her year would have to be enough, wouldn’t it, as it was all the time given them? When the daughter grew to ask questions about the Daddy she never knew, Evelyn shrugged them off. “That was a long time ago Punkin’, now go fetch the milk.”

But she kept the letters, Evelyn did, and the postcards. She kept the pictures, and the guitar, and the harmonica. She kept them in a box along with her memories, where she seldom loosened the ribbons that held it tight. There was little time for him anymore. There was little time for memories of happiness, or love. There was little time for that year in the box.

There was little time at all, Evelyn knew, what with the factory work, and a young one at home. What time was left should be spent with the living. After all, a woman needed more than a box, and so did a child.

I gave you my heart

Or

Perhaps you stole it.

To be honest, I don’t remember a time

Before there was us;

A time when I was me

And you were you

And I knew myself.

My memories are all of us;

Tender,

Caressing,

Eyes entwined and

Sinking into our warmth.

There was no me

There was no you

But only we.

Until.

Until they spoke

And you awoke

From our dream

Of pleasant pastures

Cosy fires

And holding hands.

And you awoke –

A broken spell

Because of their touch,

Fingers on your cheek

Hand on your chin

Their kiss on your lips,

Sucking you from me.

And you saw you

Again.

And then you saw them.

I’m left alone,

Not me again,

Just a hanging part of us,

Like a broken door

On broken hinges

Hanging and useless.

There was no me

There was no you

But only we.

Now

There is nothing