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Sanguine Soul

I am made of bullets; shrapnel and biting metal

Teeth dripping lead and lips bleeding red

Your lips are soft honey speaking gentleness,

Gossamer and silk-skinned being.

I tear down citadels; built for beauty and war

Thrones erected of bones and shattered hearts

You felled my fortress, breaking brick and stone

with the most tender of caresses.

My palms crush stars to powder; sand in clenched hands

Fists bathed in violet and blue fire

Your fluttering eyelashes a gale, cooling my fingers

And turning molten star-dust to gold.

Leaves

I fell for you like leaves in autumn,

Knowing it is time to let go of the tree and float on the breeze.

I fell like the colors of fire,

Allowing myself to be carried on the wind of your sigh

The gentle flutter of your eyelashes a butterfly effect

Shaking my sturdy roots until I am quaking on my branches.

The Girl of My Memories

I remember the first time I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back at me. Gaunt and ghostly, the girl I saw was as pale as she was thin, and when I say thin, thin is an understatement. She was flat, like a paper doll, as though there was nothing inside holding her together. Blood had been replaced by water, organs had been removed leaving cavities of empty space. The empty space made it easier to confine the rest of her insides, make them tighter, push them together until they were indistinguishable from each other and you couldn’t see where one piece of meat ended and another began. Bones became wires, pulling tired limbs out of bed every morning, moving stiffly about like a puppeteer that had become its own creation. The bags below her eyes hung for miles down her frail face, her bones protruded from her sallow frame like death had already touched her, because I suppose in a way it had.

The girl in the glass struck me, for I could see the similarities. She was me, I knew it, but unlike me she wore her hollow on the outside for the world to see. Anyone who cared to look at her would know from a glance just how empty she really was, how broken and beaten and bare she had allowed herself to become but they could stare at me for hours and think I was whole. That I was happy, that I was alive when inside there was nothing but black disease and bitter loneliness, because I remembered who that girl in the mirror used to be. I recalled her bright smiling face and that ridiculous laugh, now turned to  silence and the face of repeated rejection. What used to be a plump, healthy figure, round curves of flesh over all of her surfaces, no part of her skeleton on display, had hardened to jagged stone edges, brittle breaking bones, dying from the lack of love she had given herself.

That girl was me. The sound of my heart tearing into final shreds drowned out the sobs wracked from my dry throat when I saw what had become of that girl. I saw how far she had fallen and I knew the girl I held in my mind was nothing but a memory, a ghost to haunt the one who stood before me, and as I looked down at myself, at paper legs and protruding elbows, I realized I had done this to her… to myself.

That night I cradled the girl of my memories, tried to hold her in my arms like smoke on cool water, barely touching but it was enough. We sat until dawn, unmoving, and as the sun rose, the fog that had made its home inside my head like an uninvited guest began to dissipate. The cobwebs clinging to every dark corner inside of me were dusted away, and the windows I had kept locked were thrown open, letting the warm morning sun shine into the fractures in my soul, illuminating me from the depths of the blackness I had allowed myself to become accustomed to.

So forgive yourself for every time you forgot your worth. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and if nothing else, understand this: love yourself. You are you for a reason.

In response to “Girlfriend Wanted”,

Of all the beginning specifications stated I am perfectly suited.

I can promise we will spend too many resources on decorating for any holiday, but most especially for Halloween and Christmas. Mischief is an ingrained part of my character, and I have no qualms about kissing in any sort of circumstance, regardless of place or time. I love wind chimes, but I must ask how you feel about sun catchers as well.

I am on the shorter side of average height and my weight is a little lower than I’d like, but I appreciate your open mind in regards to hair color, as mine changes frequently from naturals to neon and everything in between. I care nothing for politics but know enough to stay informed.

Cynics and critics are the pothole people on the road of life and I can assure you I am not among them. I must forewarn you, though I do not consider myself a pessimist I do have days when everything is dreary so I trust you will have understanding in such situations and if you continue being your usual self, the problems should sort themselves out in due time.

I am more voluptuous in character than figure, but I don’t believe that will pose any sort of issue for either of us if you know what you’re getting into.

I admire Mary Poppins’ philosophy and adore Elvira’s air and stylish appearance, but I can say I am wholeheartedly my own person whatever resemblance I might have.

I can tolerate whistling although I cannot do it myself so I prefer to hum. I also burst into fits of song at the slightest remembrance of a tune. Tickle torture is fine, so long as it is not one-sided for I give as good as I get and all is fair in love and war. If you can promise me a dance, I’m sure I’ll find anything you choose to play enjoyable. But if we’re strictly speaking James Taylor, then putting on How Sweet it Is or You’ve Got a Friend is a guaranteed way to get a smile at the very least. I am neither an early bird nor a night owl, but if you cuddle me in the mornings I’ll only leave the comfort of your arms when you leave the comfort of your downy. If not, there’s always time for breakfast in bed and those morning butterfly kisses.

I’ll match your limp with my twitch, your soft hands with my hardy ones, and your preternatural love of autumn with my own.

As for being called a “coal-eyed dandy”, it certainly does sound like a compliment so why not indulge yourself with accepting it as such?

I wiggle my feet in my sleep as well, have a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, and think any Muppet movie is a good one. I am predisposed to anything Tim Burton, but most especially his claymation works.

You don’t ask for very much, but for all you do ask I would happily give and receive.

A few more notes of reference about myself are as follows;

I drink an excessive amount of tea, entertain nonsensical ramblings with myself, and read like it’s air.

I stammer and stutter quite regularly, play the piano (I use the term “play” very loosely), love breakfast for dinner, and adore anything by Tolkien, Lovecraft, or Poe.

I abhor gardening but love flowers. I prefer dogs to cats but only in the slightest, and I find ironic or outrageous names to be fantastic.

There isn’t much I can offer but I hope this response suits you well and that you would consider me as an applicant for the task.

 

On Finding Love

All I wanted from love was someone who stayed. Someone who gave in equal respects as I and who wasn’t afraid of knowing me inside and out. They would be willing to learn me, like an oceanographer learns the waters of their craft, while remaining as amazed at me as when they first began to dip their toes into cool crystal pools in the summers of their youth, knowing there is so much more beneath the glassy surface; that it can turn tumultuous in the noon and become calm again under the moon’s gentle light, reflecting the sky so above and below there is nothing but the beauty of a world of stars.

Simple as it sounds, it is sure to be harder than imagined. Life is like that. Love, even more so. I’ve found it to be a fickle thing, not to say untrustworthy, but definitely ever-changing. One second it’s the most perfect feeling, making your heart soars as high as eagles, floating amongst the clouds. The next it’s torturous and frightening, like running in the dark, stumbling over yourself desperate to find that old light to save and guide you. It cannot be found by being circumspect but I am a being crafted by caution. Cold and calculating, I feel less with my heart than perceive emotions with my mind. Life has yet to place someone in my path that quiets those voices in my head and allows my heart to speak, to feel the other’s presence like a balm on my soul. But love keeps my hopeful. It’s a golden honey I crave with my entire being, licking lips and longing for a taste of that sweetness only love can satiate.

Remembrance

All it takes is a photograph

Or a line from a book,

A song.

Old sweatshirts soaked in memories smelling of cologne and Autumn bonfires,

The sleeve still bearing your fingerprints and whenever I wear it I feel your hand like a phantom limb

haunting me.

The rivers of my mind flow like saltwater rapids in remembrance of my tears,

Bringing up sepia-toned scenes and late-night conversations in hushed tones,

Every moment recorded and replaying, repeating

Like a trampoline timeline, stretching and bouncing me back to the beginning.

A Haunting

Not all haunted places are houses;

People can be haunted too

Or perhaps people can be vessels

In which stubborn ghosts glide through.

It’s dirty, cracking and crumbling;

The wallpaper of my soul,

Frightening phantoms dance down my halls,

The lamps light as dark as coal.

Dead flowers in my window boxes,

Dark, dried blood drops cover my bedroom,

The quiet pitapat of the rain

Plangent in the empty tomb.

Fear consumes every waking thought,

Shadows creep across the floor.

The past picks the locks on my entrance

I can’t hide him anymore.

As I sit in this mausoleum,

I see a lantern shining.

In the midst of this awful haunting

Your love is redesigning.