Lodged in My Throat

Observance

turningedge — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 06:03:18 GMT

Observance I threaded your words as the birds do in springtime and made a space for you. And when the rains came I waited for you to return to that place. I waited. I clutch them again, your words. Tightly bound, even still they stretch out toward me call me by all my pretty names tether my heart with longing and I wish you’d had the courage to set them free to turn them into the sky to live them to spare me them. I watch the flames engulf the black swirls of what you hoped I’d be. And as they curl up to the sky I see in the ashes, through the thin veil of smoke, I see her: magical iridescent in the fading light beautiful and real but no phoenix.

Fighter

turningedge — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 02:01:59 GMT

A thunderous boom cracks and echoes through my classroom but out the window we see blue sky. “It’s Fleet Week,” says Jose, when his tablemate looks scared. “It’s just fighter pilots playing around,” he reassures us. I go on with my lesson and try to pretend that these sounds are okay, that they are part of the fun of living in a big city. But inside I am shaking. I am reminded in this moment of how much you loved being a fighter, one of the elite, and how once you turned to me and said, dreamily, “I’d love to fly jets someday,” as if merely flying them would be the task. And I think about the time you mentioned, so casually, that your mother left yoga early because the helicopter hovering overhead was distracting her as I am distracted now with my 13 year olds whose mamas get shot in front of grocery stores whose aunties get hacked to pieces with hatchets for reporting sex crimes whose every day existence seems as violent as any war to me Another boom rattles the windows and I turn and smile at my students who fight, sometimes knowingly, sometimes unknowingly, every single day. The echo of the plane fades into the distance but I am not steadied by the din of young voices, who know the danger is not for them this time, who push themselves against the window and wait eagerly for the plane’s return. It comes back again. In the deafening roar, I close my eyes. You are a million miles away, hearing the same sound under a different sky. I see your face I hear my students' cries of joy and I wish I wish that things were different for us all.

Beyond Light

turningedge — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 04:55:27 GMT

To let something fall away - to shed a leaf or watch a rainbow's diminishing end is a small thing. And it seems there is no price at all to pay when the fruit turns from green to red and drops from the sky, quietly melting back into the earth - something lost and something gained. To see myself in recent seasons is much like that. I unfurled from a limb, my reach tenacious - out and out, knowing all along that parting was part of the keeping. I turned - mostly with joy, toward the sun. I reveled much in the changing. And when I leapt triumphant into air, it was not the losing that I understood most but all the hours it took to reach that place. I wait again now, a million miles from sun and sky. Buried beyond light and warmth, I wait. It’s not the losing that’s hard.

my first short story...

turningedge — Sun, 01 Jul 2007 21:04:25 GMT

Listen The fish were a little disappointing. Well, not exactly disappointing – they were certainly pretty – all the colors of the rainbow, just like she’d seen in the books about Hawaii her mother picked up from the library. Surprisingly, they ate the frozen peas, swarming around her and plucking them right out from between her fingers. They were dazzling as they spied on her, holding almost perfectly still, one-eyed in their schools, coming close enough to touch then darting away suddenly for no reason. But she’d wanted to see the big guys. Ever since mom said they were going to the ocean, she’d been envisioning herself swimming with the whales, riding on their backs as big as ship hulls, or furiously winding her way through the coral on the shell of a giant sea turtle. But most of all, out of all the creatures she’d read about: sharks, morays, barracuda, she wanted to see the dolphins. And it wasn’t just because Karly Dodge got to swim with them in Mexico at her fancy resort – even at 8 she knew that wasn’t the right way to see a dolphin. It was because she knew that seeing one was supposed to be a blessing, like she’d learned in school about the Native Americans and the eagles. You were lucky if one visited you. You were special. She squeaked her fins on and backed towards the water. The waves were coming in fast and before she could get herself to that place where the water was deep enough to dive down, a towering wall of water barreled her way and collapsed above her, dragging her along the bottom, rolling her until her nose and throat were full of sea and her bathing suit was full of sand. She stood up, gasping, and ran full-force toward the next wave, hurling her tiny body into it like an arrow with all her might. Her kicking paid off. She was just far enough down that this wave, though heavy, moved quietly over her and she made her way to calmer waters. Flipping over on her back, she saw her mother standing on the shore with a big thumbs-up. She was good at learning lessons. She listened. Again, more fish. And coral. And lava. She paddled around some more, acclimating to the Darth Vader sound of the snorkel, welcoming the peace that came with steady breathing, gentle paddling and the rocking of the waves. Still, despite its peaceful appearance, the ocean, she’d learned, wasn’t always the utopic, underwater paradise advertised in dive shops. One minute you’re swimming along with your mom right beside you, pointing excitedly together at the fish as they emerge from the dark water, and then the next minute terror rips through you as you realize you’re utterly alone, your mother having gone behind a massive piece of coral or swam just far enough away to disappear into the deeper blue. You spin in the water, looking for some place safe, only to find that there is no such thing – there are no doors to close, no furniture to hide behind, just the vastness of the blue water as it fades into darkness. In these moments, she’d rise to the surface and rip off her mask, as if being able to see better would make her less vulnerable. The first few times this happened, she’d swim all the way back to shore. There, the safety of beach towels and sandwiches provided enough comfort for her to get her bearings and go back out. But today she was alone in the water and she liked it that way. She felt calm and fearless as she swam past a small school of Unicorn Fish, silvery and serious with their jutting brows, reminding her of courtroom lawyers on TV or her minister on Sundays just before the sermon. As her friends swam on, something flashed behind them on the ocean floor. She paused and scanned the jagged place, her hair swirling around her like a mermaid’s would. The object flashed again and she took a deep breath, diving straight down toward the glinting object. A shell? A piece of lost treasure? She kicked her way through the blue, feeling the pressure on her ears and lungs tighten almost unbearably as she neared the bottom. She momentarily lost sight of the object – a bad sign in the treasure-seeking world that what you were looking for wasn’t even real. But she found it again and was, well, disappointed. It was a small piece of a shell, white and satiny with pink swirls; it had been beautiful once, she guessed, but now was just a singular, broken object at the bottom of the sea, nothing special. She let it fall from her hands dismissively and made her way up to the light. She broke the surface, gasping for air and blew hard to clear her snorkel. Treading water, she peeled off her mask and observed her mother walking down the beach, head bowed in search of shells. Her mother paused and waved. As she debated whether or not to swim on, there was motion in the water behind her. She turned, expecting to find a fellow explorer, but there was nothing. She heard the sound again and twisted her body sharply, and as she did so, the worst possible thing could have happened, something hard, something the texture of a wet mushroom, bumped up against her thigh. She knew immediately what she was up against and began to swim as fast as she could toward shore. She’d heard of people, kids even, who’d beaten a shark at its own game, punching it in the eye or grabbing it by the gills. She tried hard to kick, but was so terrified for her legs that she ended up flailing instead of swimming. As she brought her head up to breathe, she could hear her mother shouting and caught sight of her on shore, waving frantically with both arms. And then, in a second breath, she thought she saw a fin. She tried to swim faster. It felt like an eternity before she reached shallow water. She was hoping, praying that the shark had given up; but she wasn’t taking any chances, and with every wave, she tried to fling herself closer to shore. When she finally hit sand, she crawled her way up the beach like a wounded animal, grateful to be alive. Her mother’s tanned feet raced toward her. “I was trying to get you to stop," she stammered breathlessly. "You were in the middle of a school of dolphins.” She shot up from the sand and ran towards the water. Shielding her eyes, she scanned the place where she’d been. She knew if she looked hard enough, she’d see a fin, a shiny head and then she could swim out and start over, fearless this time. She stood there for a long time, her heart as empty as a shell. They were gone. There was nothing before her but sand, sky and the infinite honesty of the sea.

for a friend who hates her dark side

turningedge — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 05:08:01 GMT

you were not born a butterfly or a daisy. you were born at the top of the food chain, and innocence isn't an option. you don't get to be perfect. you don't get to be pure. you don't get to live in a world where everything you do is righteous and respectable. that's not this world. and maybe not even the next. but along with your opposable thumbs you were given the ability to reason. you were granted the capacity to see into the pool of human experience and, from the very tip of your finger, drop a bit of your Self into that place where darkness reigns. your Self, your beautiful Self falls into the blackness where greed, ignorance and cruelty swirl. and, for a tiny moment, the ripples of your being - your wisdom, your awareness and your light expand in circles, stirring the waters, creating a space for all that's good in the world. and then, when the ripples fade and the surface settles, the blackness returns and in it is your own reflection. so, what are you then? are you merely an insignificant drop in the vast waters of life? or does everything you do carry such weight that you cannot step carelessly, even for a day? are you, perhaps, part of that great spiral of good and evil, black and white, stars and darkness? yes. and to really live in this world, you have to get right with the wrong things you do. they are only a part of the whole. they are the reason you do good. they are the mirror for your righteousness. be bad sometimes, woman. and then be really good. and then, just be. and when everything settles and you think that all is lost in darkness, your beauty, having reached the farthest shore, will come rippling back to you. j

Happy

turningedge — Thu, 18 Jan 2007 06:25:02 GMT

A picture crosses over the virtual realm and settles into my field of vision. I watch as light and color pass before my eyes until I see you in the frame. You look at ease with yourself and the world. The familiar creases of your face are softened and those long features of yours that I loved don’t seem as drawn with worry as I remember them. You look like the man I met. You look like the man who wrote me little love notes, who drummed on the steering wheel with his index fingers, who made me feel that anything was possible. You look happy. And it is hard for me to breathe that in, your happiness, as we both lost sight of it years ago, watched it slip into the horizon like the sun setting. And yet, as the tears come and I prepare to grieve I realize that I never really wrote that much for you. And I realize that this, this might be the first poem about you that I ever really needed to write. And I remember how alone I felt some nights. And I recall the silence that came with you, heavy and dark like a storm. And I remember wondering if I would ever really be happy. The universe, it isn’t so mysterious after all. It tells you what you need to know. And so I wait. And I trust that I did everything I could - that all the heartache and letting go happened so that one day my life would feel like a sun rising. Thank you for walking this earth with me. Thank you for being my teacher, even now that we are oceans apart. May we be safe. May we be loved. May we be righteous. And may we both be happy.

Just Is

turningedge — Thu, 11 Jan 2007 07:26:23 GMT

Tonight I went looking for a poem that would tell me how I feel. I searched in the dark corners of Google for some semblance of myself but, alas, to no avail. Am I not out there? Hasn’t anyone felt like this before? Hasn’t Sarah Jessica Parker experienced this on Sex in the City or something? I mean, fuck. Tonight I sought the truth of me – I combed the deep recesses of my bookcase trying to hear the little voices that would whisper me back to me. Here is how you are, Jen. This is what it means to be you. But there was nothing. No voices, no words no thing. Isn’t there a single soul who has sought an impossible love with an impossible being at the wrong time and the wrong place? And hasn’t anyone written a poem about it? Isn’t there anyone out there who would gladly jump off a bridge for her lover but, simultaneously, wants desperately to cheat on him in an effort to forget he ever existed and prove to herself she doesn't really need him? Isn’t there anyone who, on one hand, wants to fly to Kauai to meet up with her long-lost, ridiculously hot lover from Costa Rica (who just emailed, fyi) and, on the other hand just wants to settle down, maybe run an inn in Panama and have a really adorable baby with her too-young Israeli boyfriend who hasn’t even gone to college yet? Would somebody please step up and say something? I mean, shit. I wish I were writing about the death of a loved one or even a broken heart would do. But the truth is, I love someone I shouldn’t love; it’s doubtful our relationship is ever going to work and I’m not even sure how sad I’ll be if it doesn’t because it’s so tremendously impractical. But it’s what I want, with all my heart. It just is.

Calypso

turningedge — Sat, 16 Dec 2006 02:22:11 GMT

a promise is a tricky thing - a shaky shelter a fragile bone a promise waits for waiting’s sake and, in doing so steals away the space where love could reign. I want nothing of your promises. I want only to stand beside you, witness the light in you. You are a gift I have given myself – and the uncertainty of you is, in its own way a kind of present - in fact, it is the present. I revel in the time that we have, refusing to negotiate the future, refusing to gamble with hours that are not mine to lose. There are no signs to read, or messages in the stars to decipher. Soothsayer, fortune-teller I am not. I am, at long last beginning to understand that no life worth living can be foretold. You are mine (and not mine) for this moment and the next - not a minute more. And in this split-second space where we float and laugh and dream I am learning to love without the shackles of time, without the shadow of fear. And in that loving I find incredible peace. I move into you ignore the time with you break loose the sky for you see my heart through you and I am happy.

Leo - with thanks to Sylvia Plath

turningedge — Thu, 07 Dec 2006 03:10:37 GMT

You are one of those pretty boys the ones who stop traffic and married dames. They turn on their heels mock-fanning themselves as if their Louis-Vuitton worlds were aflame. And I thought at one point I saw deep in you something special that set you apart. But the truth is my statuesque, Porsche-driving, stud that when I reach out with my tongue or my heart I get nothing feel nothing but how empty you are. I tried to see past the chisled face, pearly teeth and rock hard body. I tried to dig deep for some semblance of connection. But sadly, all I found in my wanton searching was an echoing brain chamber and a desperate erection. Alas, I hate to admit it, but I’m through with trying to get though. And I can no longer pretend to be interested in the things that matter to you. I guess it comes down to this one simple thing: I burn so much brighter than you. And all of your showmanship antics and bullshit are no match for what I can do. Leo, dear Leo, I’m sorry. We’re through.

For Us

turningedge — Sat, 14 Oct 2006 23:53:48 GMT

For Us How we circled around each other in the beginning, like hesitant children or lonely stardust, and in that spinning, made each other whole. It is the hands and knees dirt of you I love and the pristine rivers of your joy I float upon. It is the frightened unfurling of your selves and the awesome granite of your presence that I understand as I understand breath, tears, sunlight. We have taught each other how to trust how to dance how to love how to let go and whatever may come you are the first and last of me, the stars and sea in me, the beauty that beats in me. Thank you, sisters, for making this life extraordinary – for being here in all your vast and precious ways; for giving me strength, teaching me freedom and reminding me that I am never alone and that there is always hope, whatever may come.

Enough

turningedge — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:41:07 GMT

Heart-stretched at the seams it seems I can no longer hold this together for you for us I never thought failing would be this easy or such a relief to pass out of the realm of your chosen ones - those who are allowed to carry you and your friendship home I stretch my tired arms and feel them coming back to me feel me coming back to me I won't feel guilty for the things I cannot be - I am not the friend the sister the mother you never had. Instead I am every failure you ever expected every person who was not enough every disappointment on your dooorstep every lover who let you down how terrible that you cannot love outside your own need, that you set the world up to fail you, how final and lasting and sad, indeed

star

turningedge — Sat, 19 Aug 2006 05:11:36 GMT

star you are lonely beyond articulation - churning like a pearl in a weightless womb surrounded by heavenly things so impossibly beautiful they are too bright to burn beside you dance in a timeless circle, spinning into no one’s sky, waking with the same song that lulled you softly to sleep the emptiness, the inescapable void - how it scatters and divides you cradles and comforts you how it knows and yet doesn't understand what you are in this nameless world what choice do you have but to praise your own beauty? to find in you the solace of your own existence? here in this place where there is too much darkness and so much light you embrace nothing, know nothing but remarkable oneness and the infinite honesty of space

naked

turningedge — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 06:00:37 GMT

taking my time, undoing the laces i strip off the last remnants of my armor i stand here you before you naked in this moment hoping you'll reach out and stretch your self a little farther. i know where this is going - i've been here -once- before and I think want is not the question but who it is that wants it more. is it you or is it me or does it really have to matter? when it comes down to what is real can we will we shed another layer? it's clear that you've got wounds to heal (and maybe I have one or two) but i didn't come here to play games i came here to live my truth and truthfully truthfully deep down you rock me hard i feel my soul stretch split and spiral slow, now, make it last before flesh and blood are immaterial. we move as certain lovers but we dance and spin around the truth. we'll let go but only sometimes when no harm can come to me or you so this leaves us with just one question: where do we begin? naked worthy hopeful open

for Lizzie

turningedge — Wed, 16 Aug 2006 00:24:13 GMT

Love greets you. It has been waiting like a cat on a doorstep, a candle burning a patient mirror. Love greets you with cookies in the oven new shoes snuggled in their shiny box and bright stars strewn across the sky. Love greets you with open arms sunbeam kisses and soft giggles close to your ear. It has wind chimes tinkling bells ringing and songs bursting just for you. It greets you with fjords and forgiveness, glaciers and warm words, skyscrapers and rolling hills, dance halls and silent moonlight. Love greets you at a bicycle-sprinting roller- coasting log -rolling pace. Love has been waiting. It has been waiting for you to see that there is no one in the world who deserves it more than you.

ask me

turningedge — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 06:30:52 GMT

See my life as a snowglobe a pretty park on a summer Sunday a long, unwinding stretch and sigh a belly full of honey and wine See my life as an unfinished piece a candy red bicycle but no horn a rag with a few stitches left before the ball gown See my life as lived and as replayed as a courageous cliff dive as tried and trembled as a teenager's noose See my life as a mission for nothing but a chocolate bar and a beer and a beloved poem with a title you can't remember and a name oh, what was the name of that girl who once loved you? See my life as warm sand settled under restless feet as goosebumps after fingertips as the sweet unraveling of a heartstring as the confounding glorious spangled wonder that it is See my life see its birds' nests and bruised apples iridescent wings and too-fast sunsets see how it burns and glows shudders and forgets see how it waits and pushes and waits some more See my life see my life entirely and then ask me ask me why I want to let it go

severing

turningedge — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 18:37:29 GMT

I am armed with a pair of scissors my goal: to free an ensnared black band meant to keep your pretty hair hair out of your pretty face those locks you’ve been so patient with those locks that have taken so much time to grow are now impossibly twisted strangling their keeper and themselves in a vicious knot. You’ve tried everything: patience, a shower, slippery goo but these tenacious tendrils hold fast - a section of yourself too stubborn to understand its own doom. I approach you now, scissors at my side and you watch with one eye open as I sever this small piece of you from you. You cry out like a warrior scalped, “Aaaeeeee!” and with one jagged snip, it’s gone. Your sadness is brief, passing quickly into resignation. Sitting on the toilet, strands of defeat hanging limply in your hands, you say to me hopefully, “It will grow back.” And to yourself you whisper, “It always does.”

star

turningedge — Sun, 14 May 2006 02:32:05 GMT

you are lonely beyond articulation - churning like a pearl in a weightless womb surrounded by heavenly things so impossibly beautiful they are too bright to burn beside you dance in a timeless circle, spinning into no one’s sky, waking with the same song that lulled you softly to sleep the emptiness, the inescapable void - how it scatters and divides you cradles and comforts you how it knows and yet doesn't understand what you are in this nameless world what choice do you have but to praise your own beauty? to find in you the solace of your own existence? here in this place where there is too much darkness and so much light you embrace nothing, know nothing but remarkable oneness and the infinite honesty of space

serrations

turningedge — Thu, 27 Apr 2006 02:42:19 GMT

I bring you home and the soft part of me wants you to stay warm in my life held in my bed a weightless presence bathed in filtered light. Then my razor eye begins its work carefully studying the pieces I’ve cut from this moment the irrefutable jags, serrations that don’t fit. Collaged in experience, I float between fear and fascination. I hunger for what I know is mine and starve in my hesitation. So many pieces overlap and the space gets taken up with closed eyes, random elbows and snapshots of places I’ve never been I try to move try to have some small sense of power but no longer weightless, you pull me into shapelessness, and the empty void of your lost heart.

mine

turningedge — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 05:36:30 GMT

There are many gifts a Queen gives in her lifetime: lavish jewels rare fruits spices from far off lands. But her heart is gifted to no one. She must be wary of poisons and daggers, and the treacherous designs of deceitful hands. At all times she protects this precious thing. In the dark, even as her hand moves over her lover’s flesh she is open to no one, a lover of nothing, the other hand carefully closed over her breast. It’s true, I’m nothing like an Empress. Though I may have treasures and lands worthy of exploration, I have not the means to protect my cache nor do I have the inclination. I have always wanted this heart of mine to belong wholly to someone else - not heavily guarded or hidden behind stone walls or be anything less than itself. And so I gave my heart to you. I offered it up with both hands for you to hold. You are not the first fool I have relinquished it to, not the first peasant first jester first knave who deemed it more precious than gold. And you are not the first man to misuse it, to pocket it and forget about it mistreat it and bruise it. Still, I never thought twice about its safety, never looked for a chink in the armor lest you deceive me. But, it is you who have been betrayed by your own negligence – I would have loved you if you'd only put down your weapons. But that is no matter anymore. You have been careless with my most sacred thing, my most beloved and treasured prize. So, I hold out both my hands and I take it back from you today still loving still beating still mine.

A Courseless Life

turningedge — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 01:31:24 GMT

Everything is shifting. Something has broken and I feel the plates of myself rearrange, grating up against each other serrating one another. The damage wrought by the waves shows on the surface but deep below - only the calm certainty of change. I stand on the shores of my life and wait for a ship to come but, I have never set my own sails. (And while sailors try to man me I see that I am more, so much more than they’ve yet to master.) I have never let go of the reigns, sat back from the wheel, abandoned my post. I have never stopped trying to steer my course. And as the stars sing to me and the earth embraces me everything about my life is telling me to go. I close my eyes, try to relax the sinews of my spirit, so that I may slip into the water and become that fluid beauty that only the earth sees when I dance. I close my eyes, try to shed the fears of my captains, try to erase the fisherman’s tales of sea monsters and certain death. I close my eyes so that I may break down like ice, shift like the sand. I close my eyes so that I may finally see my courseless future, the extraordinary life that is yet to be mine.

Conjure

turningedge — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 01:02:46 GMT

Sister, you have been asleep too long- buried deep in the bottomless belly of a dream. I summon you now - a lamb needing your wolf gear and your bag of sorceress’ schemes. I have missed you, my warrior friend, my solid little soldier. All the world sees me too softly – all eyelashes and lips and laughter. And though your boots and fishnets are easily the smallest part of the smallest me I need them now - as symbols of my strength to fortify what I know is now weak. After all, it was you who brought me back to me. It was you who pulled me from my nameless life, and taught me that true power beats in my blood and my movements and my breath. It was you, in your rebellion, who showed me that every phoenix loves her ashes even more than her death. I’ve let you sleep for too long, but I can feel you rising in me now: iris, rib, vertebrae, and knuckle. It is your breath I see in the mirror your gleam in my eyes somehow. There is no other time for this but now. Down to the bone, sister, down to the bone I would go with you. And I know that you understand that if I’m septic, well then, you’re septic, too. There is no way out of this but through you. Take my hand, now. Let not one, but both of us thrive; howl at the moon with me arms outstretched, head thrown back to the sky and help me remember how it is we survive.

Thank You

turningedge — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 02:56:06 GMT

The heart has so many voices and your heart, it spoke to mine. In fact, I would even venture to say that it sang to me some of the time. But now there is an echoing silence and fear reigns where warmth should reside. I would hold out my hand and walk through this with you but this isn't for me to decide. I want to regret that I let myself feel this; I want to punish myself for being wrong. But really, I just need to thank you for holding my life up to the light, for opening the hallowed voice of my heart and reminding me of its fucking beautiful song. jrg

Still

turningedge — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 18:10:23 GMT

Morning leaves me wanting more of you. I wake to your breath, walk away from your warmth, and feel it leave the surface of my skin, slipping from me like rain. I want to stand in the sun of you, bask in your brilliance utterly still, but the flutterings of my heart take me elsewhere beyond the heat of your words and the consolation of your eyes. I am afraid to love you. I am afraid of what I do not know. I feel my fear stirring, fueling each step I take away from you. Careful, heart, and let this pass; let the truth of us run deeper than those long lost days, those old loves that bind us to our failings; let it cut to the quick of our existence let it be let it thrive let it hold us still.

listen

turningedge — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 06:02:52 GMT

past the pearl-side of your mouth come the words that wound it's no crime to be truthful but do beware of those trip wires that catch you in the act of boldly strutting about brazenly walking that fine line in your post modern tragic hipster story how do you suppose Narcissus gets the girl? how do you plan to write in the part where he realizes what an asshole he's been and breaks the hold the universe has on his heart? how do you plan to make this believable if you can't tear yourself away from the camera from the mirror from the storefront window? your friends pat you on the back for your honesty lovers pat you on the head for your strange beauty and still you are alone in your vanity beats the heart of your carelessness in your carelessness beats the heart of your loneliness shhhhh... shhhhh... listen.

Making of Me

turningedge — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 05:05:43 GMT

Who is in your art a jagged woman? When you have taste is it of me? I hold the cherry by the stem while your friends touch me under the table I wait until I know you're looking before my tongue takes it in A hand slides up the seam of my stocking while you play with the ice in your glass just one balanced moment between us was all I ever asked for The accident of your skin is cleaning itself up and it's getting easier and it's hurting more everytime I let that redhead kiss me when she walks me to my door I have eyes that see all the mistakes I am making and what have they made of me? In a dark room with hands and hunger all around, you are a statue and I am terribly free.