Prose, Unbound

All the Times Before

“You’re sweet,” he says.

I’m curled up behind him beneath black light charged, glow-in-the-dark stars, my chest pressed against his back.  We’ve just finished what I could call making love but what I’m sure he would say is doing it.

“I’m glad you think I’m sweet,” I reply.  Then on a second thought, “Do you think I’m too sweet?” I ask.

“No,” he replies.

I wrap my arm around him tighter and lace my fingers through his.  I kiss his shoulders and nuzzle up against his back.

His warmth spreads through me like hot chocolate, and I’m being pulled down deep into sleepy waters. I’m drowned out when I try to say that my sweetness has always been found annoying before.  That I was labeled clingy.  

I try to wait a little before I say this.  Then I question if I should.  Then I question what he means exactly.  Then I question all the times before.

In response to Daily Prompt: Conundrum
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Bed Linens” by Unsplash (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Looking Glass

Bad dreams keep me up at night.
Like two nights ago for instance:
I’m fighting with you.
Trying to flee.
I don’t really know why the urgency.

Then the looking glass spins.
I’m pregnant, crying in the seat next to you.
I’m bewildered at how I could be.
The only time we were unprotected
was two weeks ago.

Then there is a pivot to upside down.
The bodies have fallen down at my feet.
With a swollen belly and sunken eyes,
I’m climbing, running, crying,
but no one sees me, not even the child.

I wake up frightened.
I wake up heartbroken.
I wake up not wanting to wake up.
I wake up wanting the child
but knowing it may never be.

In response to Daily Prompt: Flee
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Nightmare” by werner22brigitte (CC0 Public Domain)
Prose, Unbound

Monte Cristo

There is nothing.  There is no one.  There is only me.  There are only my words that fill the indomitable silence.  There is only this moment filling the eternal hourglass of moments.  

I can’t remember when I last saw the daylight.  Even though my eyes have adjusted as much as they will, my entire world is a shadow.  The closeness of the dark is a heavy blanket that mutes the smallest sound.  I can’t even know that what I am writing will make it to anyone let alone that if it does it will be legible.  Blood and the dark are friendly conspirators, and they don’t make writing easy.

Crimes against my sex.  This was the judgement passed down.  I’m not even sure what this means.  Before I could seek clarification or even protest the lack of due process, I was passed from sets of hands to sets of hands to the cold recesses of my current predicament.  The door was shut, locked, and that was that.  All that’s left to do is accept the sentence.  If I am guilty, then I am guilty.  I welcome that small comfort of knowledge.  Besides, I have to save my strength to write, not waste it raging about injustice.

When I was a girl, I used to fancy the macabre Poe stories.  Now that I am living one, I see now why Poe wrote about them so often.  It wasn’t all to thrill readers with tales of living entombment and the unending sorrow and pinning of love cut short by death.  It was to share the fear of inevitable and unending solitude.  As if the act of sharing the fear through words took away some of its power.  It didn’t work out for Poe though, and I don’t think it’s going to work out for me.

There is nothing.  There is no one.  There is only me and not much left at that.  There are only the words now I send out as offerings: mellifluous, ineffable, verisimilitude, ephemeral, abide, nubile, quixotic, aplomb, ennui.  I tick them off like the second hand of a watch.  They don’t make the greatest bedfellows, but they do fill the silence.

In response to Daily Prompt: Abide
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Writing” by Ryan McGuire (CC0 Public Domain)
Poetry, Unbound

Vanishing Point

There is a vanishing point well off in the distance
that signifies the end of the world as we know it.
The fallibility of the human eye cannot see beyond it,
but as sure as we know the Earth is round,
we know there must be something there reaching out to us.

Vanishing points don’t just exist on the horizon.
They exist in the human soul.
What lies beyond this precipice of our humanity?
Could it be we are each born with a black hole at our center
ever consuming the light within us?

But vanishing points don’t just diminish the light
as it tends towards evening twilight and darkness.
They also herald the coming sunrise,
meeting it head on and erupting the sky into
sprays of warm golds and brilliant blues.

This is the moment where there is either
life or death, love or loss, light or darkness.
This is the moment where we meet –
The vanishing point between
who I was,
who I am,
who I want to be.

In response to Daily Prompt: Vanish
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Horizon” by diego_torres (CC0 Public Domain)
Musings, Unbound

Hollow Year

What is existence?  How do we construct its purpose?  When we do manage to wrestle some menial sense of direction, how do we know it’s not something contrived, something shoehorned in in the last moment?  These are questions I have been wrestling with, and they’ve only become more prevalent and urgent in the past couple of weeks.  

When I was younger, I had many ideas about what I wanted to be when I grew up.  A marine biologist discovering the secrets of the Marianas Trench.  A paleontologist filling in holes in the historical timeline.  A secret agent protecting the world from untold doom.  An astronaut and first woman to have her baby on the moon.  What grand dreams!

I also wanted to be a teacher.  I wanted to be one since I was in kindergarten.  It was the safe dream, but it was my dream nonetheless.  I made it happen and loved every minute of it.  Until, I didn’t anymore.  Don’t get me wrong.  There are still days when I believe that I’ll only be alive if I work with young minds.  Then there are the days, even after eight years, where I sit in my car during lunch and cry.  It used to be these days were few and far between.  Now, the marks on the calendar tell me this is more than just a passing phase.  This is where I am, that bittersweet moment where you know the dream is ending.

So, I ask again what is existence?  How do we construct its purpose?  Do we define it by what we do?  Do we define it by who we become?  Do we define it by those we keep in our life?  Do we define it by family?  Do we define it by those things we have left undone but intended to do all along?  Really, I think all of these just ring hollow through the years.  Really, I think the answer is there is no answer.

Perhaps, it’s because the summer of my life is tending towards fall, and I have no real harvest to speak of to bring in that I am asking all these questions.  Perhaps it’s the impending winter days which seem much shorter and the nights much colder that I am seeking to rekindle some truth to keep me warm.  Perhaps, I should take the wisdom of a student who passionately interrupted our discussion on the fallibility of mankind in “By the Waters of Babylon” earlier in the week with “Miss, it’s too early for an existential crisis!”

In response to Daily Prompt: Construct
Featured Image: Pixabay – “Hollow” by Daswortgewand (CC0 Public Domain)