Thorn

Sometimes, all of the compliments in the world cannot ease the pain of one, unintentional criticism.

Such is loneliness.

What Is Left

Inside me
Is a pocket
Of glass
Refusing to break.

No one can touch
Between color
And breath
Residing there.

It is secret –

Something like blossom fire
Or dewy expiration.

It holds me together –

This private sanctuary.

It is not solitude I fear,
But loss of what is still precious –
The crimson flutter within
That keeps me whole.

The Only Part of You that I Remember

"It was a long time ago," she said mildly, staring out the window, "It wasn't like I cheated or anything."

"No, but you were a wreck back then," her friend replied. "You had to go and pick the absolute worst fuck-up in history after that," she added, taking a defiant swig of her vanilla latte.

She looked up at the ceiling and smirked. Her friend noticed, adding, "So whatever happened after he left? You never did say."

It had been only a few years ago -
That day when she realized she was taken in and taken down,
for a fool.
Again.
In a passionate moment (the first in several years),
She grabbed the remaining clothing from her hamper, her dryer, her floor.
In the heap, a pink collared shirt - his favorite.
In her running shorts and sneakers, she went outside in the rain.
The air was moist and crisp, her skin prickled against the assault.
It took only a few seconds to toss it all,
Up and over,
Ashes to ashes, as they say.
She listened for them to thud against the floor of the Dumpster,
Imagining his prized clothing amidst soiled diapers, last night's meatloaf, a broken crack pipe.
Apartments were anything, if not civilized back then.
Then turning, she ran.
Never looking back.

A week later, she mailed everything else - half-eaten cereal, a gas station receipt, an old toothbrush.
Her only regret -
Not sending C.O.D.
The rest, was history.

"Nothing," she responded, grinning.
Some small victories remain silent.

Slanting It

I told you I loved you once
And the truth is
I lied.
Just that one time though,
It's not personal,
I justified it with not hurting

Your feelings.
You have them right?

It was easier to spare you
Then
Tell the truth later,
Once you were out

Of my way.
Sometimes saying love is so hard,
Hard on the feelings
You know?

So it's been like, what, some years?
I better tell you.
Statistics show that truth-tellers are happier -
Have nice homes, children, and corporate offices.

I was never good at math.
1+1=1

But I slanted things once
And wanted you to know.
It's not for you - it never really was.

But you -
No hard feelings.
Peace.

Old Salt

A bulky brown 8.5/11 package lay innocently in the mailbox. Only her address scrawled on the flattest side indicated that it may be intended for her.
What was with the mail lately anyway?!

The package showed no obvious signs of postage. This was startling. It suggested a late night drive-by dropping, the person aware of where she lived, which mailbox belonged to her.

Her name was not on the mail box.
And her name was not on the package.
At least, she couldn't see it.

She gripped the package and headed inside, dropping her work bag at her side.
What the hell was this?
Images of mailbox bombs and suspicious correspondence filled her mind.
"That's crazy," she muttered.

This was nothing. This was small town America.
If someone wanted to drop mail personally for her, then fine. So be it.
At least it wasn't a court summons.

She poured a glass of Malbec, perhaps a little too early, sipped it, and proceeded to open the brown package.
As she tore the seal, and stared, shocked, at the crisp white pages that lay maliciously on the counter.

A yellow Post-It was on the top page.
"My Thesis" was all it read.

She gulped and set her glass down.
A notation on the page indicated publication.

Her stomach heaved.
He was published.

And the contents lay before her, having already been seen by the world.

Tangent #16: Fear

Fear =

Waking up one morning only to discover that again, this was only a dream.
Just a dream.

"A dream, a dream is all this can be."
(Halogen Moon)

Tangent #15: Old Wounds

After awhile, one gets used to the scrape.
After awhile, it's only your brain that tells you to hurt.
Just a little.
Just for a little while.
It's just for show.
Old wounds heal quickly.
On the surface.
And isn't that what matters?
Old wounds can heal quickly.
When it matters.

Love doesn't hurt,
But failure does.