shewroteverse

The Violets cannot speak. They can only cry out in pain; their shrieking nothing short of animalistic. Your crooked, scarred cock: the pestle; our tiny body: the mortar. You ground and grinded, ground and grinded, hip bones like combat knives gyrating in the cover of the darkness which would seep into and discolor our thoughts, until The Violets became a soft paste that now coats every inch of our neurons, reminding us that we are never safe, their tiny hands covering one another's mouths, just as you covered ours, to stifle their screams that even still travel the lengths of our nervous nerves: so that we never lose sight of the exits, so t

when i cried to you, i'd hear stories of german depravity and ouzo and judas priest. (the ticket stub has survived numerous fires fuled by teenage angst and johnnie walker blue.) you melted steel past my bedtime. [2500 degrees lights the wick in the wax that rests on the rim of this china; a pool collects and bubbles, waiting to be tipped ever so slightly, to singe and adhere to my biological affirmation of his maliciousness.] we built a blanket fort in my bedroom and i watched "hush, hush sweet charlotte" alone, wrapped in linen of rosebud and eucalyptus. all i ever smelled was smoke and scotch. chop, chop sweet charlotte; chop, chop 'til

I hoped to be satisfied tonight with warm water and padded digits but I am all too aware that the flushing of my skin is merely mechanical. A remarkable sense of urgency took hold of me and sat in your place with its hands on my hips and there was nothing to be done about it. There is never anything to do but crack the window and wait for the streetlight to tickle the nape of your neck. Phantom fingertips are the most we can hope for.

Five years have passed and still, the unlucky wrought iron rust is embedded in your palms and the visions haunt your sleep. (The mad man on the corner laughing as the empty Parabellum clips collect at his feet. Oak trees older than the government that failed them uprooted and displaced. The mentally ill man shot seven times in cold blood by the protectors while merely attempting to cross the Danziger bridge to safety. Asmathic children force-fed formaldehyde in the FEMA trailers their proud parents prayed for.) No sense in pretending any more. No sense in any of it, really. If ever there was a city to rise like the phoenix from the rubb

i. No one likes an unexpected guest, and to say I was expecting you would be the most grandiose lie ever told, as absurd as:                      the belief in God,                      the recovered alcoholic,                      modern Christmas cheer,                      the traditional family,                      hope for full satisfaction,                      genuine bipartisanship,                      the female orgasm,                      the unfathomable comfort accompanied by your childhood best friend,                      the H-bomb                                            or my lack of rhythm. ii

I was caught with my hands in the bank of time each human conceals beneath the stone they struggle (so persistently) to push uphill. Too shy to beg for mercy, I lifted my upturned palms to be bruised in a childish act of contrition. The seraph looked down on me and scolded with his infinite glare before turning his back to me and leaving us alone, naked, and attempting to warm ourselves with language. Shamefully, I must admit, each verb you pronounced shocked my most private parts while simultaneously changing tenses, as we so frequently failed to do. I remain a reminder.