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From A Girl to A Lady-
A book of poetry
M M- Stewart
Published by M M-Stewart at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 M M-Stewart
Smashwords Edition
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied, and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
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“Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men.”
-Joseph Conrad
“The best way to learn to be a lady is to see how other ladies do it.”
-Mae West
“Take time to be sure, but be sure not to take too much time.”
-Unknown author
“If I love you enough, I’ll let you be and if it’s true love, you will come back to me.”
-Unknown author
From A Girl to A Lady
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Table of Contents
Getting Boys to Fall Madly in Love with Me Is Not My Thing
Sunday Night in the Walk-in at Work, I Realized that I Wanted More Than Just Your Friendship
But Monday, I Realized that You Really Are an Idiot and We Can’t be Any More than Enemies…
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“To the love of my life.”
Getting Boys to Fall Madly in Love with Me Is Not My Thing
Is it okay
if I accidentally walk away?
It’s not you, it’s me and
every little thing I’m not
You are
something worth waiting for, and I do adore
the very shoe that covers your feet
(damn this heat)
I wait- maybe I’ll come back some other day in time,
when things are fine and
not so array inside my mind.
You’ll say “Hi” and
Everything will be okay.
Is it okay
if I accidentally wave at you and
actually pretend like I know you, like
we have some kind of secret no one else is
opposed to; I’m supposed to be good at this,
like they are on my TV set, but my feet
lose their beat, and
(damn this heat)
I stay because if you know me-
if I bang the very insides of your head with
mystery, then you’ll come back to me and
Everything will be okay.
Is it fine
if I modestly smile at you?
It’s not you, it’s me.
There’s something in my teeth and
my glasses are dirty so
I can’t see, so I squint and
You come into focus, and the moment that
we thought we had was bogus;
You hide your face, and I pace, thinking
what could be could not have been because
you’re too blind to speak, and
I’m too loud to breathe and
pardon me if I could not conceive that
maybe there was and maybe there wasn’t
but altogether
it was nice to think that
everything was okay.
And there was this one time
when I had your head in my hands and
you were looking up at me, you were like a
puff of clouds I had taken from the sky, your eyes
were like two blue symbols of true
Godlike features never seen before on this Earth, and
the pit of my stomach grew quick with clumsy and the
words that I wanted to spill from my mouth would
fly back down south to the bottom of my esophagus-
so I was lost, and out of words, but I found myself
in your smile-all within the course of two point five seven seconds, and
I reckon, my hands had grown cold and clammy from your
touch on my skin- I had to keep myself from spilling the
truth and the roof of the matter is at the bottom of the mass,
and I guess I could have you if I believed in myself, but
when I hear you open your mouth, you make ugly
words seem so good to me, and you are so good to me,
too good to be true, but here you are, your head in my hands;
you make me shake in my pants- so jittery and small
when I see you-all within the course of two point five seven seconds.
To think you love again
is to wake up to a dark room that
you know will be lit again.
To love again is to hurt again, but
it’s a sin to not let the unknown in.
You must protect what
is left to give from those who
take to get; to beget by who thinks it’s a
riot to get you quiet as you pour yourself
a glass of self pity again.
To think you love again
is to open up your hands again,
to feel along the parts that bend and
mend and make you smile again.
That’s what I want to look in to
when I see you walk in- the only
light left to savour after many years of
the same flavour, the same story, the same
sting again. I bless the way you walk in,
strapping stride, provocative glide that
you hold yourself in, and to see your
eyes is to see your gift pouring out
onto me in a sea of swaying bodies I have
found the best commodity and hopeful camaraderie within.
I don’t know if I could ever
love again, seeing that it has been rejected and barricaded
from within myself, and if ever a time I
pulled myself away from my many masks,
protecting me, neglecting me from my
true self, I would know who to turn to.
To think you love again
is to think the beginning of the end,
and this time, I think I’m ready to battle again.
I’m rich
with anticipation. My
fingers dripping wet with your condensation and
oh, the vibrations you bring.
Your hands are molding me up, pushing me down, melting me with their tools,
pools encrusting around my soles-
there will be nothing left of me when
you are complete.
I’m rich-
I never saw a body so lovely, so
ready for the willing upon these eyes.
Had I a heart, I’d reach out to touch the skin that
I long to be felt next to mine.
Thine eyes have seen the loveliest and have felt
compelled to thrust myself upon your
foulest compensations.
I’m rich
with evil thoughts that
linger with your smell. The things you
do to my insides coincide with my outside
actions which push you away
when I want you near.
I want you near,
dangerously close, I fear, to the point
where your palms are on my back and
you are pulling my forward, when you are pushing me
flat up against a wall, and hell if I don’t mind
at all. This is what keeps my
sanity clouded, and
oh, the vibrations you bring.
I’m rich
with jealousy. Another heart jolted,
hopes folded away, tucked underneath your
hand, and you wreak havoc on my
brain, thundering down on me with no strain
contained. I mean, I could love you more than she
could know because she doesn’t know you, and
you’re willing to switch positions, put my
heart on intermission, like my lust will be waiting
for you for easy pickings? And I can love you
long life- seen in my heart, dead in my chest, and
I’m rich
with love, while you’re just an idiot.
Had an epiphany last night on the way home
as my car radio died and the only sounds that
sounded were my vivid thoughts of you.
Evil to be so damn loving and to never
share that love with me.
Evil to be that damn coy and
easily not irresistible when I’m trying to get away…
thinking.
Turning the wheel down another crowded street,
crowded like my life, crowded like my thoughts.
Evil to be that damn complicated…
stinging.
Never letting up, never numbing away,
never staying away, always pinning me up, my hopes
always binding me down…
hoping.
Evil to be that damn sexy-
you brandish it like a weapon!
Had the crude intent on bending my physical lame,
turning myself into some great dame
like a magazine cover
sprayed with fake gold. Figured out by myself
that I’m fine on my own, goddamn,
tired of being on my own…
wishing…
oh, to goodness, to be alone with you.
Evil to be that damn attainable,
but unattainable to me.
Evil to be so unforgiving.
I fell
off the back of a speeding truck
in the dark of a parking lot and
my sides ached for a while,
my elbow bled a tad bit, and I never
thought that I’d admit it but
It was sort of fun.
You stood there laughing, blending
into the dark of the night, your
smile brightening up the asphalt
beside me. You didn’t even help me up, bastard.
Normally, I would see
first off that guys like you are no good but
you look good and
from afar, you can make a girl
fall to her knees with the right look and
proper “pretty please”
and I’m proof enough of that.
Four months.
Four.
One for me to know the ache and
pain of keeping it all inside.
Two for having everyone finding out
including our boss, which can be
quite the awkward predicament if not
handled correctly.
Three for the dumb shit I did:
the prettying up of my face,
the empty perfume bottles that
riddled the lining of pizza filled
trashcans and man,
does the smell reek from here?
Can’t look good in an uniform
that you work too hard to sweat in and
can’t erase the smell of work when
you’re trying to look pretty –
it all gets too messy, until sometimes you get
pizza sauce stuck in your ear and
can’t hear the fainting of your own heart let alone
my heart to see if they’re beating the same.
Four months.
Four months of a love/ hate relationship
that resulted in too much love and
not enough hate or
you were not in enough love, or
you were too deaf and too awestruck to
reciprocate that love all in the same.
There was a time where I’d be brave enough to
get it past my lips but
you’d have your ears set on fits of laughter or
bad music in the next room and
do you know how hard it is to
talk over a blaring oven nearly five hundred degrees?
That’s hot like fire, the fire I feel for you when
you get thisclosetomyface or
the way you talk so low and so fast and
yes, when you bend over, I look at your ass, and
everything is true, except for the part with the scraper-
I hate her! Why would she even make her brain twist the
romantic plot that it was into some sick twisted
porno rocking in the front seat of your car that
DOES SHAKE-
For four months, I fell in love and I fell hard.
I fell so far and so fast that these
past four months have been a blur of
red sauced madness pouring out of my ears.
I think I fell and hit the ground and
watched you standing over me.
I think I sat up, got up and dusted myself off-
kicked the red sauce off my feet.
Me and we
he and I
was
were
supposed to be
happily
aggressively
madly
in love with
the figment of
what was
would have
maybe
might’ve been
is.
There are not enough seconds in a minute
enough minutes in an hour
enough hours in a day
to get my head back on straight.
So many things rambling through
that are so misconstrued, and so misread
and mislead, and thinking back to
what mama said about how they’re’d be
days like this, where I’d behave like this
and not be able to understand any of this…
The world spins not slow enough for
me to catch my balance and count up my
lack of allowance and how many dollars and
sense I don’t have because the job that I do have
is so bad and so lame, and why don’t I just
quit? Because I’m scared that I’d be worse off
with no job and no car that I can drive anyway,
and what the shit? Driving across some dirty town
I’d cry if I got lost in, down some highway
going sixty, barely getting anywhere,
wind in my hair-nearly home and to come
back again. My head hurts and my watch is broken.
Singled out because I’m single, and too damn
busy to mingle because I’m off somewhere else
handling business and such. This sucks.
Couldn’t find a boyfriend if I wanted to because
I’m taunted by the wrong ones who are
haunted by their loved ones once long past,
and sometimes the guys are jerky enough,
I tell them to kiss my ass.
Wandering eyes and matching steps, I’ve yet
to find my way through this
hazing mist, and I doubt that I’ll ever
slow down enough,
never play around enough because
there are things to do and things to be done.
If only I could slow down to have some fun.
I miss the little kid in you, the
smile in you, the
let’s-not-tell-Daddy-or-he’ll-be-mad-at-chu-
sort of thing inside you that
would roll around in the mud, track
debris on the side of the street and
made a gateway at your feet. I
miss the troublemaker- the one who
climbed trees, and fell down with
ease, hitting every limb on the way up and
scrapping every knee on the way down. The sun was at it again and
would always follow you on the way-
didn’t let the streetlights beat you on the way
home because dinner was ready by eight or
you didn’t eat.
I miss you.
The pigtails and
chipped teeth,
my bleeding elbows miss me. The
dirt in my nails call and
crawl for you, oh
what we missed, didn’t we?
What I’d do to be missed…
And I thought I’d be fine
on my own- no streetlights to
beat me home. I could
make my own pavement with
the wind in my hair, the radio
blaring new music we swore we’d
never hear. I missed you
when I would cry myself to sleep
at night, waiting for the first rays of
sunlight to dry up all the bad things.
All the bad things we swore we’d never do,
we did, didn’t we?
And now what?
Our words are
chewing away at my butt. I
ache so much everywhere that
no band aid is big enough or
wide enough to cover up our hurt.
I wish I could drink you away; it’d be
silly to keep the warm feelings another day.
But even my empty glass can’t
keep the memories away. You’re so
close but, oh so far away. I wish
I could go back in time.
Go back to you.
Come back to me.
I miss you.
The little kid in me.
Shoulders held high, insides broken
mouth beaten down before even spoken.
Arms tired from holding up pedestals for
perfect people pondering around in my brain
waiting, wanting and watching my pit fall.
It’s gone. The strength now has left my body,
stretching its way out of me with a
weathered gasp and plea
crying out for me before was wasteful and
a bore, and the battle inside has left me wide
open for contamination.
I am an open door.
Stretched out and broken; the elasticity
strung out and spun lose among my feet,
dropping me to one knee with my back
twisted and angled strategically to meet your
will and need.
The sweat exceeds me, pouring out of every pore,
spilling out of every orifice, along with
the blood- the space leaving me dry like a
dead mosh pit.
Hand and knee, patiently,
breathing out of control-breathing him out of me, my
system overrun, my mind over filled.
What could have prevented this
inevitable overkill? This contusion of
formidable mass of a sweet mule-
a sweet tool used to swallow its carnivorous
excitements, picking clean his teeth
with my bleeding heart. Has not
falling apart in your hands proven enough
the sick will of my temple? The
bugle meeting the ripple, a blast, an explosion, and
finally, an erosion as it pissed and clawed, and
dug and ripped it all away.
I am an open door.
A scab waiting to be picked and flicked away.
A hand ready to shake, love ready to be made-
but I’m tired.
Tired.
I am tired of being the mule.
I’m sick and tired of loving you.
I walked
somewhere in between the distorted images of
everything turning out the way they do in
fairy tales, and how everyone is happy and
smiling, underneath nothing could be more obsolete.
I walked this line
almost leaning to the right, too far off the track,
too far back to step aside from myself to
look inside myself and see me for
who I really am, and I
walked this so called jagged line,
leaning almost too far to the left where
it was definitely more realistic than
what you were strategically admitting in
your little lines and plots that kept me on
my feet and then
the clincher. Whose heart stops
before it drops and can pick up the
insignificant pieces that have
boisterously announced themselves to
the world? And the words,
ah yes, the words that
could’ve tumbled from this heart, beat
farther apart and grow louder and
louder as they scream in the dark and
you just don’t have your ears on tight enough
to hear their silent yelping from
this side of the mirror and
never have I felt more compelled to
indulge in my own imperfections and
how I could give myself directions in
sweeping this moment under the carpet. I have
bled for you in my own dark ways, vividly
imagining you with your arms wide open in
response, yet again to have been raucously
disembarked, publically persuaded into
giving up my heart. My past is my vision and my
vision has blurred, and has faded to the
dark where it waits to be awaken and
shaken again, dumped over the bridge that has
drawn us together, through the river that has
swallowed my pride and my love, and
under the sea that has taken me under and
I walked this line
and in time, the sun will return where the darkness reigned, and my eyes may be
blinded again. I have
walked this line
from time to time, and perhaps this time
I won’t need you as my walking cane.
Sunday Night in the Walk-In at Work, I Realized That I Wanted More Than Just Your Friendship
We ain’t friends, we’re “friends”, and I’ll
scratch your back while you look at mine. Except I
never want less than that,
I never want to go back to questioning your
intentions, or lack thereof. Or
embarrassing myself by burying myself deeper in the
hole I’ve dug. And I never want to go back to crying and
trying to build myself up to your morals because
let’s face it: all of my attempts end in quarrels at my costs, and
my fists hurt from beating at air.
‘Course, we ain’t friends, we’re “friends”, and I
hide away in the cold so that you may follow
and we’ll talk and wallow in past mistakes, and
how great it’d be to hold your hand in the deep of the
sorrow. To hold on to you, to touch you-
why do you think I make such a fuss? To be in your
vicinity, to swallow in your air, to be the hand that
would run through your hair. These vivid thoughts
and dreams of you come through and
I see what you won’t see, and have failed your
eyes at me; and I’ve seen the before and after,
the during and the proceeding,
the middle and the end, and what end would there
be if we were more than just friends?
Let’s talk on the phone a while and play twenty
questions, and I’ll gab and gib, and go on and shit and
let’s see how far we get.
Go on.
You’re impossible to implore in a pure moment of
Hollywood romanticism pushed to the floor and
you enjoy stepping and stomping all over people with your phone
pressed to your ear: are you recording this here?
No chances to
no mind to
no heart to
and they say I’m better off on my own and
I know, but
I care to show you what I could be for you and
I know, but you don’t:
you’re an idiot with his shirt on too tight, and
I know, but you don’t:
you could’ve been the first, the lucky one.
Let’s chat in the car in between radio blasts and
I’ll gab and gib, fuckin’ bite my lip and
let’s see how far we get.
Go on.
Leave me in shambles to uncover the
figments of my mind, lost from time to time and
here’s a shovel to
cover it up again, and
are you recording this, here?
No chances in hell
space
or time-
the legitimacy outweighs the intimacy
that wasn’t even there, invisible to the
naked eye, and let’s see:
you make me want to have the
initiative to lock you in submission,
hold your head under water just
to hear you breathe, and
never once have I had my heart
leap in between the thrill of seeing you
come upon the doors and
of course, you can come in- I’ve always been
open for employment; tried to
make you overjoyed with all the wonders and
amazement, but you
simply never fazed it, and
a whole year wasted in past dust,
fucking pizza torn at the crust, and you
point your finger and laugh, but shit,
all the wonders you could’ve had had you not
been so quick to stab, and pick, and scrape, but
shit, they say I’m better off on my own and,
I know, but
I cared to show you what I could be to you and
I know, but you don’t:
you’re crazily insane and a perfect bore and
I know, but you don’t:
you could’ve been the first, the lucky one.
Let’s stop and speak in the hallway on the way home, and
I’ll frown and smile, my jacket come undone-
wish you could’ve seen how far this could’ve gone.
But Monday, I Realized That You Really Are An Idiot and We Can’t Be Any More Than Enemies…
We ain’t friends, we’re “friends”, and I’m
not talking to you now because I’m trying to
hold back my tears. My greatest fears consist of
you finally reaching happiness in your perfect
sphere of realism, while I’m stuck back on Fantasy Island, alone and
crying. I thought I deserved what was sure to come,
but never would I have thought my life would come
undone at the near sight of your car driving by,
speeding away fast enough so I can’t say “Hi.” From
what I saw, it was indefinite and fortunate
to have what was there, but nothing’s there now and
I’m losing the feeling that I can’t get away-
can I pull away? I’m pulling away and I’m leaving;
won’t you watch me this time as I’m squealing away? And
you can court your princess charming, and you can
speak your big game, and you can pretend you like to talk to me
when no one else is watching. You can forget me
when you’re sleeping, you can forget me in your wake,
only extend your hand for gifts of mine, for my real gift ain’t
the same. You can smile that stupid metal grin,
you can fuck around when no one can claim-
getting away with murder as my heart makes its
last spin because…I am hung up on Hollywood romanticism,
I am done with trying to impress.
I can only kiss so much ass before I’m dying to
give it a rest, so
we ain’t friends, we’re “friends”………
from nine a.m. til close on the weekends.
I cut myself with a butter knife
I hate life-
put some jelly on it and
butter it up with cheese;
I haven’t eaten real food in weeks,
I’m weak.
Fried eggs and ham, grits,
toast and speckled spam
spoiled milk in the microwave, oh
and I behave like an
egotistical, megalomaniac, madman
in the dead of the winter with an easel and
a magic pen. Come in
out of the cold, next to the fire,
get seated with the best side of
cold bologna and cheese sandwiches that can
get you higher, oh and I think
the ink in this matter is splattered
across the plate. This room is too white and
you’re too thin, suck it in.
Gut bubbling with paint and bruises,
red and green, too obtrusive,
peppers and hot sauce, a whole rainbow
of ketchup bottles and ranch dressing.
A lettuce head full of paintbrushes back from the dead,
poetic zombies that walk the Earth,
down a bottle of “Genius”, but no burp.
No fork and no spoon, no magic dust left to consume.
A whole canvas painted with pure erotic magic,
cut up into teeny tiny pieces, this
pencil could conjure up some devious acts of pure madness and
I’m so hungry I could eat a horse, but of course,
my mind and my mouth are too little to hide my remorse.
Love and pain, it’s the same plot over and over again,
too full to re-equip myself, still hungry for
the things I’ve kept high and out of this place, oh
How I want
How I need
to get out of this place.
My fingers are the map, my hands are the road, and
their motions are routes to my future waiting to be told- OOH!
Peanut butter and jellied candy fried onion rings!
And baked things with cherries inside!
Pineapple desserts make a chained man go berserk
A chocolate flavoured noose used for shaking creativity a-loose.
A fool you are for thinking outside the box.
Inside this kitchen, I am itching to find what was lost to begin with-
a skillet and hammer, a pen and spatula-
I’ll tell you what these minds need:
Starving artists need to eat.
I thought about kissing you all day,
your tongue against mine, my
mind completely blank. I did not
know that I could lose myself in so little
time; so little time to understand our
young minds. I had a love and lost it
once, for he never embraced my love.
And here you are, towering above me and
the idea of you makes me smile.
I was not kidding when I mentioned
my bleeding heart, and to love again
means to start again, and I’d rather die
than lose it again…my mind can’t take
losing again. So I sit in class
all bubbly and waiting, anxious and
conducting little scenes in my head
of you holding, touching, loving me and
I can’t keep the growing smile from my
lips. The bell will ring and closer I’ll be
to holding you again.
Like, my own nail polish coloured a pear green, like
my own lip biting to stop the unsaid obscene, like
my own bubble, my own massive bubonic mess of trouble,
my own appendix betwixt thee and
trust me, no one will be missing,
like my own car rusting away, car battery
died in the drive way, like my own two fingers,
my own machine, my own boyfriend and I caught kissing, like
my own kidnapping, my own murder, my own fault I keep slipping, like
my own brain cells trying to latch on, to catch on to the words I was
missing.
The time has come and I’ve stories to tell, words to spill,
paragraphs to sell, my own ending I’m waiting to screw up, like
my own self conscious eating at me and
you say my words so well when we’re kissing, like
own throat could stop what was to come, and I’m done, like
my own problems, you solve them.
It was sunny and wet, and I bet,
you remember how the sun’s beams
beamed down on us like a seamless dream
being slowly sewn to pieces.
To redeem the creases you bestowed upon me,
cleared my mind of all violent scenes,
all great and obscene, the blood curdling under
the skin that they misconstrue me for.
Before, when the leaves were bare and
hardly there, when the winds were harsh and
the sky feared dark and foggy, there was
no one left, nothing left to sustain the
rain fall that was coming and I
wanted to be able to want to be able to
stop what was coming, but it was inevitable:
a slap to the face that you witnessed and
business was good. We swayed away
to my sorrows borrowed from my
past mistakes and we shake and
make for new adventures to break.
We’ve got a whole ‘nother desert to uncover,
a whole ‘nother tree to dig under, and I’m
so glad that it was you and me,
my palm tree, I discovered.
There was a figment of my
imagination, such a gloomy sensation, that was
fading away whenever you bent your
leaves to hide me from displeasure, and
the gesture never went unnoticed.
The warm wishes and pictures were never
unfocused-to lean back on your bark, to
feel the sturdiness along my spine, the ridges
holding me up were the only things holding
me up. It’s easier to stand in quicksand when
we’re together, sinking down slowly in our
glory of friendship. The end was never over, this island
will never bother to bury us in our smiles. And I’m
so glad it was you and me,
my palm tree, I discovered.
Trying to think of something impulsive and spontaneous…
the real of things reminds us,
me and myself,
that I’m losing it.
Lists of objects rambling through, and
I’m so confused, I’m
so ready for the world, I’m so ready to leave and
Girl.
Boys.
Nymphomaniacs are crazying themselves to death.
It’s a toast to my moral and insecurities
this is me and I am
insanely crazy
and I love to keep them guessing but
I’m so predictable.
Pull myself out of the Mad Hatter,
trying to rise above all of this clatter, but
this shit just keeps going and going.
Let’s turn the clocks back and
reminisce on thoughts past: let’s
chase each other in the hallways,
screaming obscenities, like we’re enemies,
hands grasping, pushing, pulling, wanting and
wandering lustfully under innocent
Crayola coloured glasses.
Let’s get lost for a second and
time will beckon our thoughts and
rhyme with our reason. I will
tease you with my tongue jutting out and
my finger twirling my hair- I dare you
to touch my clique as you
watch from afar, your eyes a
dangerous liaison I cannot escape from. My mind
is too cluttered-let’s throw open the doors and
watch what pours out.
Let’s pause for a first kiss not
contemplated enough, sloppy and
eager and laced with a lustful fever.
Fewer have come to these lips but my
thoughts leave me as you breathe me in.
Let’s pretend like we’re not thinking what
our words are submerged in. Let’s
pretend we wouldn’t want to know the feeling
of being close to the other. Let’s
pretend we can control our movements. Let’s just
stop pretending.
I can memorize you:
loving eyes to
loving arms and
loving cries in the night-
share yourself with me.
Tantalize my
eager mind with
flinty bats of your
gleaming eyes and
come beside me.
Never loved a lover
so lovingly,
big arms to hold and
carry me to a place I’ve
never seen.
You’ve mesmerized and surprised
even me.
We were in lust
and the green in his eyes and
the brown in mine created a
kaleidoscope of fornication
never witnessed before in time.
He got his while I lingered patiently,
hand and knee,
waiting for my own implosion of
equivalent proportions.
He was in love
and the still of my heart and
the rhythm in my hips
played me like a harp.
Beautiful music,
love, lust and magic-
I played myself into a
a sordid rerun of
tragedy and havoc.
I was afraid
and his openness, at first,
lulled me in, and I stepped
aside myself, and my heart burst-
an explosion of what could be
and what could not have been
and then:
Nothing.
The world stood still and
our new life began.
I trust you, I do-
and he said, “I’ll always love you.”
To which I replied, “Until when…?”
When I saw you, I must’ve wiped the
sleep from my eye. You were the goofiest
of all the knights, and I just had to have you.
You came to me, arms wide open, your heart on your
sleeve. I begged you with my eyes to never let me cry or
be on my own again. Silly things that
girls will say from time to time, but
I knew you were pure, and I was sure,
that your heart would be mine.
In time, your shoulder was where I laid my head,
and you were the first and only to explore
the cracks and crevices that was my soul.
I confessed that I loved you, and you whispered in my ear,
“C’mere…” and I have been gone ever since….
But whatever happened…?
I’d wear your shirt while you wore my
sheets, and we’d top toe to the kitchen on
dirty feet. And I swore I heard you calling me one day.
You frustrate me. Why do I stay?
You’ve changed from a knight to a dragon, and sir,
I don’t recognize you anymore.
Bore you? I do handstands and backflips
just to get you to look in my direction. Your
erection keeps me aroused, but your attitude has
doused any flame that has ever burned for you.
Who are you and where have you gone again,
my sweet?
It was easy: you were the lucky one, the chosen one.
I never asked for more than what you could give
I have wounds you left inside me, covered up
with lies you have told me, smothered over
with tries and promises befallen me.
Where has my happiness gone?
He asked me
on a Friday,
“Will you marry me?”
With the sun on my face and a
pleasantly high surprise, I
raised my voice and batted my eyes;
this I replied:
“I am a woman. A tortured soul and a
curvaceous, picturesque girl, dipped in
love and sorrow and the
gift of tomorrow in my gut.
Who I am to give a fuck
about your battered wings at heart that
decided to beat my way, a faulty
start of turmoil and remorse.
Let my fingers be the pen that
writes your mind a long lost letter
you fold away and put into a box-
I guess. If I must.”
Together
to his parents’ house
on a Saturday:
pulling me out of the
passenger side, I
ride along the stone walkway and
pray that they like me. The
mother extends her wrist and the
father checks my figure, nodding
with approval;
I am a woman. Forever more
your lover slave, keeping you
happy while I pretend to love
what I have become. Befalling to
the thing I hate the most-a clichéd, withering
ghost of myself, trying to find herself amongst the
invitations and the systematic
enjoyment of china cabinets and
Waterford glasses. My life
flashes before me as I smile and
choke on my tea. I feel dreadfully
empty. The pills the years have
issued me- the prescription gets bigger.
This is life. This is the way it is.
I’ll accept it.
I guess. If I must.
But let me be.
I knew what I wanted but
I thought that I needed you.
Myself and I have been separated; we
took two different paths that
we thought we needed to see.
Myself was buried under your
dreams but never had your support.
Myself cried out to be touched
but you only pushed me to the other side.
Myself longed to make you feel
what no one else could give you,
but you found solace in the TV screen.
Myself thought that she was
Superwoman, but myself was not enough.
I thought that I could save you and
hold you up on my shoulders,
use myself as a shield against the
explosions and shrapnel of life.
I got tired. I got worn down.
I couldn’t give enough effort because
I couldn’t give myself anymore.
So.
On a Sunday
myself and I in tow,
my heart hung up on my sleeve, with
one last tear upon my cheek,
I left. I guess…
Yes.
I must.
When I was
uttering small words on
behalf of my
broken glasses, sugar and
molasses and maple syrup was
all it took to shake my foot and
lick my lips.
It tastes like death at my
front door, and shooo, we don’t like your
kind around here no more.
Shooting stars missed their targets and
they exploded their residue
all over my hands. It would take a
million men to sweep me of my
toes, but the job is already proposed-
Congratulations!
All foes opposed.
In the midst of rocking myself to
sleep, I would weep at the sound of
hand and creep, poking me in the back for a
midnight winter peek-tell me
I’m yours and I’ll lie down and
torture myself to
paradise and back again.
We were so close.
We were so close, I think,
again and again.
But what does this poor sap know? Only that
the sky changes colours quicker than
boiling water can ease the pain away. I’m
only familiar with the sweet teardrops
dancing on my pillows, the fan blowing its comfort and
the sheets beside me empty even while you’re lying there.
There is a gap wider than your arms,
call home unmasked and tell me
through the speakerphone that you love me.
Do you love me?
Then why did you leave me?
You and I loves
me; and we
magically
stemmed from
rimless Crayola
coloured glasses. Faster
approaching, he and she
falling masterfully,
ripping catastrophe
from afar- it left
her heart wide open-
ajar, her openness, left counting on
hopelessness.
“She and I,” said he;
“align thou heart with
mine. Intertwine mine and your love
and one beat per second.”
And he
loves me.
You and I
are meant to be.
In the midst of
raindrops on my pillows and
the wind rushing the ceiling, I
laid upon the emptiness of the room. The
soul gutted out, the shades pulled from the light and
the darkness crept in. In the midst of
the rolling thunder and the
dropping of my knees, the
carpet was pulled from under me. I
laid upon the drifting of the silence, only interrupted by your
solitude. I never
knew a hurt like this, like a peach pit. Like
the bits of apple seeds my tongue swells against, cutting off
oxygen cells that correlate with
heart beats. Blood is so fickle, always
running to and from these veins.
The skin I’m in doesn’t recognize the pain I’m in. An
arpeggio of things
going wrong coincide with
what we didn’t know how to fix.
And this. I am ruined.
How do we stop what I tried to help forget?
I didn’t know that your hurt was only
covered by rocks and boulders
ready to smother what I had laid
under there. I’m sorry
I wasn’t enough to strobe your passion. I’m
sorry I was only a belt fastened
at your waist, holding
up what you hold dear. And I hear
little voices telling me
you don’t care, but
I swear them away.
You do care.
You must care.
It’s not that easy-
four years just don’t disappear.
In the midst of black clouds and lightening
crashing, I laid upon the carpet with my
eyes wide open.
Either way, a
light at the end of the tunnel.
Torn scraps of paper riddle the
lining of my bedroom floor,
holes in my heart get the best of me
even though it’s been torn before.
Ripped the linen from around my feet,
tripped out of bed and
it’s hard to keep a straight face
with this hole in my head.
Dying of an old age, an old low
story line fading into the back of my mind
trying to get over the last of past
years’ marks, keeping a smile on keeps
the gremlins away. And I wait.
If I wait, the hunger’ll die fast and easy and I
won’t have to deal with all of the teasing.
Wait for a new heart to sharpen, sleek,
shatter and break, sweep it under a rug
and wait. Make for that golden lap of truth
and beauty and all that shimmers in the west.
Desolate desert in the whim fading like
the wind through palm tree leaves.
Speak to me like a man would, stop asking your friends
what you should and should not do, and look
me straight in the eye, stop lingering them along
the way, and hold me like you love me still, love me
like you always will…and
Another love song fills the air and
I know that you never should’ve
said we would last forever.
Puhlease.
You were a figment of my over exercised,
frequently love starved
mind, where I let you in and
cooked and dined on a
festively boastful delight of
red wine and griped for more under the
red checkered table.
Staring blankly across the dim lights, I
saw with my own two eyes, a
lover’s curse worse fears realized.
Puhlease.
You were a knight in shining armour
rusting at the sleeves and I
thought that I could shine you up and
put you back to appease the very fiber
of my being. The poetic pulse
that desired its feeding, red velvet and
checkered shirts unfolded and
left untouched die due to speeding.
Why did I let you in, let you in, let you in?
Why did I let myself get hurt again?
I said too much. Duct tape my
mouth and throw away the roll. No
knife sharp enough to
cut away the stories I’ve told. Alone
on my own, puhlease, why did I think I could
on my own? Hardly capable of seeing
in the light, how could I fight you
in the night, dark shades pulled and
only the nightlife and the night clerk
know we’re here. Disappear?
Puhlease. I can’t beg you enough.
Why did I think I could trust you to
come in, come in?
You were what made me realize that I was
something worth realizing. I thought that
You were good for me.
You were good for me.
I know that now. I
don’t want to say a
young woman’s mind was
left speechless at the
length of your tongue. Spun
out of control, the setting of the
characters at play.
Why did I think it wouldn’t end this way?
Puhlease.
Stop me from thinking if you can.
If you can, I have another reason to
be thanking you again. My mind
races against the hallways of your
laughter. Please,
help me to escape you this time.
Puhlease. Puhlease.
What will life be like without you…
I’ll just have to see.
Sometimes
in the blink of an eye
we are
telephone lines tangled up,
tripping us to our feet. Elbows bruised with
defeat, but never a sweeter taste that you left
could I compare. Dare I say?
We were linked through switchboards,
all systems go in between, beyond and yonder,
cold blue socks that keep the frost from getting under.
You are just a voice in my mind and I think
instead, I will stay the course set aside
no matter how much I died inside
when the line went dead.
Sometimes
in the blink of an eye
right is wrong
and wrong is right.
How have I the will to fight when
I am outnumbered and shamed like the
Scarlet Letter and I wonder will our pillows
ever be the same, tangled in dead batteries and
missing letters. It was better when my heart was
broken and you were the only one willing enough to
find and mend the pieces with tape and glue.
Who are you?
Some angelic being sent to right my
upside down world? If I could, I wish to
curl up against your side and sleep and
sigh and breathe you in, deep within and sin again by
candlelight to help me fight your heart. You are
the loveliest sound my ears have ever heard, and
is it absurd that I hear ringing in the distance?
Sometimes
in the blink of an eye
we are
angry words typed across the screen. Obscene
vanities- gosh, I could swear that you were mad at me.
Fuming voicemails tell stories of blasphemy and
black trails leading to the descent, but I know at heart
I must repent
some time.
Sometimes
in the blink of an eye
we are
ringtones that are never answered. The messages
build up-answer your phone- I call you,
but silence is the deafening sound of your dial tone.
I misplaced a mountain top and
pushed it toward the edge of
a cliff that only existed in my head.
I scoured the east of madness, past the gray mattered
webs of illusions that coexisted in my brain.
I am escaping. I am getting away.
From these walls closing in, I confess my fault,
I admit to my sins. Tired of my own
self submission, I am outrunning my
own jurisdiction. I am on the move. I’ve come down
off my own high horse. I have put away
my weapons of mass deception. Here I am.
I am bare to the flesh, blood circulating my soul-
I thought I had lost it once, but having stumbled upon it,
it fits me once more. What do you see when you see me?
I am no good, but I feel good. I have fallen
to despair, but I am human. I can feel. I am more than just
wicked thoughts of substance abuse
flailing around in the desert, full off cactus juice.
Thinking of deadly things that
hang from my ceiling. The hall is dark,
and the paint is peeling, but I am still
in remembrance of my graceful being…
Here I am. Frail and shaking, you have caught me,
but I am slick and conniving.
You are slow and jeopardizing my means of escape.
A threat you produce, but I bet I could shake you a-loose…
~~~~####~~~~
About the author
M M-Stewart lives in Portsmouth, Virginia. By the time you finish reading this little paragraph, she’ll be in her new residence in St. Mary’s, Georgia. She enjoys reviewing and watching movies for pleasure. She has a box full of stories she’s been writing and saving since she was a kid and intends on rewriting them so that they may make her rich and famous one day. She enjoys rock n’ roll music, good chocolate, Italian food, foot massages, and lazy rainy days. Please feel free to leave reviews for this and any other of her work so she knows she’s entertaining people and not leaving a dry spot in their mouth… Currently, she is working on a love story, and a story about a pizza delivery boy/ drug dealer. Stay tuned…
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