Close

Close my eyes for me, I beg,
for I’m not made to see.
It aches and burns and twists and turns.
A passive death so fleeting,
and disillusioned voices sing
while I pluck strings that reverberate
in thick and heady silence.
Close my heart for me, I beg,
for I’m not made to feel.
I break inside of you, and then
it writhes and screams and shatters dreams.
A passive life so empty,
and resolute abandonment
seeks heat in eyes so long plucked out
in thick and heady silence.
Close for me, my love, I beg,
for I’m not made to live.

Can You See?

Do you still believe?
Those whispers in my ears,
those dreams inside my words,
can you still believe?
Has the sun burned your skin,
and the night doused your fire?
Can you look anymore?
Can you see?
Can you see?

I remember watching you the first time,
when you made love to a world
so drenched in ugliness
and you cried out, beauty.
You cried out, compassion.
You cried out, hope.
And we believed.

Sweat glistened on your skin like dew
and you swallowed protests of fear.
Your eyes fixed on the air between us,
voice trembling with fragile clarity
as you cried out.
Please, you begged,
please don’t stop loving me.
Please don’t stop loving us.
You screamed,
and your voice tore a ragged hole in the air.

We shivered that night
while bodies moved and danced and writhed
to a nostalgic song without any words.
You kissed me and I wept.
I cried and shook and laughed and then
you kissed me again.
And you kissed me again.

You kissed us all that lonely night
when our hearts were shattered and spread on the ground.
We loved you and you made us love each other.
Our angel,
our sweet, precious angel,
you saved us.

Do you still believe?
Wherever you are, can you hear me?
Can you hear us crying out into the silence?
Can you hear us raging against our silence
while you tremble alone and abandoned in the dark?
Do you feel that ache I feel
that hollows out my insides and leaves me breathless?
I want to turn my head and scream
with eyes squeezed shut and voice cracking,
muscles shuddering and skin on fire.

Where have you gone,
you who made love to a world so filled with ugliness and horror,
where have you gone?
I can’t live with your absence, and I die when you’re near.
I want to grip your heart in my bleeding hands
and I want to shriek and howl and sob and moan
until you come back to us,
though you never will.

Can you see me where you are?
Look at how broken we are.
You left us when we killed you and now,
now just look at us.
Can you see?
Can you see?

Little Bird

Come away now, little bird.
I remember when you slept,
with little heartbeat in little breast,
soft and warm in my cupped hands.
I remember when you slept.

Come away from walls of stone,
the cold, dark cage we made our own
as rain fell quiet on eaves below.
Come away, come away now, little bird.
The eaves are drenched in tears.

Come away and sing for me
with golden voice on silver sheets of stars,
in places where no eyes can see
and places where no mouths can speak.
Come away, come away, little bird.
I want to hear the silence.

Come away from sunlit skies
and trees that sigh on moon-drenched nights.
Don’t leave me here in walls of stone,
in palace prisons made my own
with naught but dreams to keep me.
Come away, away now, little bird.
Don’t leave me here alone.

Come away from my cold cage
and seek the solace of the skies
that reach so high, so very high
my fingers can’t quite touch.
Come away, come away now, little bird.
Come away and…

Come away, come away now, little bird.
I remember when you slept
and I knew that you’d awake to share my thoughts,
to share my days in silence.
Your voice grown dusty from misuse
brings aching to my lonely eyes.
Come away, away now, little bird.
Hop here into my hands.

Come away from these cold stones,
my darling, tiny little bird.
Let me hold you one more time
with tiny heartbeat in tiny breast
fluttering, thumping against my skin.
Let me see you, little bird,
with eyes of liquid pain.

Go away, go away now, little bird.
The window opens now for flight,
so wing low and soft into the night
and leave me here awaiting light
while I sing with voice of silence.
So away, away now, little bird.
I loved you deep and true.

Viper

An old muse came to visit and wrote me a poem. It seems fitting that I share it. You may be seeing more of her in the future. She shares the poem’s name.

Venom black and acidic churning
Burn my blood and sear my breath
Scrape the claws inside my head
Savage needing I can’t have

You took you stole you killed you buried
You broke me

I was dead

Spinning blades replace nimble fingers
No more luxury or fear or pain or games
Cold
I am ice

I will have you and you will bleed
You will bleed and scream and cry and shake
And you will beg

I will see you beg and I will let you die slowly
I will be certain that it aches
Stings
Burns down to embers like the funeral pyre

You will beg

As I did

I will feel nothing until you’re gone
But my hot living anger
I will be cold so that I can burn you to ash

I was broken

I will break you

And then I can die

Reclaimed (mature audiences)

His eyes captured the sun as it sank helplessly below the horizon and held the burning light as the moon languorously claimed her seat at the sky’s zenith. But this night did not belong to the moon or her pious servants in flowing blue robes. No, this night was the Hunter’s night, with the flashing ember gaze and throbbing river roaring in his veins and singing life into the landscape. He turned to the white-clad woman, robes floating just above the rich life-giving ground as it froze and hardened beneath her bare feet. The Goddess would relinquish Her throne this night and pass sovereignty of the earth to Her dark counterpart, the God who eternally sacrifices Himself for Her land and is eternally reborn from Her womb. The Savage One, the King Stag running through the darkness who would ever be both Hunter and Prey until time tore itself from the fabric of this world and left it spinning in the Great Void.

He was a man no longer, but a conduit for the divine surge of power that rushed from the pulsing heartbeat of the land into his lean muscles and young bones to mark him as Ancient, Not Of This World, and the favored of the gods. He was Other; a being from across the veil had come into the strong, supple body of the man and made him something more. He remained unclad, with only his twin blades spinning between his fingers and the marks of the Otherworld etched into his flesh in varying shades of blue and gold.

Shadowed features overcame the handsome face, and the man was no more. The God turned His burning gaze to the woman who was the vessel of the Goddess, but who was as of yet the young girl chosen by Her priestesses. The Virgin, who was soon flanked by the swollen belly of the Mother clad in scarlet, who He had lain with at the feast of Beltaine and gotten with child, and the Crone, draped in black with gnarled hands that spun a thread between bony fingers. Three sets of eyes fixed on the Hunter, and the girl gasped as she, too, was taken.

A small bow of acceptance, of mockery and victory, and He was off, tearing through the fields until He flung himself into the trees and slipped between and above the reaching earth. His body was a whisper of flame  that licked at the crisp soil and laughed. All that remained here was forfeit to Him, and he would take as He chose and leave the rest for decay and desolation.

Just ahead, the predator moved swiftly along the freezing ground, and He crouched down low and sniffed at the air. Thick gray fur threaded with white and black softened the harsh profile of bare trunks and grasping clawed branches. A heavy muzzle brushed the soil with flaring nostrils and the wolf stood erect, ears swiveling to where the Hunter lay on his belly in the undergrowth nearby. A snarl that peeled black lips from dripping fangs rumbled low in the wolf’s hungry belly, and he met the Hunter’s eyes with a desperate rage. Too long had men run through these woods and taken from him, and he would now take from Man.

The wolf crouched low as the Hunter sprang forward, shining blades gripped in each hand and mouth twisted into a bestial grimace to match that of the animal. The wolf leapt and the two heavy bodies collided, teeth snapping and glinting metal flashing as it dropped to the ground. The Hunter’s strong hands wrapped around the wolf’s neck and squeezed, holding the beast’s furious jaws above His bare skin as saliva dripped onto His broad chest and the wolf’s paws scrabbled furiously to regain footing while it was held aloft by the throat. Both released a mournful howl into the night, steam rising from their mouths while the Samhain moon shuddered above.

Thick blood beaded on the tanned skin and dripped slowly to the dirt below, the first of many drops to be shed for this earth. He rolled atop the wolf’s weakening form and pressed His forehead to the fur between the creature’s ears, hands sliding up to grip the jaw and hold it still. The wolf sank to the ground and lowered its head, ears flat and tail swiping frantically from side to side. The Hunter looked down at the animal as He stood, red trickles seeping from the many shallow wounds left by the claws. Prone and still, the wolf held itself immobilized and silent as the Hunter stepped around it and walked on, heading west toward the sun that had died long ago.

She stood in the circle of trees built long before priests and druids had raised the stones, only the long glorious river of raven hair cascading across fair breasts and flat belly. Hard muscle curved slender thighs and strong calves, tightening the soft flesh of arms as they uncrossed and strong hands rested on a narrow waist, glittering eyes running over His blood-streaked form. Skin pale as the recent dead, gaze darker than the underside of a fresh grave, and lips like welling droplets of blood curling upward slightly at the corners. She held out tattered, grayed rags to Him, and He tilted His head in confusion. When long fingers deftly untangled the mess and spread the garments He understood, and She smiled, displaying His death shroud on the dying ground.

The Mórrighan closed the distance between them and wrapped Her arms around His neck, pressing Her firm body into His as He bent His head and took Her mouth. They drifted downward to the dying grass, and His knee parted Her thighs. Her touch was ice and the burn of fresh wounds, spreading across His skin and consuming Him when He entered Her. She closed around Him and He cried out, body moving of its own volition as the goddess wrapped Herself around Him and drank in His every breath. Agony shuddered through the straining muscles and pierced aching bones, and He shoved Himself into Her again and again until He spilled His seed inside Her barren womb with a howl of shared terror and joy.

The man froze, all semblance of the God sighing out of his body and into Her mouth, and the goddess laughed again and turned him onto his back.

Will You Let Me Remember?

Will you promise me something?
Sweet vision,
burning in my thoughts,
will you promise me something?

I won’t ask
for dreams or bargains or fidelity
or even for you to stay,
because I know that you have to leave
eventually.

But will you promise me something?

Don’t let me forget.
When the air is thick and heavy with regret
and my eyes are stinging with ashes of ignited failures,
don’t let me forget.

Will you promise me that?

I can hear you whispering,
I know you’re there,
and I’m afraid to see you.
Does it ruin the beauty when you see the ghosts,
or does it consume you?
Will it consume me?
Will I break?

Will you break me?

It doesn’t matter as long as I can remember.
Please, please let me remember.

Sweetest vision,
cooling my thoughts,
will you promise me something?

Will you let me remember?

Open Letter To… Oh, Fuck It

You know what?

Fuck you.

Fuck you, doubt, and fear, and every fucking other thing. I’m done. I’m sick of having sore eyes at the end of the night. I’m sick of the people I love being worried about my well-being. I’m fucking sick of you ruining my life. I’m done. I’ve had it with the “what if” and the “you shouldn’t have” and the “just have another drink so that you forget and you feel good for a few minutes.”

Fuck.

You.

I don’t want to feel like shit every time I look in the mirror, so you know what? I’m not going to anymore. I’m not going to sit here and cry and leave the few people I trust to scratch their heads and feel like shit because they want to help but don’t know how. I’m not going to search through a liquor cabinet for the quickest release, and I’m not going to look at the glass housing packs of cigarettes in the hopes that I’ll find something to make it go away.

Poetry again, and horrible poetry at that. The kind you stick your nose up at and leave to the teenagers sitting in class with a composition notebook and too much spare time, but that we’re all feeling whether we admit it to anyone (or ourselves) at all. I don’t care. I’ll write the damn poetry. It’s more like a rant anyway. Can this even be considered poetry? Sure, why not? It doesn’t follow the rules, right?

There are regrets whether I want to admit that or not. There are fears and close calls and all the shit I promised myself I’d be bigger than.

You know what?

I’m not.

I’m human, just like everybody else, and I can’t keep myself locked up behind a pane of bullet proof glass hoping that eventually I’ll get my happily ever after and everything will work itself out.

The muses aren’t quiet because they have nothing to say> They have a lot to say. I’m just screaming at myself too loudly to listen. I’m screaming your name, Doubt, and I hate you for it.

Do you hear me?

I.

Hate.

You.

You’re not going to run my life anymore. I know I’ve made this declaration before but I’ll make it again, and I swear on whatever there is left to believe in that I’m as serious as a heart-attack this time. I’m fucking done. You can take your irrational fear and your self-loathing and you can shove it right up your ass.

People give a shit, so there has to be a reason.

Good things happen, so there has to be a reason.

I’m still here, so there has to be a reason.

Fuck you if you try to make my life a living hell again. I’ve held onto you like an addict going through withdrawal for the past two years. Two years. Do you know how fucking long that is? A toddler learns how to speak in two years. A student earns an associate’s degree in two years. A marriage turns into a first child in two years. A novel is written, edited, and published in two years. A life happens in two years, and I’ll be damned if I give up another two to your bullshit.

No, I’m not going to be good every day. No, I’m not going to be happy all the time. But someone gives a shit, and I give a shit, and you’re done with me.

Fuck off.

To My Dear, Darling Muse

Dear Muse,

Okay. What the fuck, lady?

Probably not the best way to begin. Let’s try that again.

I’m not sleeping well, as evidenced by the fact that I’m typing a letter to you at nearly two in the morning from my phone rather than sleeping. You know I have a full-time job, right, Muse? Sleep is important to me.

I’m not thinking clearly anymore either. This is never a particularly good time of year for me, at least not until December, but I’ve been much more depressed and anxious than usual. I’ve also been picking a lot of fights lately, Muse, have you noticed that? I’m arguing with my family on a pretty much constant basis, I seem to be looking for any excuse to butt heads with my writing partner, I’m either shunning my friends or moping when I talk to them, and it’s only a matter of time before a customer says the wrong thing one too many times and I wind up rushing to the back room to cry. Basically, I’m an emotional train wreck.

This would be an ideal time to make your appearance. You know, give me purpose again. Grab me by the ear and demand that I create something new and massive and brilliant.

You’re not doing that, Muse.

You’re just sitting there, staring at me from across the table with your eyes like caves on the ocean floor, or perched on the edge of my mattress like some elegant siren carved into the ship’s bow while I stare at the insides of my eyelids and pray for sleep.

You’re waiting for something. What the hell are you waiting for? The apocalypse? According to the conspiracy nuts, that’s 12/21/2012. That’s three years away, which is not going to cut it for me.

I haven’t treated you poorly, have I? Sure, I’ve been horrible to one of the characters you inspired, but that’s kind of the point. You, I’ve always been good to. I’m more in love with you than I’ve ever been in love with anyone. I practically worship you. What more do you want from me?

I’m pushing the envelope like you wanted me to. I’m making myself face the things I’ve been afraid of, or that I’ve been ashamed of. I’m bettering myself. Trying, anyway. I don’t know what else I can offer you. My first born? My blood? My iPod?

I need you, Muse. I need you and I miss you and I don’t know what to do when you won’t talk to me. Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll write anything. I’ll cross any of my boundaries if you’ll just talk to me again and give me a project I can stick with. I need you to take your time with me again so we can bring a story into the world. I need this like I need air and I can’t do this without you nearby with your ocean song and your shadow touch. I need you so much.

Please break your silence. You’re killing me here. I’ll bake you a cake, if that helps.

With love and more than a little bit of sadness,

Christina

Dear You, A Letter

Dear You,

I’m sure you don’t recall my
silly little words about
everything and nothing, but
I’d really like to share. You see, my
mind is floating in so very many
different directions, from
loathing to joy, from
laughter to screaming, and I
think I need some perspective.

It’s so funny how this all works, with my
words laid out for you on these
otherwise empty pages, and your
thoughts ringing in my head even when I
will never hear your voice again. Did you
know that I wanted to kill you in my stories, or
at least make sure you suffered in some way? Did
thoughts like these ever cross your mind about
me? Do I cross your mind at all anymore?

The thought that you didn’t burn my
letters scares me, and I keep praying that you
did, because I don’t want you to keep my
words anymore. I hope you put them through a
shredder or in a dumpster somewhere. My words
don’t belong to you anymore, and I don’t want to think that
you kept them. I’d rather that they were destroyed or covered
in the filth of someone else’s discarded day than in your
greedy hands. They don’t belong to you anymore, and neither do
I. I never did, and that’s where we deviated.

If there’s anything of mine that you kept, bury it under
someone else’s dusty bones. I’ve tried to kill your
memory by writing versions of your death in various
grotesque, macabre ways, but you’re still in my
head. I don’t want to own anything of yours anymore, even your
memory. You never belonged to me, and I don’t want to keep
any part of you. I just want you gone.

Consider this your eviction notice from my memory, from my
heart, from my twisted little psyche with its twisted little
tortures. Burn anything of mine that you kept, because nothing
is yours to keep.  Not a single thing.

I’m sure you don’t remember my
silly little words about
everything and nothing, but
in case you do, you have to
get rid of them, because I
own the copyright, and you’re
infringing. You’re evicted.

Sincerely, with no
remorse or regret,

Me.

The Oceans Wept

The ocean wept for you when the sands ran out
The ocean wept
And the gulls screeched and the rocks wailed
When you left the world was hollow
And the rain couldn’t fill the empty spaces
Dark and cold and alone
The ocean wept
And the melodies were silenced
The words ceased to flow and the images faded
Without you there was nothing
And without you there was only ache
A deep resonating loss nothing could overcome
The ocean wept
And I thought to die when you were gone
Gone by my own doing when I pushed
Because I feared the ferocity of my belief
My belief in you withered and crumbled
I made myself cold in your absence
The ocean wept
And you came back to me
You came back and filled me up with purity
Washing the grime from my insides with sea-foam tears
My beautiful memory and precious love
I could never forget
The oceans wept
And still you came back to me