[x]

Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through

Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.

lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.

I Am FlawedFrom body to soul and in between,
They blotch the parchment that is me;
I know of worse flaws I have seen,
But surely
I am flawed.

I sometimes lose my temper,
Use my mouth before my mind;
I ponder things I could do better,
And regret them for a time.

I can be harsh, I can be blunt,
I tend to hide my thoughts;
But this is far from what I want:
To be in someone's heart.

Comparisons are hard to make
Since we are all unique.
But half the time my words are fake;
The real me is a freak.

Regardless,
These flaws define me, describe me—
They make me what I am.
In that light, I'm proud to say that
I
am
flawed.

Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you

one. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).

It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.

two. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,

a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
myself.

three. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name

I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
o

ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su

i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.

String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.

ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to
Believe that the ability of
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice
In a life that was once
So happy.

A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she

Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...

this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.

Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor

AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.

Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie

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Dear Jesus ChristGod! Do you even recognize me?
You’ve made me into someone else –
Something strange – strange how I still
Fit in my shoes
Your genius, your magnetism
Has drawn me out and torn
Molded me –
Apart –

All of a sudden I’m daring
To be myself today – to
Feel like being beautiful
Beautiful just – only – for you
Being ugly – yes –
Only – ugly – just for you

I’m afraid of the scale
As though it might bite
Afraid of food and drink
Afraid of mirrors
Afraid of what you think

Stop me now – I’ve said to much!
I swoon – Oh, God, this isn’t good
Am I

12:2212:22.
My cell phone lights up, and I open up the received text message.
We’re here!
Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god. My heart’s about to jump out of me, I’m hyperventalating, I can’t get enough air. Oh god please help me. Don’t let them catch me. Let me get out of here please. Help me breathe. Give me air. My heart’s beating so loud, they must hear me.
I gather my things; not much, a duffle, a small carry on case, a messenger bag for my school things, and a bag of miscellaneous clothes. It’s not a lot, but it’s too much.
I check under the door, breathing in the carpet. There’s no o

Mind Your French Part IIShe might have been in France, the village was tiny enough, the huts scraggly enough and the children certainly muddy and naked enough. There were plenty of muttering mouths, but they were all speaking in Japanese!
"Don't you speak any English?" Danielle asked, but he didn't glance at her, only dragged her along.
The thought of that fox creature chilled her. Where was she, and what kind of place was this exactly? If she really were in Japan, well, how had she ended up here so quickly? Just yesterday she had been an au pair in England, going to school and flirting with boys, with little more concern than tonight's homework.
"Perhaps I drank

Mind Your French Part I"But I am back in France!" Danielle's eyes swept the countryside, seeing nothing but home. "I don't believe it. There is the little village. I must be dreaming." Her eyes returned to the deep well she'd climbed up from. How on earth she'd ended up down there she couldn't remember. And even more baffling was how she'd ended up in France, but here she stood at the top of a slow rising hill, overlooking cattle filled meadows and marshy fields. At last she was home!
Eager to see her sister, she started down the hill, but before she'd gone more than a few paces a bit of fur startled her. Curious, she peered into the tall grass for the rabbit or f

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[x]

My Lover

by ~EHB, Jun 26, 2012, 6:39:35 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

My lover believes
in the mystery of stars
in the power of kind thoughts
and that in everything there is meaning
everything happens for a reason

I believe in Darwin and reason
evolution and revolution
and in keeping my house clean

My lover believes in compost and recycling
in reiki and karma
and is unsure about veganism
or the afterlife

I love my love who loves to keep on believing –
though I'm the most pessimistic-narcissistic
fellow you've ever met –
we're not a match, she and I
I can't see the world with her eyes
I can only see the world through her eyes through my eyes...

She's my lens, and I pretend
just for a moment that the world's all rosy and clean
I love her naivete
but at the same time
there's something about her that's just sublime

My lover is so real –
I never quite know what exactly is on her mind...

My Loverby ~EHB

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

That's right folks. I'm still writing.

This one is a poem slash song in my head. Thanks and enjoy.

~erinyx Jan 4, 2013

How lovely!

~EHB Jul 24, 2012 Student Artist

Thank you both for reading.

~Winged-Phantom Jul 5, 2012

I like it. Its good to see more work from you, it seems like its been forever!

~Writer-Guy-NC Jun 28, 2012

Welcome back!

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