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May 2016

Dream of a crowd

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I know where I am.
It means you’re here too.
Throw myself in the crowd,
Ignoring thoughts of you.

But they linger and loom.
My heart skips a beat.
Engrossed in conversation,
To hide my defeat.

Morning comes, there’s that glimpse.
Those eyes and a scowl and that double-take.
Motion carries on
And I’m left in your wake.

I never meant to be here.
Never meant you to, too.
So I’ll take leave from the crowd
And beg reprieve of you.

Steel-toe

The crackle and sizz
Dropped to the dirt
Toe of the boot to snuff
And extinguish the last tendril

Blood stains
Soaking cloth and dripping to that same earth
The knife twisted
And pulled from skin

Knees give out
Dropping to ground
Face in the dirt
One last look

The menace aloof
Expression of kindness
Words of mercy
And the kick of betrayal

So much like the cigarette
That steel-toe
So close
Use and abuse, raise yourself up

Toss it down
Watch it die
That snuff again
Silence the burn

Take It.

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This is it.
This is my entirety.
At my finest.
And at my worst.

Bare bones.
Barely breathing.
Save for a heartbeat.
Tentative inhale.

Open eyes.
Open mouth.
Neither looking up nor down.
But straight forward.

These are scars.
They fade with time.
Seeing your own.
They’ll lighten like mine.

Hide them well for public eye.
But in darkness they’ll dance.
For you.
On display.

Chin high.
Eyes narrowed.
A dare.
A push.

Take it or leave it.
But this is it.
My armor and my weakness.
Bared for you.

Arms wide.
Feet apart.
Firm in standing.
Stalemate.

This is the test.
My attack and my fall.
Take it or leave it.
To you I bare all.

Attack and surrender.
The score must settle.
To look forward or back.
No rest in the middle.

A time and a place.
But why not say now?
Take it. Or leave it.
And I’ll simply bow.

A walk away.
That’ll cut to the bone.
But you’ve seen my scars.
The pain will hone.

Sharpened gaze.
Tightened grip.
A turned back.
Movement of hips.

A lesson learned.
In life and love.
Ferocity in stillness.
Dropping the glove.

Take it or leave it.
The balance is yours.
A weight on the scale.
Hallway of doors.

Just a Taste…

Cards

The thrill.

The rush.

An addict hopelessly drawn to a just-out-of-reach intoxicant.

The taste, the scent on my tongue.

Punishment, but why? Is this what is deserved?

Or just another hit.

That word again. Somewhere between romance and lust.

The gnawing ache of the unfamiliar.

Have I never felt this before?

Fear of the unknown.

Afraid of love but toss it to the table carelessly.

Let it be fed upon.

Let it be ripped apart and shoved back down my throat.

Choke me with it.

Craving.

Shaking.

Break me, but give me the fix.

Give it up.

Let me taste it.

Wrap myself around and let it consume.

I want it.

The Lioness

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A ferocity in her eyes and blood-lust in her heart. A thirst for violence only satisfied for the sake of nurturing, occasionally unleashed for the sake of order, niggling at the soul, and never completely quenched, because where would it end? When the claws came out and the teeth were bared, when would the blood cease to flow?

Power. In the shoulders, working down the spine and the sway of the hips, with a growl and a purr threatening to erupt. The need to pounce, to prove a point. Take them down, hold your place, save for one.

The King of the Pride, the sole reason for your kill, the excuse for your violence. Ruling over your rolling, adoring purr. The barrier, keeping the claws in check with those of his own. Test the walls with growls of your own, push the buttons, look for weakness. That despicable weakness, when self-restraint will fail and you choke down bile before you attack. When you tear at flesh, sink your teeth into the throat, claw and pin and fight. Taste the blood and bathe in the spray, praying on misunderstood weakness. Praying for the overthrow, praying on the King of the Pride to prove his point. To prove his place.

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