I don't want to write this story; it makes me so heartsick I can barely breathe. The moment is all wrong. Tanim should be the one yelling and weeping, not Daren. It should be Daren's patient voice coaxing logic and calm, not Tanim's. But tonight is different and for once Tanim remains dry eyed. He tries futilely to once again explain something ( Read more... )

“Direct Injection”

I self medicate
heroin hymns, morphine myths
LSD legends
a temporary escape
worth the heartache of withdrawal

no words tonight. tonight raw wounds. tonight choking lungs and burning eyes. tonight jealousy like acid bile, a film of blood on lips bitten to silence. jealousy of those free to touch, to give and take, who need not fear condemnation or persecution. jealousy of the blessed, those with time and possibility to love, heal, grow. no such happy ending ( Read more... )

Oh the well is deep ( Read more... )

Can't think. Can't concentrate. Can't write. Trapped, reliving the same moment, the same scene, the same heartache and desperation. “I'm a whore.” Tanim, sick with loathing, throat tight around a shameful sob. “Would you call a starving man a glutton for easing his hunger?” But he only swallows down the urge to cry with a strangled moan. “I don't ( Read more... )

Sister, sister, get me out of here. I'm being consumed. I'm being devoured. I'm being transformed. My head's buzzing with machinery's language, harsh hammering consonants and vowels like metal gears grinding together. It's filling my head and I can't remember the sound of rain or the voices of the waves or the keening, wailing wind. Sister, sister ( Read more... )

“Easy”

I churn out haiku
like a whore gives out blow jobs
and care as little

“Swallowed”

the well yawns, waiting
hungry event horizon
inescapable

- - -

“Sterile”

this dry soil's no womb
these salt tears no nourishment
the seed stillborn rots

- - -

“Claustrophobia”

drowning in the well
thinking in broken haiku
feel bat-shit crazy

You know that sound you make when you've been vomiting all night and now you're crumpled on the bathroom tile, clammy with sweat, and you have to throw up again but your throat burns and your mouth tastes like bile and you just can't do it, can't stand the spasm of purging anymore, so you just lay there choking back vomit with a sort of pitiful ( Read more... )

This is the ending I want for them: the quiet shore and the moon rising a golden crescent in the east to spill a pale pathway across white foam waves. This is not the city's false darkness, forever lit the sick yellow of street lights and neon signs. This darkness is absolute, broken only by the cold light of moon and stars, and it holds the ( Read more... )