Rind

I am the space beneath the mushroom caps,
tightly tucked into the cool folds of the fanning sponge,
into the spaces where the sun can’t find

like perfectly polished dew drops,
truths lay scattered and exposed all around me,
but somehow, they lie in secret,
ungraspable,
like pollen bouncing on the breeze,
and I desperately stretch for them,
but my fickle fingers keep coming up empty

I wither,
in the absence

I am nothing but a husk,
a shell,
a rind,
something the sun can’t find

-image via Pexels

Seen

I often daydream of moments when I was able to speak freely,
vulnerably,
to openly share of myself without barriers or masks or pretenses,
of moments when I have allowed myself to be seen

oh, God,
nothing compares to that feeling;
it’s worth the risk

and I think –
perhaps that’s all there really is in this world:
seeing someone,
even if for a moment,
looking inside to the core of a person,
and accepting what we see

-image via Pixabay

Swan’s Song

standing at the creek’s edge,
our fingers’ clumsy knot begins to unlace
as he turns to look at me,
eyes flickering like fading filament,
a passing swan’s cursive curve a question mark’s reflection on the glassy surface before me,
just like the words he so softly speaks

and I stand there, stuck,
wondering if, no matter my answer,
no matter what choice I make,
would the swan still sing our song?

-image via Pixabay

Bruised

he was all teeth and muscle,
blades of white pinching at gooseflesh,
sharp intakes of air heaving and leaving in labored gasps and moans,
his warm wetness closing in around the sting,
sucking so hard my eyes clamped shut

but I did not arch away –
I pushed myself further into his mouth,
welcoming the pain,
as famished fingertips dug into my back as if reaching for something he could not wait to unearth

in that moment,
I wouldn’t have minded if he drew blood;
he was devouring me, consuming me

needing me

I gave all I had to give,
and I took it all in,
all he had to give,
the needing and the wanting and the desiring,
the unhindered exposing of his soul to mine,
the becoming
one

for, we knew,
in the giving and the taking,
in this most sacred exchange,
this unhindered merging,
we would both feel stronger than we’d ever felt before

more

in the end,
I would be covered in his marks,
scratches and ribbons of redness,
I would be rubbed straight to the bone with the kind of urgent exhaustion I imagined an addict feels between fixes

I would wake,
bruised to the marrow with him,
he a part of me,
and I of him

forever

-image via Tumblr, original source unknown; shared as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Desire and Sexuality prompt

Longing

I long for a deep and dreamless sleep,
a certain sleep,
for relief from the excruciating pain of living a life that is less than I always imagined,
less than I hoped it would be

I long for a quiet and peaceful sitting,
an undaunted sitting,
for solace from the thunderous reel that’s been stuck on repeat for as long as I can remember,
for as long as I have allowed it to play

it’s true,
I mostly prefer aloneness,
but it eats me alive to know what an increasingly isolated life I’ve been living,
a tiny, dark triangular world of gambling, shopping, and reading,
three points to which I traverse,
one after the other,
trying my best to outrun the thunder and the pain –
it’s no wonder I’m always so tired

but what I long for most of all,
is rest,
for the ability to finally stop trying to fill the seemingly infinite void,
rest from trying to make life smaller

-image via Pixabay; poem inspired by my mother

Weight

can your strength support me?
for I’ve gained too many pounds

and this extra flesh is nothing compared
to this shame in which I’ve drowned

-image from a gif created by Alessandro Baricco, found via Tumblr; reworking of an older poem

Patchwork

they don’t even notice I’m a mess

the truth is,
I’m not even sure how I’m able to function,
because it feels like I’ve been splintered into a million little pieces

and today, like most days,
I’m just clumsy patchwork,
exhaustedly strung together with recycled red string,
fate stitched to the soles of my tired feet,
and they’re all scavengers,
viscously peck-pecking away at my seams,
wanting more, more,
more

-image via Pinterest, original via google images