Surveyor of the Night

(Edit)

She is the surveyor of the night.

Darkness creeps within her bones and

whispers of sorrow slink through icy veins.

With deep hydra eyes obscured

behind chalky, red-rimmed lids,

she keeps her grotesque gaze sealed,

craving peace where none originates,

and in isolation, she laboriously lives in Hell.

The pain of those surrounding her

fills her, enters her aching, irritated soul,

until she no longer knows who she is. 

Her lungs expand with toxic tunes,

the cries and curses of many

mixing together into a cocktail of misery.

She decides to drink it in slowly –

for her, there is never enough – for

as the demon-screams slowly morph into

savory-sweet mutations, her

mind celebrates the suffering,

calling her onward into a nightmarish abyss.

The drunk tragedy that she is remains

forever sheltered away from

shimmering lights and dew-drop mornings,

and a phantom breath escapes her mouth,

permeating angelic air until it changes into

an encompassing atmosphere of death.

Remember her,

tormented in this wretched state,

for she is the surveyor of the night.

She even haunts herself. 

Imprisoned Pain

I have a box
containing you
living under my bed,
and every now and
again you call out
from underneath,
wanting to be let out.

Unlocking the golden latch,
I cautiously open the chest
and try to keep you
from spilling out into
my room,
with no luck.
You speak to me days of
dreaming,
secret plans no more,  
lost in photos and potent poetry.
Tears wind up running down
my cheeks, tethered
ropes of mascara
latching from eyelash to chin,
so my hands place you gently back within.

I keep you locked away for better days.

But tonight was not so.

Love sucks, Mr. Miyagi

I want to
karate-chop
the man
and
woman
holding hands
in front of me
as I walk
behind them
hoping
they
trip and
fall.

Playing Poker-face

Painted softly with
crimson-tipped peonies
and adorning no
silver or gold
she sips slowly on
watered-down whiskey
as thirsty Thursday night
creatures watch with wonder,
waiting.
The slow, steady tapping of
right toe against footrest
hampers hearts
aching for maiden’s
sweet nothings,
if only to somehow
catch soft sliding
notes of intonations
and explanations.
But even with hearty laughter
and cat-calling commotions,
the woman wreathed within
dense drunken air
hears nothing,
for she spends these
loud lonely nights
in her copper-corner world,
waiting
for a day which doesn’t come
and once fabricated fantasy to
call her his home.

dark defense

I thought I was ready
to see your face,
but
something, or someone,
made me angry
again
and I couldn’t come to you as if
the past was fragment-free.

I hear you walk around

wondering why we went wrong
and
I wander the same,
mentally reacting when
someone mentions your name.

But I should be easy to forget,

the simple trial run;
nothing more than
a pair of ears to advise,
a humble mind to contain,
and
if ever I hear
“let’s cuddle”
again
I’ll scream –   
for I was the woman
with lips to kiss              
but never
to confide in.

I made you out of

paper mache promises
and origami dreams,
and you placed me within
finger-painted frames,
arranging my miscellaneous
colors for you yourself
to perceive.
I knew who I was;
you were not yet
what you were to become,
but still you played me
as if you were king
and I was not fit for queen.

And so anticipation paints

future friendships wary and
while I have no answers
to my irritated sighs
I know
neither do you.
If time is intended to heal all wounds,
let that not be for me;
“Forgive and Forget”
shall instead be
“Forgive and Remember”
to keep myself from
falling for you
all over again
and again
and again.  

B Positive

Once you asked

what blood type I was:

“B Positive,” I stated suspiciously.

And you explained, “It means you’re rare.”

But you lied –  

what you meant

by the question and reply was

that we didn’t match,

in more ways than

just blood,

and I still

can’t believe your

comparison then

didn’t reveal to me

how you thought our

relationship would end.

“B Positive.”

Be positive?

Never again.

Creation

Smooth ripple effect

of leaping and lingering

on the page

comes from the

tip of a pen,

so solemn, resting

daintily between

these fingers.