Figures

Shadowed angels hover above me like dark

shimmering clouds, affixed to my existence -

as his ends are fastened to my beginnings,

as his slumbering figure is clutched to mine on sleepy

Sunday evenings. The angelic shadows press

down on the air around me, and their words are

whispered to me in slight delays of the clock’s hand,

or whiffs of familiar scent carried

to me in gentle gusts of wind.

Their silent tears fall, cleansing my vision,

and I can see their pure intentions, floating

across the glassy surfaces of my eyes,

tiny islands set deeply in the irises.

My prayers slip from my lips and -

in solid darkness on late nights,

when crystals form in the corners of my eyes -

are intercepted from above,

then buried in the tilled soil of a rosebed.

No wings are ever displayed;

only coincidences alert me of their activity,

of their constant unspoken presence

in my life,

of their subtle protection and

gestures in vague directions.

Under Personal Attack

[A tiny hole, a little puncture wound from the past, right in the center of my chest.]

Every time I cry, there is a tapping on my ribs, something asking to be released. There is something or someone huge inside of me, begging to come out. It grows, fed by my uneasiness and my despair. As it grows, I feel weighted, carrying with me my own sadness and the heavy being that lives inside of me. It's anger at being imprisoned shreds through my organs; I no longer have an appetite or a pulse, just this thing, easing it's way into my veins. It rearranges my thoughts, out of order and then back again, until I can't take it anymore - I don't want to think anymore. It grows fingers, and they curl up into a fist, tightening in my chest, and then the next feeling is familiar; I know it just wants to be free. It presses on my tiny puncture wound, trying to push it's way out, twisting and jabbing, but the hole won't open any further. The pain is absolutely unbearable.

Juxtaposition

It only happens at night, when there are no other thought left in my mind. This juxtaposed mixture of excitement and anger that begins to well up inside of me as I lay watching shadows crawl across the ceiling, or the breath be drawn into his lungs, causing his chest to gently rise and fall as he sleep beside me. A feeling of both anticipation and dread. Why has it continued to ravage me these passed few nights, laying dormant inside of me until my body is ready to rest, then sinking it's teeth into my brain? I cannot escape it when I finally fall asleep, either - it's venom poisons my subconscious mind, as well. Dreams of violence executed with such a startling serenity; blood on my knuckles as I sip a chilled glass of milk, total peace within me as I drive my foot into the jaw of this half conscious woman. I wake up empty, half wishing it's happened, half glad my fists are clean. When thoughts do begin to trickle into my mind again, the anger slides slowly back into place, a rusty deadbolt that was only unlatched as I dreamed. I don't wish to be angry anymore, but for every reason I cannot simply let the anger go. And even if I tried to let it go, would it really leave me?