Feb 25, 2013

correct me. seriously.


 there is nothing to promise

there is nothing to promise, I promise you.  please excuse the awkward tears in my paper.  the bites in your cheek.  let me lay quietly, don’t reprimand me.  don’t reprimand me just take my face in your hands, your big hands, your big hands.  if we were both willing and fashioned from stronger material maybe we could be the instruments from which music for bad people is made.  if we were stronger.  or if i was.  if i were better.  if i could take a better beating.  let me try.  i look at you and shiver.  i remember your blue eye.  the way you peered at me through that hot inch of air.  pupil to black pupil, my curiosity spread wide.  it is no secret that my ultimate intention is to burn this body down to nothing, just a cold and stupid, grey stump, good for nothing save for the paste you might make from spit and ash.  my mother’s heart rattles inside her silver tin.  my mother’s heart rattles in my ear.  i put your fingers in my mouth and suck the salt you offer.  i put whatever you offer into my mouth and take the meaning you provide.  down down down in to my stomach and i think of my skin turning young below your nails.  my mother’s heart was burned down to nothing and made useless save for the paste you might make from spit and ash.  her widower marries another and her ash still shivers in the cold confines of her Clock Urn.  he said “might as well have something useful” when he picked out the carriage for her remains.

now, ask me if I believe man’s love is eternal.  now watch me laugh.


critique me.  i mean it.  i want to be good at this.  send me an email if you like.  angelasimione at gmail dot com

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