Brick and mortar rest,
sharp weapons in dirty hands,
and she’s repairing broken walls she doesn’t remember building.
But something, something moves
Moving in with dark tides,
the moon pulls closer,
and she’s afraid it won’t like what it sees.
It isn’t pretty she screams.
The grey grit of binding sand drips from the rusted silver shield in her hand as she stands in the harsh fall winds.
Hair tossed in her eyes while she hides past lies choking on the words she cries
She’s begging for it to stop.
Each step falls hard,
lead pen to a page,
gripping her chain,
watching hearts break,
Clouds move over head,
with air chilled cold as her heart, surrounding them, engulfing them.
I warned you, she sighs,
And the tools–weapons–shields,
Spring 2012, ISSN 2161-2846.
I want someone to lay with me.
Run their hands down the sides of my mind.
Touch the soft curves of my thoughts and
brush against the fragile bones of my soul.
I want to be addicted.
A junkie looking for my next fix,
searching for a way to pay for my next moment, of euphoria.
I want to feel needed.
That choking feeling of hope
that someone would grab the rope
before I jump before I let go.
Because I ache for more than the surface.
More than conversation down dates
and broken hotel rooms.I want to feel real.
Push me against the wall and tear the clothing off my heart.
I want to expose all
my dreams and fears,
without being afraid,
to fall apart.
Comb your fingers through my mind.
— Don’t let go, pull, tug!
I want to show you, everything.
I want to fall in love.