What do I do now, Father? The die's been cast the game now bought and the red numbers higher than ever, while I, here, have no hands-on in controlling the flow of money. Blank, hard, cold cash. It hurts the lack thereof, but hurts more than I even want it at all. There is no … Continue reading Wake Me Up When I’m Smarter
I want to howl for the pain, strip down to all fours, bristle and fang, yowl like the dying for at least there's an end to that. I want to tear skin and flesh built over the years the cover the original me. The me who danced in summer rain, napped beneath swamp coolers, and … Continue reading I Want to Howl
She told me to call him Father, because my real Daddy had abandoned me long ago. And she said this with her new husband in the room. Father didn't like me. Said I didn't know respect, though, to this day, I've never been able to peice together what made up his needed respect. She told … Continue reading My Second Step-Father
Quiet, now. For once your fears or discomfort are whistled to, he shall deny them. But they shan't dissolve. So whisper to the darkness that something's wrong and let it echo back. Or perhaps the abyss will swallow it. So hush. For if wrong's swallowed you'll want it too, you'll lean over. But should someone … Continue reading Whisper
Shelter me in fake leaves and fire, the smell of cider or cinnamon. I want the sky to mellow gray, to dream of feasts and coats and fleece. Pull down the growing sun to leave the nights open to lights and tinkle and indoor warmth. I've served my time to heat and watermelon. Hats, glove, … Continue reading Winter Longing
Let me breathe somewhere deep. The scraggy mountains call to me, entreating why I do not run or leap, or bound or climb their limbs. Breathe. And taste the line where sky and stone meet. But my feet are soft, the mountains far and my body lax with care. For while I leap and dance … Continue reading The Taste of Sky
Last the days though one night is impossible. Survival through sheer what? Enduring cannot be wasting and withering, and begging for death. Many others have survived. Speak of the night like a fond ghost story, still tingling with horror, because newborns are worth it. Worth it... It's not the worth I fear, nor the lack … Continue reading Morning Sickness
Fill me full of dreams while an angel destroys a kitchen and burns holes in the carpet with a child's dream of a match bonfire. Say I may have luck while reprimanding the me, the mom, because the angel spilled the juice left soda on the stairs and got into, yet more matches. Say I'm … Continue reading The Responsible Party
I know there is the sublime to reach for. Kneeling with fire in her hands and golden beauty as her cloak. But I'm here. Single-wide bad paint job debt and treeless sand. I know, somewhere, exists a dream maker. Framed with lightning, outstretched wings, and a rain of crystal or diamonds. But I'm here. Sick … Continue reading Not Living the Sublime
Ah, son of star I see you, up there, blinking and wavering from the constant burn. What you wouldn't give to fall from heaven and dive into the ocean. But the ocean is vast and dark and cold, and so very unlike the family of stars. Burning, as they may, from the essence of their … Continue reading Son of Star
Author T.S. Lowe 