I ache tonight. Take me down to a cool bed that isn't mine. Dress me up in a different time and call me by a different name, because I ache tonight within my frame, and cannot figure why. I ache tonight. So shroud me beneath ocean colors, seaweed arms to take me whole, and tie … Continue reading I Ache Tonight
Tag: Poetry
Apostate
Why did you leave? You say it's because the home was a lie, that there is no way to find God, for all ways lead to God, and very few lead to the devil. I say I will not, that I will not leave my Father's path, and you ask "What if it is a … Continue reading Apostate
Sin of Covet
Covet all within a store known for fragile Chinese wares. Where is your pride now?
His Mother’s Red Dress
His mother's red dress is two sizes too big for me. I wear it anyways, flattered to wear that which was left behind; once well beloved but forgotten, but I cannot sew. And I find I am too fond to put it off: my husband's mother's red dress.
Deeper Ink
I want my ink to be deep and wide that my words should look sure and unmovable, rather than a thin scrabbled mess meant for temporary notes and reminder. Perhaps then I'll have more say more control over what I write and how it moves my world. Perhaps, then, I'll adore those thick inky strokes … Continue reading Deeper Ink
I don’t like you, Mom
He thinks if he expresses how much he doesn't like me it will stop me from trying to be a good mom. Oh, my precious baby, I ache for the feel of a soft little head beneath my chin, and little fingers clasped about my own. They were my moments to worship you. Little, soft … Continue reading I don’t like you, Mom
Anxiety Doesn’t Care About Stories
Grasping at straws broken plastic cutting the divinating creases of my palm. Tell me live long and may your future be devoid of vomit. Crack open my skull, and peel back the membrane crushing me. I'm seeing. Hallucinating. What's real? You are real, but am I? Nails, through my ears Temples, where God waits on … Continue reading Anxiety Doesn’t Care About Stories
Dear Daily Burn
Dear Daily Burn advertisements, Please stop making me feel fat. Sincerely, I am not fat...right?
Wicked
Swallow the cap of bleach and hide the poison you take every day so you can afford to kill yourself. Evict the yellow blood. Make salvation tenderly, then sit it in the corner in a dirty onsie, while you fill your home with hellfire money and sickness. Drink deep of pleasure whenever you want, pretend … Continue reading Wicked
Long Work Days
Drag my brain along the ground, so the moisture collects crap. Then tell me to pat it off and clean without my brain around.
Author T.S. Lowe 