let these words linger
on the lips
soft kisses
left by forgotten lovers
fingertips caressed
across the cheek
now claws
opening wounds
that will never heal
slivers of blood
that scar my face
and cast shadows
across my smile
let these words linger
let them wither and die
do not speak
utter silence
bubbles on your tongue
spill like syllables
and spit
on your pillow
Speak
or forever hold your silence
cupped between your hands
as though a mug of coffee
waiting to overflow
Drink
swallow while it’s still hot
let the bitter waters
fill you to the brim
and simmer
in the stinging glory
of choosing inaction
creating motion
out of stillness and restraint
while the last dregs of water
puddle at the bottom
and reflect all the shadows
that stir you in the night
and drown your waking dreams
in regret.
So speak.
My safe place
is stillness
and sound
Take me
Break me
Lay the foundation
Erect the hostel
Fill me
Kill me
Bury the grave
Pave the way
Lead me
Be me
It’s so loud you don’t hear it
You can only feel it
That’s life
Excerpted from Spoken Word Syndrome
This will be a simple story, spawned from a simple prompt of a simple word called snow.
I set my pen down, turn to the window.
Snow is falling.
Is falling.
Fallen.
I open the windows, the white-framed blocks of glass spreading like angel wings into the cold air, and step into the silent storm beyond. The wind catches me from nowhere as holly drips onto the snow beneath me. I remember: glass is not solid. Glass is liquid. Over centuries the windows cry, sagging and wilting in the sunlight, holding out the snow, keeping warm a house uninhabited except for ghosts and phantoms long since remembered by anyone.
There I was, sitting lakeside, when I first heard the rustle of leaves from the nearby trees. We had been warned dangerous things lurked in the dark forest, had been told many times that it was far worse than forbidden, so I was rather taken aback to have heard something so close to the edge. After all, a wise friend of mine had once made it plainly clear that anything inside the forest was as likely afraid of what was outside of it as we were of what was inside, and it was precisely for this fear that it was so dangerous to trespass.
On the contrary, I’d only ever heard a single fascinating story of this forest in my life: A man had entered on the night before his wedding, and when he emerged, he had vanished, entered a world in which he had gone missing forever, and no matter who he spoke with, no one knew who he was. He’d even met his brother at a pub, one version of the story said, but even he had no idea who this stranger was! So he returned to the forest where he would live forever until all the trees had gone.
I looked up, bending my knees at an angle beneath me in case I had to spring up and run away, but right when I moved, a twig snapped and I looked to my right–and there I saw him, standing twixt two trees, half bathed in shadows, statuesque, but soft and supple: The torso of a man, barely fledgling with the hair beginning to bristle over his heart region, his neck long and sturdy, his face curious and marked with broad bones and framed by dark black locks. He caught my gaze with his pearlescent blue eyes and then darted back into the forest at once.
Silent Soliloquy 