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
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
Tell me how to strip away my skull to get to the broken bits within. The twisted wires that connect me to the overwhelming want for darkness, for nonexistence, for my flesh to peel off, because I cannot survive with just bone. Tell me there's a strip of hope I'm not seeing, one strong enough … Continue reading A Strip Away
In Your Dreams By T.S. Lowe 1 His Lamborghini’s seat conformed to my body as though it were made for it, as a billion dollar car’s seat would. The contours of the interior were lost on me, however, as my attention was too the man sliding into the driver’s seat next to me. … Continue reading In Your Dreams
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
Bite deep to my bones and take breath to tell what taste I possess. Lick wide to gather all the touch so I can be velveteen. Then clutch me hard and desperate, with sight thrown back to fully smell my afterimage: A flash of red and solo.
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 remember you most on a black bench, fingers on the keys, trying to play as passionately as you wanted to be, as you were, for you held your wild heart uncertainly. You knew not how to hold it properly. But all I could hear was you banging too hard on the keys. Trying to … Continue reading Black Bench
Those who have reached the dream cry hope, while those who grow old in the gray light of poverty shake their heads. So shake me loose. Where is the middle ground? Or is this overcast life it? They say dreams are fickle, corrupting, even. As much to peel you back for spoils as to give … Continue reading The Worth of Dreams
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