YES.

Yes, it was just a casual hello that I knew no meaning of.

Never alluding, never forward, never questioning; never revealing your intention.

Yes, it was just a casual outstretched hand that didn't have to be taken.

But I said yes, and a sexy grin crawled across your lips.

Yes, it's just a jittery look over the shoulder, a hand to conceal, a double-take.

Making sure nobody knows; protecting you, protecting me, my innocence.

Yes, it's just a fuck, just a suck, just an "uhhhhhhh".

As I bounced in your lap, neither of us even halfway clothed.

Yes, it was just a bad decision, just a one time deal, just a mistake.

As I get dressed with your carnal eyes on my flesh.

Yes, it was causing pain, causing hurt, just one simple white lie.

Grinning from ear to ear as you tell me you'll call me, knowing so much better.

ash.

Breathe. Just once, just twice; just keep doing it. If breathing is a sign of strength, I guess I must be strong. He tears me down in all his possible ways. He shames me, he embarrasses me, he hurts me, he takes me for granted and he yells at me. He tears and tears and tears, till I'm just here. Still a rather large mass, yes. But a mass of hurt, confusion, anger, rage, love, hate, sexuality, and everything else he makes me feel. And he just stares, uttering that apology that hurts worse; that apology that is not an apology, but a challenge to keep going.  And by God, I always do. I fuel hism fire because I know I will get him to where I am. And we can stand, masses of hurt, staring at one another with the expression screaming "why do you do this?" But we do this for love, somehow. And his mass of hurt moves closer still, because I know him, even in this state. His motive is to fix it, to get me back, to restore he and I to the beings we were before the anger unfolded. So I can put my cloak back on and cover my hurt. He touches me lightly, tracing the wounds that make my hips and waistline fall so nicely. Kisses the marks that make my lips so delicate and fragile. My insides shiver, knowing he's going to break it all again. He continues touching and touching, until the touching turns into the thrusting that usually happens between he and I. And at the end, I fall into that pile of ashes he keeps by his bed. No more.

"hello?"

unless you got a receptionist,

you can quit lying.....

at least she sounded happy.

but hey,

your dick makes me happy, too.

pretty.

we've all got pretty bones,
but our exteriors are what suck.
touching one another in animalistic manners,
no manners at all.
we touch them all, and still there's some for later.

we've got such pretty faces,
but our thought processes are what suck.
hanging one another out to dry,
under the bus.
but we need them when we need them, maybe later.

we've all got pretty bones,
but we've got such horrid personalities.
no regard for any soul, save ours, of course.
we simply don't care.
but we expect others to care; we shove it in their faces.

we've got such pretty faces,
but we're all such horrid people.

linger.

you look good in the spring, and you're such the perfect husband.
holding her hand and kissing her lovely cheek in the breeze.
but you're having trouble, you see, or maybe you don't.
button up your coat, dear, there's a slight chill.

you look good in the reflection of that glass of wine.
pretty for an old man, pretty for a young man; you never looked your age.
smiling with soft red lips, telling of all your battle scars.
none quite as impressed as i was, two springs ago.

you look so good on her arm, such an odd little man.
but you're beautiful, you're cocky, you're absolutely grand.
you can let this one go, you can stop trying, you won long ago.
you kept your prize, on a shelf with all the others, not quite as shiny.

you look so good as you fade away, little by little.
but you never really were the type to stay.
just the type to mold, to fix, to stretch things as you want them.
you lingered just long enough to break my heart.

and i said i'd never tell you that.
just go on, walk away.
i won't be okay if you do.
but i said i'd never tell you that.

It's Said...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

Sure, it's said, over and again.

But good old Jenkins had a grudge,

Gorgeous as the bitter old bitch was.

She came calling for morning coffee, (wood, if you please).

Chipped mauve nails gripping that cup, floors up.

Giving Jenkins those hungry hazel eyes, (startling, some say).

Jenkins giving her something a little more below the belt...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he spat in her morning coffee.

Watching her ruby lips at ear after ear,

Beckoning to their favorite room, “good acoustics".

She flipped the bird with a witty grin, (wood, behind the counter).

Digging her half-assed nails into another man's hand.

Baseball, grandma's panties, stale pussy, anything, (just slightly aroused).

Jenkins heard every moan, every utterance of that man's name.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he took her the very next day.

And he ravaged her; his and his alone.

And she screamed pleasure and hatred.

She wrapped her ankles around the old bastard's neck, (leverage, some say).

Screaming out every name but his, breaking his being, his stride.

And he slapped that old bitch dead on the ass, (she liked it, ineffective).

And Jenkins choked her nice and hard; she looked so pretty in blue.

It's said Jenkins was a hollow man,

And he sliced his wrist in her coffee,

Dying of satisfaction watching her swallow.

And he jacked it right then and there, (dead wood).

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But they changed it to Genesee Hotel.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins haunts those halls,

And that bitter old bitch gets coffee every morning.

Mommy.

Slice right here, cut right there;
Mommy's got all the right bandages.
Blood drips, like tiny ballerinas
Dancing their way down that pretty silver drain.

Your face is a mess, and you look like shit.
You're much too fat, changes your clothes.

I slit open my thighs as I ponder what you know;
Am I pretty enough for you yet?

Scrape that makeup with half-bitten nails.
As mascara writes "disgrace" on wet cheeks.
Not nearly good enough, not even close.
Close, close comes that sharp friend no one knows.

Your makeup is running and your chins are showing.
Your hair is flipping out, go straighten that mess.

I paint my nails in the blood on my chest.
While he sits and cries beside me, knowing.

I cake my face in the blood you make me spill.
Pretty little war paints; puckering red lips.
Bright eyes of mine watch the skin curl back on my wrists.
Telling the fatal cuts of how I love my mother so.

You were good enough, don't go yet.
I loved you so, pretty little girl.

Blood dots the I's on her goodbye to the world.
Am I pretty enough for you yet?

You Taught Me Words

Please just remember, you taught me words.
How a phrase can become the most beautiful of flowers,
And words can tear at the heart strings like the tug of a newborn.
You made me make others feel me, feel you; feel life.

You taught me how to speak emotion,
Unlike how I used to fumble upon words with a shaking voice.
I simply spoke how I felt, making you uncomfortable and older,
Touching your heart with the tip of my finger, to feel the littlest bit.

I taught you nothing and force fed you emotion.
Emotion you didn't want, emotion that was wrong; emotion titled criminal.
I tugged at your hands and your shirt and anything to make you stay,
And God knows I watched you leave as my heart crawled to my sleeve.

You taught me everything I didn't know.
You taught me words, emotion, love, hate, poetry.
You taught me to feel Spring as if it were your hugs once more.
You taught me how it feels when the best part of you leaves.

This Weekend

Have you not loved me this long weekend?
Though you've touched such things as my love for you.
The tender kisses felt from such a friend
Do not speak love with words held to be true.
But you repeated love over and over again,
And held my heart in your rough, gorgeous lips.
Your eyes told stories of how you had been,
As how you'd changed ran paths along my hips.
Now, here I lie, feeling those paths still there;
Feeling how my lips tingle missing yours.
Placing your face into my vacant stare.
Remembering the way your soft skin lures.
You loved me so long, so honest, so true.
Proved to me by the you that is not you.

extraction.

Smokey breath tantalizing its way down my throat,

Filling my lungs; fingering my heart.

You filling me and extracting my heart

As you held me between our hands

caressing my thumb and what you call a beautiful face-

You love me, your eyes; I extract yours, too...

In each other's hands,

Your sweat coating my quivering lips.

And I watched you watch me leave.

My One Winged Angel

My boyfriend wrote this poem for me, and I thought others should see it.

She's a beautiful one winged angel
she watches over his heart because no one else cares
i doubt he'd make it through life without her
he needs her as much as she needs him
the first time they met he thought his heart would explode as he looked upon the beautiful little ray of light standing in front of him
he was the happiest he had ever been in his life being with that beautiful one winged angel he had found
they never wanted it to end but fate had decided to keep them apart for awhile
he hated not being able to see her but he's still holding on to his beautiful one winged angel

mommy dearest.

i don't want you at all she says

but her buries himself deep inside her, not even fucking wet

because she lets him, because she loves him, because she wants him happy

but he can't feel one damn thing

i don't want you at all she says

rubbing the hint of belly she has with that damn mistake

a damn mistake, one fucking condom break, just cause he wanted to feel

and she can't say no

i don't want you at all he says

and he punches her in the stomach, screaming at them both

he doesn't want her or that fucking pleasure child, he didn't even enjoy her enough

but she can't feel one damn thing

i don't want you at all she says

looking at his beautiful bastard child from one mistake of a night

cooing in her arms and loving her sad excuse of a mother, a child herself

and that baby girl can feel everything