Dirt Bends Into The Maw Of The Mother’s Wound, Blood Coldly Trickling Out Of Her, Unhurried And Luxuriant

I don’t mind when her leather jacket burns my finger tips, that’s just the summer sun gettin’ jealous of us making love in this old red truck. A lick of hell on the way to heaven don’t scare me. Only being without her does.

-Confessions of a Southern Belle

I lost my boy today. He wasn’t overly fond of me, more so my mother was his favorite, but he had his moments. Moments when he’d remember the day I saved him, abandoned by his mother as a kitten only days old. Whatever happened to her, I don’t know. Maybe she knew he was sick. That one day his heart would fail, and she didn’t want to stick around for the ticking time bomb to finally go off. The one only of his litter to survive the cold of the night, finally joining his brothers and sisters on the other side. I loved him more than you can imagine. And I cherished his tender moments with me, every one. I do not care that his heart was enlarged and he would live to only 7. I would save him every time I found him in every universe that I did. He will always be worth the pain of loving him. Always.

I am fickle with happiness. They say you don’t know a good memory is happening until it ends, but I do. I’m acutely aware of how precious the good times are—pair that with the odd feeling I get of being watched by my future self, having dealt with the deaths and tragedies that growing older brings, seeking refuge in the past. I feel anxious knowing it will be over, and that no matter how deeply and fully I cherish the strong legs beneath me, the wind on my face, my parents by my sides, it will end the same. All happinesses are doomed to be memories. And that bitters them for me; when I am at my happiest, and my smile is wide as it is earnest, I still taste the rancor in the back of my throat.

I would let her put rods in my fingers and tie thin golden ropes around my wrists if it meant she’d smile at me. I’d make a good puppet, a very good puppet. And I don’t mind forgoing being her daughter, she never liked me very much that way. I make a much better puppet.

A Bother

I don’t mean to be a bother, I really don’t. I just can’t help but ruining everything all the time.

You don’t ruin everything silly.

Breakfast?

Well yeah but that’s one off.

Mom’s anniversary with dad?

That was an accident.

So I’ve said. If I told you it was on purpose would you be mad at me?

Well, no, I’m not mom but I’d be shocked. Why would you spill wine on her at dad’s grave on purpose?

I genuinely thought it would make her laugh. Because dad spilled wine on her on their first date remember?

Ohh, right. I didn’t think of that. Did you tell her you were trying to recreate that moment? She loves telling that story.

No. I felt so bad about it I threw up behind some lady’s tombstone over the hill. Mary S. Timbleton was her name.

You never told me you threw up on a dead woman’s grave.

Behind it.

Nearly there anyways. Makes for a better story. Dad would’ve laughed.

He was certainly a better storyteller than I am.

I like your stories just fine. You’ve yet to ruin one of those.

Thanks. I think.

I’ve whittled myself down,

Suckled myself to nothing like a cough drop in a cheek,

And all I have to show for this betrayal, is a familiar flavor in my mouth to mull over as the adults speak.

I thought I’d miss my pinky finger more dearly but I can’t seem to manage it. The way her eyes lit up as her teeth dug just beneath my knuckle, I’m tempted to let her eat something else.

—Diary of a Siren

I find comfort in rotten men, with nothing to their name but their love for me. They are corpses of their former ambitions, if they had any to begin with not that I’d care, and I rest my head on their bloated bellies and dig my nails in their cracked old skin until scabfulls of pride fall off. What sour smell fills my nose oh I can’t get enough of it. They adore me you see, and I never have to worry about them running off. Their legs don’t often work, stationary fellows don’t often stray. Good of them not to, for if they ever did I’d put them deeper in the ground than even the most desperate woman would be willing to dig. I can’t help but be the romantic that I am, and what is there not to love in an utterly rotted man. It is addicting the level of devotion they provide, the sort only an abandoned man can. How sweet is the love of a loveless one, untouched and untainted in wait for me.

I often love men I know I have no future with. I build castles in the sand near rising tides, and I watch lovingly as they are eroded away by reality. I don’t know why I make things that don’t last. I’m afraid to have something that matters to me I think, that could hurt me more than I want it to.

What poems do you keep close to your chest like a weak deck of cards? Terrified anyone should know your mind in all its weaknesses and honest throws of emotion. Let me read them, let me know you. I promise not to ruin you. I promise to be kind.