Night-time Lover

She was the kind of girl that tried too hard.

She sold her soul daily for a little affection, a kind glance, a sweet smile.

She didn't realize it, and no one around had the decency

To stop her from making a fool of herself.

So she kept on trying to impress those who didn't care

With cheap tricks and jokes she herself barely understood.

She smiled at strangers, throwing honeyed glances around,

And told everyone that she liked this and enjoyed that,

Trying to find common ground in an uneven world.

She's grin around every bland mouthful,

Moaning

Faking her enjoyment of the act.

But lying in bed at night, having brushed her teeth a dozen times,

The salty-bitter aftertaste still lingered at the back of her throat.

In the early hours, her enthusiastic lies would slide off her face

Like a cheap carnival mask, crumbling in the moonlight,

And terror would squeeze her in its grasp.

She was alone.

...that was the thing that scared her most of all.

Not the Johns that came to her when she bent over to say hello,

revealing her cleavage in hopes of enticing them enough to follow her.

Those shallow, lecherous men with cigarette breath

And calloused fingers that tugged, probed, and prodded her with insistent need.

Nor the slow trickle of men who shoved their way through her life,

Angry, abusive men, drinkers and maimers,

Like her father, the bastard, who beat her mother and her countless times

Leaving both bruised and bloodied, and cradling each others' broken bodies.

No, the loneliness was worst of all.

It was with her always, roiling underneath the surface,

Easily enough suppressed during the day when she consciously tried to,

But excruciatingly persistent at night.

There, always there. Waiting for her to put her guard down.

It gnawed at her, curling up like a lover next to her in bed,

Stroking her skin, touching her in places the others never tried to reach.

It made her feel special, the way no man had before.

That feeling coated her skin like a layer of oil,

The kind of dirty sensation unlike any other,

The kind that her compulsive washing could never erase.

It lit her heart on fire, the pain of it lacing the blood pumping through her.

It made her shake with need and deep-rooted tears leaked from her eyes.

It stayed with her all night,

Until she could see the first rays of sun tickle the rooftops across from her window.

Then it crept out, like a lover realizing that it was time to go,

Leaving the bed empty, and her emptier still.

Alone again. Forsaken.

Photo copyright Vivi Kalomiri

Letting Go

"Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long."

Best quote I've heard so far to describe what it actually feels like to be depressed sometimes.

It's late, and I'm not sad enough to really get into this right now, but that quote did get me thinking which, at this time of night, probably means that whatever I come up with really isn't worth being published, but I'll be damned if I care. No one really reads this thing anyway. Sometimes, you live life the same way, following the same path daily, and never notice that you're wearing a groove into the ground, just digging your rut deeper and deeper. That's what depression is like. You dig-dig-dig, trying to find something relevant, and in your single-minded focus, you lose sight and track of the big picture.

It's impossible not to let yourself go, when your focus is wrong and your eyes blurred by tears and dust. But even if all the attempts are futile, and lead to nothing constructive or positive, it;s still worth it to step back and evaluate your handiwork. Sure, you may have dug a ditch which is useless and stupid, but at the same time, you dug a ditch, which is impressive in it's size and dedication.

It's hard to find joy in the little things when nothing's going your way. Negativity breeds negativity. But it only takes one smile to light up a gloomy sky, and the cup isn't always half-empty. Sometimes, all it really takes is a good night's sleep and a fresh perspective to make everything seem better.

Sometimes it's best just to let go of everything that bothers you or doesn't satisfy your soul and start anew, making everything fit your life the way you want it (and need it) to.

That's all that comes to mind right now. Good night.

Dig You

I dig you like a little kid with a bright red plastic shovel digs for treasure in the sandbox. Except I don't need to dig any more: I already found my treasure, and it was totally worth all the broken nails and long hours digging.

Worrytrain

I'm listening to sheets of rain and wind hammer on my french doors. I don't want to listen to music. Or maybe I should to drown out the world. Drown out the thoughts and the rain.

Worrytrain drills screws of agony into my mind. My stomach turns, bile rises, burning me from the inside out, drenching my soul in acid.

My ears want to bleed, my head throbs like a festering wound, but the dissonance is somehow soothing. The torment is pleasure.

Last time I applied Worrytrain to my pain, I was ripped apart. I seem to have hardened, toughened, learned to manage the music. I need this.

I need the pain. I need it to feel alive, to burn and scream with every cell of my being. I need the ecstatic agony to lift me up out of myself, to see things clearer.

I want to surround myself in it, to feel it course through me, making my heart pulse with its beat.

I want it to play me, make me vibrate with emotion like a violin string pulled tight and plucked until it unravels and eventually breaks.

I let the music's frenzied climax explode in me. Breathless. Fulfilled, yet empty. Closer to god through sacrilege and sin. I feel wrong. And good.















Like murder in a church or the rape of a nun, I draw a euphoric joy from it. The music feels wrong, and would probable make me hemorrhage if played loudly enough.

But the pain brings release and quiet with it. Mind-numbing pain, a paralyzing poison - the final escape for those desperate enough to seek it.

The wave has broken over me and retreats. My stomach settles, the hair on my arms lowers, and the electric current pulling my body taunt fades away.

As the dust settles and the music ends, I am left alone, breathing hard, sweat-drenched, and oddly satiated.

Comic book

I want to be the Betty Ross to your Hulk.
Make you really happy so you wouldn't have to sulk.
I wouldn't even bother me if you got mean,
Fell into a rage and turned really green.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

If you'd be Iron Man, I'd be Pepper Potts,
I would be the secretary and you'd call the shots.
You'd save the world a whole bunch of times,
And I'd sit in my office, writing rhymes.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

Sometimes I could imagine you as Spider-Man,
Swinging from building the way no one else can.
And I'd live next door, be your Mary Jane,
Just be your best friend and never complain.

All I want is you, be your comic book love,
I bet I'd fit you better than your favorite glove.
All I want is you, will you be my dude?
I can be your mood ring and read your mood.

Weather Patterns

When clouds roll in, you can't do anything.
You can jump around and wave your umbrella and yell at the skies,
But in the end you'll just get wet and the clouds will still be there.

Contrast

The stubborn inevitability of the morning looms in front of my closed eyelids,
A ridiculous notion in the dark of my bedroom.

A low growling noise makes its way up from my stomach.

Getting more comfortable, I'm nestled into the soft blanket embrace of my bed.
I flip my pillow over to the cool side.
The cold linen feels like a sweet surprise against my flushed skin.