Vegas For Thanksgiving

Haven’t seen my bed in four days.
I don’t intend to start now.
Panties in my purse.
Yesterday’s deodorant.

He shows me a ruby.
I want a sapphire.
He looks away.
I slip it on for the glimpse.

A Renoir to the left of a Van Gogh.
Fishing rods everywhere.
Cage on vinyl.
He has no ceiling fan.

In an amazing place.
I’m not in a good place.
Start up the engine.
Losing the battle to smile.

My best friend tattles to her.
I get worse.
I want to be judged.
I don’t want to be fine.

A beeline out of the city.
Listening to his music.
Stop for nothing but petrol.
I can’t escape fast enough.

Four weeks til I leave this country.
It isn’t soon enough.
Two hundred and fifty miles.
I’ve arrived.

Seated in the dark, I don’t move.
I don’t miss him.
This is me not missing him.
What am I fucking doing here?

I’m not rebounding, I drove to Vegas.
Here for one reason.
To ensure I can never go back.
I can still leave. I can still turn back.

Start up the engine once more.
A knock on the glass goes.
Held up with a grin and two beers.
“Leavin’ already, sunshine?”

The Streetlights Are Still On

I reflect on all the beds I’ve struggled to fall asleep in.
The heavy breathing, the snores, the silence.
The movements, the twitching, the stillness.
The patterns evince person.

The cramped positions in which I’d lay pinned.
I’d ponder what I was doing there and how long for.
How much of this was worth exacerbating my insomnia.
Resort to assess the surroundings.

The messiness, the tidiness, the belongings.
The honesty, exposing the past and the present.
Never deviating from the effortful thought,
Maybe I could do this…

I snuggle into a bed inside a chamber wholly unkempt.
Cluttered with electronics, there is no TV to speak of.
Just a wall of books, namely dedicated to Lenin.
And another to vinyls.

The wind dries my face and tickles my throat.
The male counterpart cherishes the ceiling fan.
Half of my body comfortably pinned.
The insomnia abates.

Awakened in the lair of my adversary.
I bury my head into a sea of linen that smells like him.
The alarm sounds to taunt me of the fact that he’s already gone.
5:15 AM, and now I can’t sleep alone.

11 October 2013

The Streetlights Are Still On If They Like It by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dark Sophia

The thick, charcoal streak hides the wrinkles.
The pages came loose.

Draw large wings so I can fly.
The numbers erased.

Don’t blink, don’t smear.
The names forgotten.

Cover the previous evening, the lack of sleep, the heavy breathing.
The goodbyes spared.

The smudges of where it once was, and the sleeves that bear it now.
Closed the window as the freight trains passed.

Next comes the mascara.
Social genocide.

12 November 2013

Dark Sophia by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

It’s Friday, I’m Not In Love

I have inflated love’s currency.
It’s cheap and doesn’t go very far.
My heart is made of plastic.
Charge it to the game. 

Will I have a name?
Am I to be exploited for bragging rights?
Maybe I’ll just be someone he was fucking for a bit.
Or perhaps I will be forgotten altogether.

The only part he cared for is the part that related to him.
It is easy to lose yourself in the arms of a selfish lover.
It wasn’t the time we shared.
It was the time he killed, with me.

I break every heart, especially my own.
I’ve no insecurities left. Even less worry.
Zero hope. I knew this would come.
The coin is in the air. I didn’t bother to call it.

11 November 2013

It’s Friday, I’m Not In Love by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

It’s Not You, It’s Her

I didn’t wake up alone, but I woke up lonely.
The safety of depositing affection in multiple investments.
Compartmentalizing.

A piece of my heart in too many countries, even more states.
An emotional mutual fund.
Escapism escapes me.

A cold draft from the cracks of a slammed door over 5,000 miles away.
It was never my remote stake in validity.
Diminishing returns.

I’m left in the abyss as he embraces his world.
Now it’s my turn to to do the same.
I reflect on the current batch of part-time lovers.

I feel constrained. I start to panic.
They lied. It isn’t monogamy.
It’s freedom that’s the rut.

1 November 2013

 

It’s Not You, It’s Her by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.