Existence for Granted

Displacement, a vacuum
Heartbreaks yield a smile
Strangers are lovers without
I want so much of nothing at all
He’s wrecked
More of nothing. Less of now
I don’t like what I want
I pursue the escape
Fall for an exit
Inhale the end
His eyes gaze my soul
Or the lack thereof
Seclusion is pure
Death plays hard to get
Pull me in close
As I shut my eyes
Envision the movement
Stand everything still
It has been a pleasure, of course, missing you
It will be an honor, destroying you.

California Killed the Antihero

I no longer search for the ideal candidate for literary immortalization.
So many beautiful creatures—countless magnificent specimens.
As exquisite as they were, their truths never transcended the mystery.

Perhaps duration casts shadows on us all.
Or maybe I was never realistic in my expectations.
Only in the short run can we disregard all fixed costs.

I dismay my eyes have seen too much.
They’ve been blinded by the incandescent radiance of all these obscure wonders.
The colors have spilled together into a pool of murky indifference.

My gripe with reality’s portrait is its copious shades of grey.
Nothing is absolute. Everything is on the fence.
I break anything but character. These characters will break anything but themselves.

Perfection on a platter but it’s alive and it bites.
Nothing surprises. Nothing impresses. Nothing disappoints.
It is all different and that makes it the same.

Vapid. I cast a dozen ideal capstones into the sea.
Alone I sit on the beach with my bare feet on the cold, sharp rocks.
I will never write of my divine dystopia.


Ode to the INTJ

I listen to the clapper of several instruments in harmonious chaos. Or disharmonious serenity. The strums of a stranger. Except I have met him, once before, and I do know him. I don’t know how long he’s lived in this apartment, the name of this whiskey, or even his surname, but I know the movements and sighs he emits as he sleeps. His eyes don’t flicker as I stream my fingers through his hair. I enjoy nothing but the decorating motif and panoramic view of the palm trees. The immaculacy is intimidating.

I struggle desperately for a cerebral explanation as to my overwhelming fear of waking this stranger. Logic will not have the last laugh. I capitalize on the credits. I grab my coat; it’s 2:39am. I hold onto my breath as I let him go. Disembark with an awkward embrace and a hastened pace.

Now alone, I listen to his passion through headphones and connect with his soul. I study his tauntingly cryptic words. There is something disarming in the margins. Patience is a virtue, but I’ve never been a virtuous woman. With an eager hand, I forge every identity and embroider each corner with gold but no, not this time. This time I wait for his truths, patiently in the dark.

10 April 2014

The Bunny Ears Won’t Work

I swill the brim and swallow the pills. There is no getting over him. Is it 8AM already? I defer reality beneath the linen of yet another unfamiliar port in the storm. Literally, the berth of a $30 million fishing yacht. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll never forget the way she kissed my forehead as she left.

I hotfoot my cold feet out of that beach city in spite of myself, though I don’t escape the coast. Into the fortress of another foreign mattress. I’m still not done inspiring my reasons for self-loathing. Or maybe I need to reaffirm that I haven’t given up on men; I’ve just given in to women. There’s the added bonus that he stares deep into my eyes with just the right amount of detachment.

I’d rather have meaningless sex than be alone.
But I’d rather be alone than have meaningful sex.
Three beds, two nights, one dress, no panties.

I rack up my sins like a tab at an open bar. Dejected by the only love I want. I won’t stop until no love can ever want me. Not until these vultures have picked every one of my good bones clean. I put my purity on the alter. I smell the exposed flesh and listen to the screams. This isn’t sacrificial wine, but I’ll drink it anyway. My damnation is all I have now.


Dazza from Derreenauliff

Curse the falling star.
Trash the smoking candle.
Spit on the loose eyelash.
Wishes waste away with you.

I’ll conquer this world.
While you take her over.
Our paths won’t cross again.
We made sure of it.

A sunrise over Kelly’s Cross.
We will never watch again.
A stream of Oysterbed farewells.
Too many years to count.

I should’ve kissed you goodbye.
My losses cut me now.
In another life it happened.
I packed all my bags and left.

I followed you to London.
And you came out to Cali.
I nagged you to your limits.
You took me for granted.

We were more than lovers.
More than intellectual equals.
Far beyond soul mates.
We were. Just were. Together.

Encounters with a Virgin

Those first ten months, he never let me in. 

His walls were so high; I had no idea what I was getting into until after I was fully immersed in it. I can see why he is so painstakingly reticent to divulge his vulnerabilities now. He never gives anyone a chance to see who he really is until after they are close. He gets close to people before he gets close to people. I get close to people without ever getting close to people. Both perfectly equal in their egotistical interests. The danger of his method is that by the time he opens up, there is already so much on the table; he avoids showing his cards until he is all in. He stands to lose much more than he can emotionally afford.

He spends more time missing his lovers than he does loving his lovers.

I Don’t Make My Bed

I don’t lie in it either.
It’s ruining my life.
The acme of the means to fuel my addictions.
Without crapulence there are no limits.
There is no right or wrong.
My conscience is rotting.
I’m more beautiful than ever.
It’s disgusting.

A bottomless pit of breathtaking lovers with passions and pursuits from opposite ends of the spectrum.
I’m losing sight of what catches my eye.
How many lives can you fit into a lifetime?
I borrow lovers like I do books at a library.
And I’m never late on my returns.

I’ve become numb to rapture.
They are no longer a muse.
I’m inspired by nothing but my own wretched, self loathing.

It’s just too easy.
Nothing is sacred anymore.
Options killed monogamy.

No facet of my life is viable.
I await the day when I fall under the weight of my own persona.
It’s not suicide if it’s an accident.
It’ll have to be a good one.

3 September 2013

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I Don’t Make My Bed by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Gag That Runs

As the light seeped through the cracks, she tossed and turned, with her paperback in hand. It was the third Agatha Christie novel she had finished, yet it was only Tuesday. She read compulsively when she couldn’t write, and she’d left her pen back in Ireland. Restless and still riding the wave of last night’s buzz, she arose.

With her regular bright and early starts in the fresh, crisp suburban air, she strapped on her neon Nike’s and ran. The birds chirped in the background as the bunnies scampered from her path. Her connections with the universe lay snug beneath her pillow as she became more in tune than ever with this fluid, lively world. She crossed paths with golf carts and exchanged hellos with elderly couples on their morning stroll. She’d turned off the screen; she was meant for now.

With a nocturnal internal clock, this hour of smoke-free clarity was her reality check, the string to her balloon. No matter how deep into those woods she wandered, the sun was always found at daybreak.

Her feet carried her miles away. She’d left behind the writer’s block, the hangover, and another loathed face still peacefully asleep in her bed. If only she had the stamina she would run forever. She would never go home. This wasn’t her reality check. It was her escape from her escapism, for this was everyone’s world except for hers. She didn’t inhabit or thrive in this terrene, she dabbled in it. She was a tourist in the realm of normality, and her visa was moments from expiration. She would always have to go home. Her love life was nothing but a running gag, with more endurance than she.

22 August 2013

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Diminishing Returns

It was precarious and elusive. Her pen tasted like spit, which then tasted like smoke. The paper was as blank as her stare, and she felt claustrophobic as the four walls in her en suite were closing in. Her long slender, fingers looked as if they could cast spells, and their movements gave allusions to a writer or a drummer in the way they swiveled her Cross ballpoint smoothly and effortlessly. She needed a muse. The last traces of her muse had just been severed with an incident in a Subway sandwich shop. He’d ordered a black forest ham sandwich with Swiss cheese and no vegetables other than iceberg lettuce. She could never marry a man whose pallet was so obtuse that it didn’t allow for vegetables. Sophia’s muses came with a shelf life; she was like the little girl who cried “love,” except every time she professed, she truly believed it herself. Every time she’d claim it was different, that she’d found the one, a man who was her muse, only to have the muse, her inspiration and ability to write, fade away into the abyss and leave her with the empty shell, the body of another lost lover. The rule of thumb gave her an average of eight weeks. The words that filled her notebooks each night would become more and more sparingly so, and then it was the same rigmarole. She’d suddenly discover a deal breaker in her cardinal rules, or something she’d been aware of the entire time would finally cross the line. She’d solved the puzzle; she’d taken it apart and put it back together again. She knew how it worked, how it functioned, and how to break it. The experiment was over. Hypothesis concluded. There was nothing left to learn.

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The Pillows Smell Like Dust

She looked around the vacant house. The new, extravagant house was barely furnished. Its insides were hollow. It was built entirely in stone with high end Italian porcelain and Velux windows. Its state mirrored the country it in which it presided, a holiday home built in the good times, the Celtic Tiger, when sunsets never came and the horizons were always in reach. Alone, she sat, as if she was contemplating the past, present, and future. This luxurious house was a privilege, and now she tried ardently to squash the lurking traces of doubt that questioned whether it had since become a burden.

Her eyes hardly left her watch, only breaking the locked stare in running intervals to vacillate from glances out the window to notification checks in her phone. The music that filled her senses from the Bose headphones she wore drowned out the noise outside. The gusty howling of wind sounded too much like a car was pulling up. This tormenting tease mocked her viciously. She’d only arrived at the house a few hours ago, just in the nick of time to catch the look of disdain from her father. She was a dirty stop-out. Now, dressed and pressed in fresh makeup and clothes, she waited impatiently to again take flight, a flight on a plane that was never going to come.

“Just walk in whenever you’re here. I’m in back. Dad went to Killarney,” was the text that had been sent over two hours ago. As the clock rounded the next hour, she resigned to her bedroom away from bedroom determined to sleep away the present and pause her disappointments. If only there were a way to lie down in beds without messing up perfect hair, she might have actually attempted to follow through with such threats. Instead she resorted to vacuuming. This would help conciliate the currently strained familial ties with Daddy.

How could she have been such an eager fool? She cursed the decision to have him drop her home. She never should’ve let him out of her sight. Why did she need to be so high maintenance that she had to go back to freshen up? This wouldn’t be the first time he’d stood her up. She knew exactly what he was capable of, and she knew better than to possess such unmerited hopes like him actually following through with his word. They’d spent the past twenty-four hours together. He’d dropped her home to prim and check-in with her father, and in the car ride home, he’d realized he was over it. She wasn’t worth the 17 miles between them. He’d called in to a friend or two, and was too busy having fun catching up with them to be bothered with coming to collect her.

This was it. This would be the last straw. It had to be. She had no excuses left for him. She’d sworn him off a thousand times before, but this was it. She broke three cardinal rules against her doctrine every time she breathed his name. No, this would break the camel’s back, and shotgun in hand, she was going out to finally put the wretched beast to rest. Goodbye, my third love, I must let you go. And then there was a knock at the door.

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The Pillows Smell Like Dust by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.