Emotional Rollerfuck.

The shower runs

Both hands on the tiles

Break everything but character

Break nothing but myself

Light cracks through the door

Render me still

Deflection. The ruse

The red herring was always the muse

Breath held on a word

It’s time to be stifled

A shadow is cast

Hot water drips down

His clothes folded neat‍

Nothing can die

The care is kept deep

But when I stand out

My elbow is held

And so is my throat

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.


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

Creative Commons License
A Gag That Runs by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Went To Bed With A Beer, Woke Up With A Boyfriend

*The morning after*
A few of us are recovering in the living room, the St. Patty’s aftermath.

My girlfriend Andy says to him, So you’re ancestry is Danish? And your family still owns a farm out there?

He replies, “Yea, I was out there last summer.”

So tell me because I always forget, where exactly is Denmark on the map? It’s like, the middle finger of Germany, right?

“Oh…uhh…I dunno.”

The abject doltishness of this kid made me want to grab the blades from my box cutter, skin my body in its entirety from the offal, and beat him with my own carcass until he was 50 yards off the premises. Where do I dig up these fucking guys?

This kid will be worth 30 million some day. I can’t do it. It’s just not enough. I don’t fish with a pole in blue waters. I fish blind, with a dragnet, picking up every straggler and bottom feeder indigenous to this swampy marshland.

I know what I want, but I don’t know if it exists.

I am repulsed yet regretfully amused.
This is what could be considered as knowingly lowering one’s standards.

My foresight remains blurry at about two hours away.
I leap without look.
However, I never stride in low tide.

I will not acquire any knowledge or inspiration from this.
He is no muse.
Welcome to a world that bares emotions with such a depth one can do little more than skip stones across.

18 March 2012

Creative Commons License
Went To Bed With A Beer, Woke Up With A Boyfriend by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.