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.

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 Melody of a Malady

I remember the years of unrelenting apathy, how desperately I desired the ability to feel anything but indifference. Love was a spell, and I didn’t believe in magic. I was reckless, falling and abusing myself at every opportunity; there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to see my own bloodshed. Suicidal affection—kamikaze relations.

Then it happened. It was a snowy Christmas in Ireland the day he shattered me with the revelation of his longstanding attachments. He dared me to want it, and I indulged him. It was the price I paid to feel alive—to feel human. No adhesive would salvage this break. It wasn’t clean; it wasn’t quick. It was deep, dirty, and had taken years to fester.

There were several stages of it, and a good few had passed before I’d realized it. I’d traded a lasting love back home for a pipe dream over 5,000 miles away. After that, I tried afresh with another overqualified candidate, and the day I broke him I still hadn’t come close to embracing how damaged I truly was.

Six months in, when I returned to the land of Guinness and rain I started to comprehend, but I failed to recognize the signs when my greatest lover and worst offender held me in his arms. Further I neglected to pick up the pieces when he left back to England. Even three months later, when he wrote me from London to end it, I was too preoccupied with losing myself under the Californian sun in the gazes and thrills of part-time lovers with perfect smiles, slow strides, and no last names.

It took a full year to fully comprehend just how deep into those woods I’d gone. Fifteen months have passed, and still I’m circling the drain on the carousel of condemned souls. With the dissolution of hope, all sense of morality and self-respect has dissipated. I am now just a broken girl who is too sad to give a fuck. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t want to learn names. I want a boy who is so fucked up he doesn’t utter a sound.
And I want him to hate me as much as I do.

Valentine Swine

I once caught a Virgin Atlantic to the dirty Pacific
For a blue eyed sailor on Whidbey Island.
With a Pink Floyd triangle across his heart.
Then in Madrid I got swept off the steps in Plaza de Sol.
Professed our love with our fingers.
In the pages of a Spanish-English dictionary.
I had to delete pictures from a weekend in Fort Worth.
It was there I found interest in the culinary arts.
I spent some time in a Grand Prix out in the Boston snow.
With a hockey player from Flint.
I left him for a morning in the Harvard dorms.
With a blue-blooded ginger I fell for in Cabo.
I once found redemption in the City of Sin.
From a reincarnation of a lost lover.
Ode to the blackouts in the city of lights.
Then there was the fierce and rugged Celtic Tiger.
I left my heart on the nightstand of a one night stand.
Before I got asked to kindly leave the country.
Though that was after I wandered up to Portland.
To catch a couple nights with an MC.
I made sure to catch his show before I caught a train.
There was the time I found the funk in the bottom bunk.
From sea-doos in Grand Cayman to his Staten Island estate
Then the lovely accountant from the horse races in Limerick
If only that silver fox would answer my calls.
I met a teacher in Dublin and a footballer from Cork
A med student from Athens, a musician from Georgia.
I woke up in a $30 million yacht in Newport Beach.
With the most beautiful lawyer I’d ever seen.
As I highlight this black book, it’s more divine.
That I will never discover her name.
I look down the page and their faces gleam up.
It sounds so lovely out loud.
I close my eyes and there is only darkness.
It appears so ugly jot down.
My heart scattered like bread crumbs across this earth.
Left like a trail, to be eaten by vultures.
With a hollow heart and an unmade bed.
I’ll never find my way home.

Happy Valentine’s.
14 February 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.


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.

Ode To The Computer Programmer

Smitten, I lie ponderous.
Thoughts run wild with no inclination to slow.
I wait for his breaths to turn heavier than my thoughts.
Why do I rather stare into the dark than to close my eyes?

I slide my fingers from his. I release from his grasp.
Too sleepy for thought, too thoughtful for sleep.
Sensing my movement, he stirs.
Clenching every commitment issue in hand, I commit to this now.

I have to keep going.
From the goose down I remove, and he arises in question.
“I can’t sleep, gonna go bang away at the laptop for a few.
Go back to sleep.”

–“I love you.”
And that’s how he said it.
I didn’t insult him with a lie.
I didn’t trump him with a truth.

A corner of time so momentous.
Renders little more than the pertinacious application of the backspace button.
The night home row was shocked in mere and utter awe.
I contemplate the catalyst in my statement that struck his barely conscious core with such poignancy.

Go back to sleep. That was the crux.
What about his past renders such a pedestrian phrase so dear?
Never would I dream to impose my insomnia onto his rem cycles.
Does he love me because I’m not somebody, or does he love me because I am?

I delineate my embellishments to depict something meaningful.
I write up a pretty story; I don’t write reality.
This time, the pretty story happened to be reality.
This time alone, reality wrote me.


17 May 2013


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.