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

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 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

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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

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

He Kisses Like Christmas Morning

I tender an unusually large amount of hatred for any man who doesn’t harbor the same loathing for excessively large, gas guzzling, pick-ups, outside of it being a 3rd vehicle, for practical uses, of course.
He has two, and only two.

My breeding physically renders me incapable of recognizing the diversions maintained by holiday spots like Lake Havasu and Laughlin as anything but far too many social classes beneath me to entertain the odd moonlit slum.
His family has a “river mansion.”

I have a phobia of the sun.
He has the deepest tan I’ve ever seen.

Far left’s disgust me.
He’s hawed to every fault. Thinks the Germans should’ve won and socialism works.

Men are said to be genetically predisposed to having spatial visualization skills and a sense of direction superior to their feminine counterparts, yet I’ve not come across any more proficient than I. Nevertheless, I still have high expectations and little patience for anything less from the man I respect.
I watch us take three detours every time we go from his house to the bar.

I ache from the painful transparency in these desperately self-serving mindsets who still can’t see the direct relationship between self-aggrandizement and insecurity.
He has a French bulldog purchased as a puppy from a breeder.

I hate Apple products, political activists and empathizers, and addictive personalities.
Bad listeners, projectors, and a man who can’t be alone.

His existence epitomizes everything I rebuke.
He is nothing of what I value, respect, or desire.

He touches my face and plays with my hair, as he kisses me goodbye.
I will die before I ever get this close to pure, unfettered passion again.
But the vetting took less than his 27 100.
I hop out.
Slam shut the passenger-side door.
I know it will be the last time I ever see him.
Logic concedes no alternative.

I am buoyant.
Comforted by rationality.
Don’t bother to look back.
Nothing to savor.
No waives for the send off.
I relish no moments.
Continue all function, as if nothing has changed
Less this fucking litany of hard-pass deal killers
Nothing has changed.
For I will see him again, the very next time he calls.

5 September 2013

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He Kisses Like Christmas Morning by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Anorexic Desperate Dan

Random. Out of the blue. Left field.
Hello. How are things?
Standing in my bedroom, I felt terribly far away from home.

When did these tables turn?
He alleges he’s always cared this much.
Where was I for that?

Two Christmases ago, we lied on the couch with a bottle of wine.
My hand touched his face, and I kissed him.
I broke the seal.

Last Christmas, he cracked.
Vulnerable. Overcompensating. Oscillating between folds and bluffs.
Fighting, smothering, and struggling with his emotions.

Is it love?
Is it running?
Is it the thrill of a new rapture?
Do I want him for a brief respite from my world?
I am a chameleon.
He is only one, bold, poignant color.
After the honeymoon phase, will I resent him for his lack of versatility?
Will I begrudge his paucity of desire to know and understand me?
He has no interest in my world.
He only wants to keep me in his.
This isn’t new.
I’ve always known it.
Even with the lies, he is very straightforward.
I’m caught in the margins, dancing along the fine line between his bucket list and blacklist.
I know exactly what I’m getting into.
I’ve always known.
Even more so am I aware of what the going rate is.
For him, for us, I will lose me.

I enjoy getting lost, because I never lose.
I enjoy getting lost, because I hate going home.

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

All That’s Missing Is The Guinness & Rain

My ego doesn’t let me fuck half the girls I want to.

Never trust a girl who can’t tell you where she got her her pj’s.
I’m trapped in my own skin.
She wants to close her eyes; I want to peel mine apart.
I can’t be too old for this.
It’s what I live for.

Why couldn’t you just let me be?
Instead you dare me to believe, dare me to consider.
Dare I run.
Now I wonder if I will wander this continent looking for anything to keep me from looking for you.

Fill in the gaps.
Never look back.
Closed my eyes to look forward.
Let it go. Grab nothing else.
I want to be alone, because I can’t be with him.
If there’s a white dress, it must be a wedding.
A wretched sham indeed.
Your truths are as elusive as my whims.
I’ll never have my white wedding.
I’d choose this cigarette over you.

13 February 2013

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All That’s Missing Is The Guinness And Rain by Sophia Blacke is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Loose Sentiment

My past hurts him more than it’s hurt me.
Understandable, but unacceptable.

He’s so liberal with his sentiment, no standards whatsoever.
He’d assign sentiment to a stick if I threw it at him.

Does he even like me or does he fancy the meaning he’s assigned to me?
If he didn’t want me, would he continue to hold on simply because he couldn’t let go?
I don’t think he’d ever leave me.
Even if we weren’t right for each other.
Even though we’re not right for each other.

I will try with him.
I can’t stand to hurt him.
I won’t try to change him.

Sometimes I see a life with him.
At times I see a future.
And as I do, I hear my upstairs counterpart cackling.

You get close to someone before you get close to someone.
I get close to someone without ever really getting close to someone.

15 December 2012

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