Black Tuesday on a Blue Sunday

The sense of rejection
The fear gets lost
The style gets good
The junction is here
There is always a point
The distance is close
I can’t see it now
A gentleman’s cap
A loose conversation
I passed the point
Fuck the silhouette burned
In the lids of my eyes
Your face is stained
Upon the face of my thought
And all that you have
Is the rest of your life
And all that I have
Is a stolen ballpoint
The billiards, the camels
The hands, the scent
The stare, the cats
I never came with intent
The best, the most
I’d never render less
Because I’d offer more,
But then again, you never made the point.

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
Not suicide without note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

The Dust in the Bottle

Motions strong as ever

Notions running thin

The sharp contrast of maturity

Blood trickles from the blade

The lack of suicidal tendencies

Where now do I belong?

Normality the sickness evermore

Cognition sloppy at its best

The light there at the end

A pretty lie, like all the rest

The eye contact examined

Silent rays then marked with “X.”

He kisses like tomorrow exists.

With the blindfold I can see.

Stones come lifted, truth bear and raw

I can do everything but believe

Words take flight, identity dies

But not before he kills me.

Pool Table Tournaments

I used to tell a good story.

Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.

Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.

I was never good with the arts and crafts.

I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.

Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.

But I left dignity long ago.

I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.

The last time I checked, he was cast aside.

There is so much more that I will never admit.

This is going to be a good year.

In the presence of doers,

I aspire to die.

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.


Holiday Heartbreak

I’m a mess, you just don’t know it yet.
Fuck your basket, I break my own eggs.
I met a boy in Dublin.
But my heart is in Kerry.

I kissed him.
Like I’d see him later that night.
I should’ve kissed him.
Like I’d never see him again.

They said it would give me cancer.
I said it was better later than never.
I can’t live with him.
So I’ll have to die without him.

Today I awoke in the wrong arms.
Take me, I don’t want this.
Take me, I can’t have that.
Take me, because he won’t.

Dirty/Sweet and Indiscreet

All my ducks are in a row.
Time to pull out the rifle.

I don’t know how to be in it.
For more than the honeymoon phase.

A message in a digital bottle.
But the waves don’t break that way.

He’s not coming back for me.
I didn’t wait for him.

Perforating notches down the belt.
Using a three hole puncher.

I can’t look them in the eyes.
Until I’m seeing double.

A surprise birthday for a first love.
I needed familiarity.

She seemed very young.
Eight years came and went.

I made his night.
He was glad I hadn’t changed.

He made me whole.
I’m still not good enough.


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?”

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

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