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.

Prisoners of Love

Every night I lie with my back against my lover.
Wrapped in his arms I sleep in isolation.

Not before he admires the way my exposed body lies.
He can see nothing but his primitive desires.

I beg for words, any at all, but he cannot offer one.
Can no man get me to stay?

I reminisce upon the past. The ones I left for better or worse.
Here lies pedestrian affection at its finest.

For passion conduces an existence of nil but sex and incommunicable thoughts.
And the price of a cerebral connection is a string of faked orgasms.

I refuse to accept the two be mutually exclusive.
But again I lie in the endearments of another failed attempt to spite the odds.

He whispers utter adoration. Rested on my pillow, clumsily I lie.
The same way I’ve always lied, countless times before.

Mantelpiece Material

Give the hourglass a turn.
Three courses left to go.
Bromidic conversation.
I hide behind a smile.
His rudeness to the help.
Cuts me off at every word.
Stares deep into my eyes.
Remarks upon my beauty.
I struggle to look away.
From his receding hairline.
A fancy dress.
An expensive car.
A stroll along the beach.
Window shopping on the boardwalk.
He whispers in my ear.
There is nothing you can’t have.
It is the biggest lie of all.

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

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


Pinning A Butterfly

No longer is it passion for passion.
The fixation on the ball has transpired to a player.
I no longer enjoy the game.
I don’t love to play.
I don’t love to fall.
I don’t love to love.
[Awkward and onerously,] I love him.
And I fucking hate it.

When unnatural comes natural.
The mad scientist became the specimen in her own reckless, sempiternal experiment.
He locks eyes, as if he’s reading the fine print.
It’s a game of chess, and he won’t move until he’s explored the board entirely.
Patiently, he slides his scrutiny up along his adversary.
The scope catalyzes an ice age.
Exposed, she lies frozen and awkwardly bare.
Slowly and meticulously, he begins to dissect.
He’s amused. Delighted.
She fidgets when she wants to play, and giggles when she doesn’t.
The tap dancing is endearing at the very least.
What he likes most, is how much she hates it.
So intrinsically beautiful, it shuns the surroundings.
It’s embarrassing. Harrowing.
I’m so ugly; I close my eyes.
I don’t even deserve to watch you sleep.

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