I no longer have to wear this persona that I have developed over the years. I can decide to be me. Finally just me. I no longer need to present this ballsy, brassy, badass mask that I created when I should have been exploring first kisses and first base.

There was a time when this mask served me well. It kept me safe. It made me believe that I had power over my choices. That I was in control of an uncontrollable situation. The choices I was offered were not the ones I would have chosen if I truly had a choice or a voice, but I made the best of my life and took pleasure where I could and took the beatings where I had to in order to survive one more day.

I left the streets so long ago but the streets have refused to leave me.

When I had nothing left to give and the world demanded payment I offered my body in order to save my soul. And the world ravaged me. It tore me to tatters and left me bleeding on the pavement; just another whore who lost her usefulness as soon as the load was blown.

I may have spent my youth on my knees but I plan on spending the rest of my life firmly planted on my feet. I will raise my head with pride and no longer bow down to choke on the bitter seed of unwashed bodies and unclean souls.
The knock on the door startles me awake. It's late. Or early. I'm not really sure anymore. I stumble through the dark apartment, allowing the thin strip of streetlight that slips beyond the blanket clad window to guide me to the door. I crack it open slightly, paranoia keeping my body behind the door as I glare out into the dingy hall.
"What do you want?" I grate out harshly to the figure before me. She is slight of frame, dark hair spilling into too bright hazel eyes. Gray shirt, faded jeans and bare feet shuffling nervously at my glare. She grins, darts her eyes down the hallway, licks her lips and clasps her bony arms tighter across her chest. I recognize her vaguely as the neighbour from across the hall; the latest in this building of transient souls.
"Can you cook?" she asks me suddenly. I blink at her, confused.
"What, like a turkey?" I ask her stupidly. She laughs, a harsh sound in the empty hallway.
"No man, I mean can you cook?" she repeats, putting an emphasis on the last word. Her eyes flick up and down the hall as she pulls a baggie from her pocket and extends it towards me hesitantly. I look down, noting the pale skin of her arm marred by two small pin pricks nestled next to the crease of her elbow before I examine the contents of the small plastic bag gripped tightly by her long fingers. I grin as I open the door wider, beckoning her to enter. "Come in" I say, "I'll cook us up a fucking feast."


Feb. 20th, 2016 11:42 am
wide open
flash of teeth
slip of tongue
soft exhalations
soul baring
and heart catching
trapped within


Feb. 18th, 2016 07:13 pm
Snow. Apparently the Inuit have over 50 words for snow. I only have one but I wish I had more. How can one word describe all the different types of snow that I have seen, felt, tasted?
The snow of my childhood is purest white and oh so warm. That snow is mixed with the soft white melting marshmallows clinging to the sides of half drunk cups of hot chocolate. That snow rests on stunted jack pines and hides the kingfisher and the cardinal alike. That snow makes the perfect seat to pull off ice skates from frozen toes and aching legs.



February 2016

14151617 1819 20


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 18th, 2017 03:27 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios