You got out

(Part of a new series of poems about people whom I have met, who profoundly moved me).

They said

no it’s not a person, it’s a trash bag, or wad of clothing

as I turned the car around

knowing it was a girl, curled into herself

it was for her, the end of a long night

for me, an early morning drive

into rising sun

indigo girl

her limbs thin enough, to resemble twigs

hair colored black, face still-water of a child

she waved us off

no, no, no, I’m fine here

in the fetal position, on the cement

lying by the side of road exhaust

as predator number 10, idles his car and asks

do you want me to take you home

baby?

I press myself to the window glass

no, don’t get in the car!

he looks angry when she says

I’m just taking a nap, goodnight

his lust drives off, leaving fuel staining like road kill

I wonder

what he would have done if

all 90 pounds of her, in tiny shorts and torn top

had accepted his bearly, concealed hunger

how many predators comb

early morning side walks, hoping

to pick up lost girls?

she’s got sense and she also, doesn’t know

but I do

I was her once

crawling out of an abandoned warehouse

knife wounds, waltzing on my throat

cold semen in my belly

clawmarks designating, my survival

bearly

the car that stopped then

a light in darkness

they took me away, from near death

when so easily

I could have been picked up, a second time

a third,

by hands with bad intention

when you are fallen

people often crowd in, to help you

fall again

like wolves who smell

the coming of blood and

vulnerabilities, we think we hide

I told her

don’t get into a car with a lone man, or group of men

they may not show their fangs but

you are a little piece of goodness

sometimes people who prowl, want to hurt

that shining within you

we drove

she was looking out the window

with her unslept eyes and the residue of last night

still high on her pain

and for the first time in my life

I no longer felt a victim

but one of the imaginary horses, I used to ride

speeding away from slick, sales-man, cough

of curb-side prowler

I wanted to make her better

but sometimes you can only

patch and release

to maybe nothing safer than hope

with a few words

wishing, that when she’s sober

waking without assault

she remembers

you were her once

and you got out

 

Advertisements

Fur

3d5e44b257578850726dffec1e5af373If we are honest

few things are honest anymore

everything is manipulated or

viewed through a lens

where is truth?

truth isn’t what most people want

not really

if a woman says

do my thighs look big in this?

is she asking for truth? or encouragement?

sometimes truth burns

sometimes it’s like an assault

if you live in the path of truth too long

you become immune to its sting

and nothing can hurt you anymore

but freedom

is not for everyone

 

the truth was

she hadn’t loved me in an eternity

if at all

whilst that felt like acid on my soul

it released the hope

to find another host

someone maybe who wasn’t being lied to

told she was the most beautiful

told she hadn’t aged a day

told she was the only one

how often is that so in a crowded world?

Disney would have us believe

frequently

but love

the real kind that doesn’t like the over-used name

that love is rarer than anything

maybe it doesn’t touch every person

you have to be capable of it

few are

it takes a humility of spirit and a depth

this society doesn’t encourage

 

the only way forward

listen to your gut

the feeling of worms and knives being turned

tells you when something isn’t right

even if others protest so loudly

it splits darkness from night

hold on to your truth

it’s there on the edges of deception

always reflecting never concealing

how easy it is

to believe someone when they say

it will only ever be you

there will be no one else

you are irreplaceable

how easy to want that to be true

 

but we are only savages playing in

high heels and wigs

we are wolves sitting at wooden pews

kneeling before weeping effigies

is it any wonder they cry for us?

we are children licking our sticky fingers

and plundering the honey jar

we are humans without conscience

if we briefly entertain it

soon we’re running in the opposite direction

for it takes the end of ego to

go to war with illusion

far better to sup on the drug that promises

a less sorrowful life

 

who wants to believe they are not

the one who will be loved

the one who will be held dearly

who wants to believe it might not

happen to them?

rather we deceive ourselves gladly

for one toke of the pipe

one last hit

a quick injection of bliss

to believe even as the voice inside says

this is not real

the fantasy, the fairy tale

we grew up thinking showed us

the future

as faulty as a soothsayer

gazing into empty crystal

there are no answers in lies

 

so when she told you

you were everything to her

she omitted the part that came after

unless you’re no longer

in which case another

will in time replace you

and you will walk alone as you

always have

wondering why

your heart was built of

fur

prickling from the

inside

out