prose poem i: back to blackness This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

dawn- awakening

Each morning is a blessing from God, a gift given to female-kind to supplement each belief in the male appointed kings of the world. to have breasts to to have sinned and to have sinned is to have gone against the ways of the world.

(sexed not, wanted not and may they allow you to breathe in the scent of themselves.)

morning- creation
The kitchen holds an aura of silence, a lacking of kinetic energy, the molecules are suspended in mid air, no sound other than the white noise of the electric griller in the corner. Breakfast time, dangerous waters to tread and every morning see me shuffle our children to and fro to evade your dangers. It’s a strange thing; you avert my gaze while your sons sit aside you at the table, yet after they leave, it’s a simple matter of cracking my eggs, watching them scramble and squirm within me.

You give me hives, watch as you make my skin rise into braille poems as you leave me alone, off to your sheds, off to your cave where I’ve tracked you to only once, only once, only one time of bloody noses and bruised skins. that time never lasted long since it was yours (and yours is yours, and you’ll never let it go) but before I went blind, I saw the rolled up canvas of human skin, painted nails discarded and forgotten on the polished wooden floor, hair crammed into that damned leather suitcase I’d given you for anniversary number 2. I’ve seen you kiss swan necks, swan necks and faded polaroid pictures.

Which is why when you were sleeping, I crept over and glued a Purple Heart in the centre of your forehead.

afternoon- duplication
On the front of fridge, there is a stain on the door, a print made in red-not crayons but blood. Too large for a child, too small for a man, I blink and stare as red stains my floors. A flood is coming, I feel it, but I cannot prevent it.

I move to clean it, but my eyes cannot separate the clean linens from white paper towels. my cleaning supplies are abrasive, they scrape my flesh from my fingers, they rub my hands raw with their synthetic purties. All lined up in neat little rows, my tools of the trade-things needed to survive in this wild world.

As there are four miniature mes existence, I take it upon myself to flush their skins with holy water and pat their cheeks rosy before presenting them to HIM. His annual presents of replication and splicing, what he hinted he’d wanted but once given discarded. I promise them nothing; HE picks, HE chooses, but alas the one most similar is nothing but trash.Wasted flesh, wasted soul.

It’s an imperfect replication HE said.

(I am on my knees now, my knees are bruised and sore from the eons spent here)

Perfection is key; make it white, make them rosy, fix them up make ME.Soak your skin in eight bottle of Borax and guard your mistakes, your breathing scar tissue, because they cannot escape-you cannot escape until each cell of mine is split and you carry it properly-conceive me, release me and you can be set free.

I’ve rubbed my nails down to the bones.

It ceased being a dance five years ago. Now it is war, a one sided battle for the right to dominate another as blood vessels strangle the partners in hopes of a kiss. it’s simple really; painful, but perhaps production is simply key. Each motion remains a shot in the dark; neither one of them knows which will become the bullet to the brain that becomes their coffin casing kiss.

can the breathing of soldiers- chests rising up, down- remain stagnant in the air for long; encompassed around the humid air of sweat, saliva, the sweet tears of living inside a confessional booth 24/7. with all the pain of force, the pressures released afterwards are nothing more than a popped off soda lid.


can the night be taken back? returned to the realm where shadows are birthed and the crickets find their muses because there is no color. there is nothing to advise over, no column printed in ink that can proofread over the mistakes like it is a draft, where there is red pen to cross out the red blood that has spilled over the fractional number of decades many enjoy to call life. red rather than black because red cannot change, it cannot circumvent the pathways of change; it cannot remain a static hold, it cannot remain a vice grip upon a soul, it cannot remain a hook on which a noose can be hung. it fades and brightens with detergent, it can be edited and renewed and it can be revived once it burns, because life is paper and paper is flammable and from its ashes will rise a phoenix which shall drink the red that spills and cannot be mimic’d by the male anatomy. cherish it, cherish it because with it, you shall watch the male world burn and freedom will follow.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback