Surrender

A hint of your shad­ow
and in my mind’s eye
my rea­son crum­bles
while you edge and deny.

You show me your dark­ness,
I’ll show you mine.
The sweet­est of ago­nies,
our thorns inter­twined.

I’ll be your heav­en
if you’ll be my hell.
If you’d wreck and burn
this immac­u­late shell,

I’d sur­ren­der
every last breath,
every lit­tle breath.
If you would just see me.

See how I bend?
I’d sup­pli­cate.
I’d beg you to beg me,
to fill me. To wait.

I’d open so wide,
stoop so low.
How­ev­er you’d taste,
I’d swal­low you whole.

All I want
is to want it more than any­thing.
If you beck­on, I will come.
All I am
is noth­ing at all.
Exquis­ite free­dom
under your thumb.

For Brian

Writ­ten in 1999

you still live there cupped in the mind’s hand
like a warm dark place I crouch in when the
hunger is too great a sweet crisp scent that
imbues me rolls down my throat into me
a sug­ar rush to meaning’s vac­u­ous
with­draw­al and I dwell there my body
trem­bles with the life of you the charm­ing
over­bite the sweet dim­pled skin the soft
intel­lec­tu­al stom­ach the wit and sick rare
warmth that radi­at­ed crooked-grinned and
brown-sparkled into me and me burst­ing
and gig­gling sex­less petals open­ing
invit­ing my only virtue then my sweet­ness
my total devo­tion to every morsel that
graced my thirsty lips every touch vis­cous
and play­ful every moment in that house
that smell old and musty but so deli­cious­ly
you-smelled years lat­er Max howl­ing on
your bed and me inhal­ing the scent of your
shirt regard­ing your pic­tures of man­hood
estranged and des­per­ate to have known you
to have had you taste of me ripened to have
had those last emp­ty ashen moments (fate­less
and cru­el) annulled by some­thing rich­er
nev­er­the­less I am con­tent to have your life
eter­nal and light-rid­den pock­et­ed safe­ly
a sweet balm a self­ish trib­ute to childhood’s
suc­cu­lence a dark reminder to drink of oth­ers’
cups open and brave and swal­low­ing whole

Wiser

what­ev­er doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
they say.
I don’t feel strong.
if I were the best ver­sion of myself
I’d be grate­ful for you
your mem­o­ries arc­ing dark­ly, cold­ly
between these pieces I gath­er and fum­ble
and arrange in ugly pat­terns.

but what would I give up
to be hope­ful?
to be open?
to be whole?

the fre­net­ic dance par­ties
in your liv­ing room
laugh­ing
spin­ning
into a heav­ing pile on the floor.

the late nights of
pon­tif­i­ca­tions and gui­tar solos
weav­ing in between wafts of smoke
pry­ing myself wide-open
bare.

play­ing pin­ball
at the bus sta­tion
soft­ly ripe
my fin­gers dig­ging play­ful­ly
under the gap in your pants.

cack­ling at your dark jokes
gasp­ing at your bloody sto­ries
glee­ful­ly, vapid­ly
play­ing “boy’s games”
just to be near you.

some­times I get it.
the things you give up
the bits that burn, die, and fall off.
you evolve into some­thing else.
niether bet­ter nor worse.
just wis­er.

but what would I give to have her back?
to unbite that apple?
to gleam with pos­si­bil­i­ty?
to believe in the pos­si­bil­i­ty of oth­ers?
I might pry those moments out
throw them into the abyss.
I might be will­ing
to nev­er have met you at all.

She crouches

She crouch­es
hun­gry to devour
destroy
to entan­gle a body’s length
depth
thighs trem­bling
weep­ing.
She whim­pers
muf­fled
dark leaks encir­cling
my strained por­trait.
She waits
fin­gers for a chink in the armor.
She whis­pers
“Do you miss me?”
her breath as sweet as death.
I do.

The Bride

This sto­ry was writ­ten for the Dark Fairy Queen Writer­ly Bridal Show­er, in hon­or of Anna Meade and Michael Loy’s upcom­ing nup­tials. To the joy­ous cou­ple: May you have an ecsta­t­ic life togeth­er, full of shared sun­sets and fairy dust. And Anna: watch out for Krak­ens!

The bride stepped gin­ger­ly into her wed­ding dress, and two maids care­ful­ly laced the gown up her back. The gown sparkled like the star­ry night above her, aglow with thou­sands of dia­monds sewn into the white thread. She wait­ed patient­ly as the maids attend­ed the dress, lac­ing, smooth­ing, gath­er­ing the long train around her feet. The maids then addressed the glo­ri­ous mane of her hair, tam­ing her wild dark curls. They ran exot­ic oils through her tress­es, till her ringlets shone and shim­mered. With dia­mond-encrust­ed ivory combs they cap­tured her hair atop her head, while way­ward curls framed her alabaster face and spilled down her back. With sweet berry juices they del­i­cate­ly col­ored her full lips, her creamy cheeks.

The wind swirled around her and she looked up to the night sky. A dis­tant howl echoed, and she shiv­ered.

The queen emerged from the shad­ows, and her eyes widened as she regard­ed the bride.

You look glo­ri­ous, my child,” an approv­ing smile curved her blood-red lips.

The bride cast her eyes down­ward, blush­ing.

The queen came towards her, then cir­cled around her, light­ly fuss­ing with her gown, run­ning her taloned fin­gers through her curls. As the queen came round and faced the bride, she gen­tly caressed the bride’s cheek, attempt­ing a com­fort­ing smile.

Are you ner­vous about the wed­ding night?” she purred.

The bride said noth­ing, but trem­bled, her blush deep­en­ing.

The queen leaned in, her lips against the brides ear. The bride could feel her warm, cloy­ing breath as she whis­pered, “There is noth­ing to fear. It will be over before you know it.”

Tears sprung to the bride’s eyes.

You must yield to him,” the queen mur­mured, cap­tur­ing a sin­gle tear on the bride’s cheek with her long, thin fin­ger, “Your body must be whol­ly his. Your skin…” she ran her fin­ger down her cheek, her neck, trac­ing the soft, swelling flesh of her decoutage, “…must be warm. You body must open to him.”

The queen stepped back, leav­ing the bride’s heart pound­ing, her exposed white skin shiv­er­ing.

It is time,” the queen growled to the maids, avert­ing her eyes from the bride.

The maids gen­tly led the bride across the sand, to the cliff that over­looked  the churn­ing ocean. The wind whipped her curls, the salty spray of the sea sting­ing her eyes. Blink­ing the mist from her dark lash­es, she looked up at the night sky, try­ing to swal­low the tears and bile that rose up in her throat.

Paul_Gustave_Dore_AndromedaThe maids pressed the bride’s body rev­er­ent­ly against the rock face, cap­tured her del­i­cate wrists in heavy chains. The ocean waves height­ened, swelled, and her gown was soon soaked by sea water.

The queen came to her once more, her large eyes wet with tears. Cap­tur­ing her face in her hands, the queen plant­ed one last kiss upon the bride’s cheek. The queen closed her eyes, breath­ing in the sweet and salty scent of the bride’s curls, then turned away.

The bride sobbed as the queen dis­ap­peared into the dark­ness.

A deep howl swept across the ocean, echo­ing above the ocean waves which rose high­er and high­er, now lap­ping at her feet. In the dark water, the bride could see an even dark­er shad­ow beneath its sur­face, impos­si­bly huge, trav­el­ling with hor­ri­fy­ing speed towards the cliff.

The bride breathed one last des­per­ate sob, then, at the queen’s behest, relaxed her chained arms, soft­ened her shoul­ders, weak­ened her knees. She yield­ed to her groom, who, with a tri­umphant and deaf­en­ing wail, rose to meet and con­sume her.

Title: The Bride
Author: Christi­na Ramey
eBook: Yes


(Pho­to Cred­it: s0ulsurfing via Comp­fight cc)

life is rife with it…

life is rife with it — the lit­tle anguish­es the sparks of plea­sure the swaths of bore­dom that roll in and out and over you till you close your eyes in hopes that the spin­ning will stop…and you weigh them cease­less­ly those quick­ly-flee­ing lit­tle pieces squirm­ing in your fin­gers in hopes that the good out­weighs the bad and you squint at them in hopes that the bad can be trans­formed if you turn it this way or that or hold it up to the light…and you try to peer ahead and arm your­self accord­ing­ly but still the slings come and still it stings…and you won­der if things will ever be bet­ter if the quips of wis­dom will sink down deep and man­i­fest them­selves as action and bright­ness but I fear it won’t get that much bet­ter two steps for­ward one step back and then anoth­er