becomethetree

bore all

To you I have born all since then There are car rides with crying and fogged up glass from talking in the parking lot These Are Dark Times dark months

where I did not only strip outer layers but I stripped inner guts intestines

                sinew muscle and strings of blood gore that lobs
                from myself to the floor
no I have never felt true Cinderella love you’re right you’re right you’re right dear this was me born from flesh born from bed sheets born from journals bought but never written dear diary today my boy cheated which leaves me born from glass and born from all
I will show, with hands cupped
I will show, with curled body
I will show with angry phones thrown with mixed CDs thrown with hundred quid Docs tossed gifts ripped and torn photographs with kicked corners and punched walls I have born all from break ups.
Ever After the Dark Times
I am Ever After dressed
Ever After turned Ever After
pasting skin back to contain
heart and lungs I am Ever
Ever Ever After happier where
there are no happy endings.
I am Ever After whole.

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved a boy.

Undressing

I like being covered.

I like thick warm scarves to hide the fragile flesh at the base of my throat

and long scratchy sweaters that are uncomfortable- but a price to pay for

their ability to cover-to protect from any force that tries to expose me. I like

long underwear for protecting the innermost, most important and secret parts.

And knee length socks just beacuse.

I always wear this-it’s not comfortable but it’s what I’ve grown accustomed to.

More comfortable, I suppose, then feeling the rough sting of the wind on my bare skin.

But when I gave you a piece of my heart

I stripped for you. Something I’d never done before. I let you see me on an

intimate, genuine, unguarded level- I gladly did it.

I unraveled the thick scarf- and it felt good to let my throat show

and be showered with your gentle kisses. I let you take the sweater off- the thick heavy material finally freed from my body.

The long underwear had to go too-because now, you had uncovered so much that it

would be

foolish and near impossible to stop. So, the long underwear was wrestled off in a frenzied

somewhat hurried manner. And I was standing only in long socks before you.

You looked up at me. I laughed and gleefully pulled the socks of - tossing them aside-

revelling in the freedom of being exposed and naked and free before you.

the emerald blades form a sea
around the crimson bark
growing, protecting the tree’s
young branches,
bright exhibition of the glory within
destruction; one last show
before abandoning their
home -  ugly in the loss
of hope. lack of joy without
beauty adorning its body
left alone to endure
the icy breath of death

November Projects at Spilled Ink

If you’ve created a project/prompt for the Tumblr writing community and you’ve made sure there’s as much information as possible stated in the post and that there is an appropriate tag, then use the #twcp tag so that we can find your post easily. [Note: if you’ve already published your post and go back to just add the #twcp tag, your post may not show up. You may have to post it again, and not as a reblog. We apologize for Tumblr’s occasional bitchery.]

Become the Tree

  • Suggested by Lillian at Spilled Ink
  • Deadline is November 30
  • Appropriate tag: #becomethetree
  • Essentially, write a prose or poetry piece personal to you of a time when you had to bare all and be naked to those around you (envision a tree in autumn/winter losing all of its leaves).
  • Do not submit links for this project. Pieces will only be reblogged from the above tag.

Future Appreciation

  • Suggested by Bethany at Spilled Ink
  • Deadline is November 30
  • Appropriate tag: #futureappreciation
  • Essentially, write a prose or poetry piece of something in the future that you believe you will be thankful for. Try and keep the pieces personal so really think about what little thing would be special or mean something to you that hasn’t happened yet. [Little things only. No births, marriages, graduations, etcetera.]
  • Click here for an example by Lillian and Bethany.
  • Do not submit links for this project. Pieces will only be reblogged from the above tag.

Yes, I died. I was dead.
My spindly, wooden wrists were spread across tiled floors. Silhouettes of tangled braches, borne by red brick beneath a tungsten glow were the last stretch.

My leaves drenched me.

They dropped into sinks and bathtubs and out my mouth. I’d stand at the mirror whilst bark tore from my throat. All I would mange was a cough, bringing woody fibres to my hands like mucus. I’d grab them from the back of my mouth and pull.
Yes, I remember now; you’d watch me gasp and tear bark away, tears rolling down my cheeks as I peeled myself like a mandarin from the inside out.

To think I believed I was removing moldy, mildewed wood. The peeling and tearing wore my body away and my limbs bore no fruit that season.
My joints creaked in the lightest breeze. Sap fell so often, to be smoothed and nurtured into direction by unforgiving winds that I found myself encased within it. Yet, I’d touch the viscous liquid and feel nothing but the hard, rigidity of my limbs beneath.
Everything was solid. I was transforming to stone. I told myself to morph; to be the concrete building standing against the blistering wind- to withstand the force and pull ripping my leaves away, one by one. But I never truly could

Yes, I watched them slip away from me, no matter what I did. No matter how hard I clung the wind tore them away.

I remember, boards and… scrap pieces of wood, being nailed into my sides. I remember chicken wire …hammers and nails… wire twisted around me- around my fingertips. But no wire could support the weight of my torso as the wind ripped my roots from the earth. It clung onto me like a child’s fingers, gripping his mother’s coat. But with ease, the tempest whirled me away.
The floorboards ruptured beneath me and I was plucked like a feather. The storms breath flung wire and boards to the air in one puff. Threw my rigid, branched, feather body into the ground, burying me six feet under.

The ground had gnawed me senseless, by the time your fingers wrapped around my branches and hauled me through the soil.
I was so very cold. I was so cold and naked beneath you. Not only my leaves ripped from me, but my bark too; stripped and stolen from my body, exposing raw, white flesh. My purpled skin, so cold and frozen and poisoned. Your fingers traced my limbs, my rickety joints rattled with each touch. My branches sprawled out across towels and tiles. I was a newborn again. I was wrapped in soft, pink terri-toweling and you had seen my birth.

I was dead. I had died. You watched me dying. I showed you.

Staten Island Ferry

Manhattan falling behind,
A thatch of tall glass on a small island between wide waters,
Like the trunks of Pacific palms.
Out in the open, the clock of the ticking city fades,
The feet must accept the loss
Of their manic urban pace.
Gulls ride the broken air behind the ferry.
The engine drums the ear,
Vaguely teaching a new beat to the feet
Like a kind of silence,
Watching the gulls
Like kites atop the woosh of the wind.
When the visual noise of buildings is gone,
There is only the flatness of coruscating waters
And thoughts quiet and bare,
Feelings without words
Remembered the way the sea
Recalls a time before the city.
She watched me for a moment,
Saw everything
And took my hand.

Strategy of Numbers, by Clint Irwin: Available now for $2.99 on Kindle and all other ebook formats. In print: $14.95 on amazon.com

Display

I look through the glass

Into the mall

I am on display

showing all

From the scars 

on my neck

From that one

bicycle wreck

Or the bruise on my arm

like a purple sun

To bad I can’t 

remember where it’s from

Girls stop and stare

Probably at my dick

They stare for minutes

and even take pics

But those who study long enough

They see my soul

the part of me that’s real

not the fake happy show

They see my pain

my heart broken

But all they do is watch

And not a word

is ever spoken