You see them all, walking around you

They’re the types of girls who watch
the sunrise more than once
in their lives

And eat frosting off of their
polish chipped fingers as they
pull it straight from the can

The girls who have figured out
how to pop the pill going 50 in a 30
on a winding country road

They have the subtle driving force
of a rock and roll bass line
in their walks

And they have hair that never
looks anything but
pleasantly unkempt

They laugh too loud and
talk too much for you to
get a word in

Eyes wide and bright with the
dangerous charm that
is impossible to learn

Hearts open in a way that you
would never guess, unable to see
through their steely armor of humor

Fragile only in the wake of
tumbling locks possessed by
a boy half her worth

They are the girls who are
the protagonists of every story
they have ever joined

They turn the page for you
with nimble fingers before
you can even notice it

Be warned, for you may have
your heart broken in the most
lovely of ways

But you should know,
she will have her heart broken
every single time 

whispers - prose

Having a secret spot in the library was something she held close to her heart.  A private refuge, an unknown hideout - her star second to the right and straight on till morning.  She could go and inhale the vanilla tints of pages bound by decade old glue and dust.  Adventurous, but padded and safe.  

He felt the same, about his spot - the one he found first.  A place to go without being bothered by the buzz of boys attached to consoles in a dormitory.  Somewhere where he felt surrounded by the very minds that came up with the issues and problems that he was assigned nightly to solve.  The tent of knowledge risen around him to keep distractions out.

The timing changes and the push for better caused the intersect.  The registration of the same section sparked the interest and the invasion of privacy drove it home.  The fluttering eyelashes - thick and dark on her, and long and light on him, the quiet side notes slipped out of the sides of mouth, the smiles accompanying waves in passing.  It was hard to hold back from blowing on the coals to coax the flames to grow.

She liked his skinny legs and sloppy penmanship.  He dreamt of her cheeks’ glow and the coy tendency to hold her pencil in her lips.  They overlooked from afar, waiting for the other to cross the gap between the dimly lit tables and the reupholstered chairs to ask a question and start a conversation long enough to make eye contact.  

“One day,” she whispered.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered.

4/12/10 - Tub

If there is anything I want
To own in my future
It is a large, claw foot tub.
Preferably aged slightly and
With claws of matte brass.
There’s nothing impressive
About a claw foot tub with
Shiny new talons, now is there?

I want it for reading, crying,
Wine, and water.  To sink into
After a day of nonsense
And have the option to leave
Myself under for too long -
But of course I wouldn’t.
With candles spilling wax
Lazily along the edges
So that I would be able to
Chip it away on stressful nights.

It may seem odd to belabor
The idea of owning such a thing,
But a tub is much more personal
Than the set of sheets and pillows
I’ll share with others along the way.
So I’ll sit and plan my evening bath
As perfectly as I please. 

- Allison S. ©

i need to lie down for a minute here

Sometimes you get that feeling in your chest…like there’s an all-consuming black hole vortex sucking you inside of yourself.  And no matter how much you want it to go away the more you resist, the more you feel yourself falling in.  And before you know it you can feel it in your throat and you know that everything you’ve ever wanted to say is being pulled back down your esophagus and into that vortex and you’re going to be lost forever and the things you need to say - no, need to shout - are going to be silenced.  You lay down on your bed and let your palm lie flush against your thinned cotton shirt as you stare wide-eyed at the crumbling ceiling tiles listening to the voice of your inner monologue tell you, “This is your end.  You’re going to die right here.  Just stop breathing because the hole is going to pull your breath away.  And no one.  Will.  Ever.  Know.”

Other times you have that feeling in your chest…like there’s tidal wave getting ready to come ashore and completely consume your body.  And it’s fluttery and powerful and has that salty tinge to its scent that reminds you of your childhood but with an added sense of appreciation to the sting it leaves in your nostrils.  And you can feel the currents rippling through your limbs as you lie on your bed smiling to yourself knowing the things that your mind is capable of.  You indulge yourself in the memory that causes you to smile and do that squinty thing with your eyes as you bite your bottom lip.  You let the wave crash over your skin and consume you and become completely selfish in that moment, destroying all of the other thoughts that were trying to live on unstable foundations as the one sweeps over them all.

And sometimes all it takes is the dilation of your pupils as you catch the scent you were searching for to signal one or the other.  Sometimes at the beginning you don’t know whether you’re getting black hole or tidal wave, but regardless, you lay down and wait in the limbo of the unknown for some other person to completely consume your heart.

Pews - 8/19/12

I’ll go to church every Sunday
If it means I can sit
And let the inflections of a
Foreign man’s homily
Lull me into a calm and
Allow my mind to wander free.

I’ll let my mind become the
Secret sin I’m hiding in confession
As I mumble hymns like the rest
While letting my cheeks flush
And my stomach flutter
With the thought of you.

Because, back against the
Splintering wooden pew
I think of all the places I want
To discover on your skin
And all the ways your lips will pull
Working their way against mine.

I let my starchy clothes scratch me
And imagine what the length
Of your fingernails currently are
And the trails they could lead
Down my thighs at night
If I was going home to you.

I’ll go to church every Sunday
If it means I can sit
Without interruption and 
Think of all the ungodly things
I could be doing if I were
With you. 

another prose on a muse

I just want to wake up next to you, both of us face down in the pillows, our hair spilling over into each other’s; an unrecognizable mess of limbs and fluff.  Wake up and nuzzle noses to cheeks because you know I hate morning breath.  Smile at your spider leg eyelashes sticking together.  Giggle at imprints of sheets on our arms.  Wake up and roll over to your heavy breaths and light skin.  I want to wake up to my dream; not the reverse.


It just happened
Like the unintentional
Slamming of a door
Or the sharp loudness
Of your first laugh
While we all sat dodging 
Banter that flew across
The trampled over grass
And ashy plastic chairs

It had only been a few weeks
But that didn’t stop the
Punchline from swinging
At the gut of the issue
And making us all double over
In regretful pain
Of opening our mouths in
The first place 

In the moment the 
Realism of mortality
Was palpable and we
Thought we had all used
The tragedy to jar some up
And keep it visible on shelves
To remind us that
“We could be next”
But as easily as a swear
The flippant joke slid
From his mouth and
Caught flame in the
Dwindling blaze between us

“He was our friend, man”

Eyes wounded and
Voice still brimming with
The gruff of sobs let loose
He tried to defend
The boy now laying
In his parents’ pasture
Beneath the sod

“Get over it. It’s a joke”

The joker continued to
Ramble on and spit
His chatter at us
And we all took the
Time to realize that
Taboo had been lifted
It was now part of past
And immortality resumed
While memory lay in the shadow


I came home and unpacked
  my bags in my room
“This bed’s no longer yours”
  it whispered
So I jumped in my car and
  pumped the pedals
“These streets are no longer
  yours” they whispered
I sat at a desk in an old
  empty classroom
“These halls are no longer
  yours” she whispered
I’d returned to come home
  I thought
“But this is no longer my
  home” I whispered
Your arms reached out and
  grabbed at mine
“It’s okay, I’m always your
  home” he whispered
I laughed at the thought
  of being told
By rooms and streets
  and desks
What my home is and
  where it resides
Because a home is a heart
  without a cage
“You’re right.  I’ll always be
  home” I whispered 

accidental begging

let’s roll around and listen to interpol

and trace tattoos with our fingers on each other’s skin

it’ll be one of those moments where if either of us smoked, you’d dip your head back and take a drag off of your cigarette and pass it to me and i’d take a pull too

we can worry about the blankets getting bunched around our legs, but we’ll just pull more on instead of fixing them

and when we get hungry we’ll bite lips and drink in each other’s souls

my hair will be everywhere but i won’t care because you’ve seen it worse

and your pock-marked skin won’t have that glossiness about it that sometimes shows, but it’ll be soft fighting against the stubble of your whiskers - which will make it worse for me

because it’s so hard to see how beautiful you are when i’ve got my eyes closed kissing you