before you say I Love You (tw: SA)

This poem is not politically correct.
Neither are his hands on your body
or my hands around his throat:
he touched you.
he touched you.
He said you were mine,
and then he touched you.

You are no one’s object, no one’s baby girl,
and even though you call me daddy
I’m no more your father
than the priest of the church you don’t believe in.
The night you came home with bruises
I told you not to come home at all;
that was before I knew what he did.
All I knew was that I said Don’t go to his house,
something bad will happen,

and you laughed it off.

I said don’t go.
I said don’t go.
I said don’t go,
and you came home crying.

For two weeks we’ve eaten in silence
as you rub off your mascara
on the back of your hand,
laughing between the cracks in our conversations,
forcing compliments over microwave meals
and cold soup.
You never told me exactly what happened,
but you told me not to kill him.

I swore that I would kill him.
You refused to give me his address.

Every time you leave,
I want to change the locks.
Every time you come home,
I want to hold you
until I love you.
Go, come, go, come.
I don’t recognize myself in the mirror
and I don’t recognize you across the dinner table.

You’re no one’s property.
You’re not ‘damaged goods.’
You’re not goods, and I’m not good,
and every kiss feels like, You cheated on me.

It’s not your fault.
It’s not your fault.
Whatever he did, it’s not your fault.
But Don’t go.  Something bad will happen.
You laughed it off.
Do you like being so naïve?
I rub my temples gray and cry in the bathroom
so that you can’t hear me over the television.

Why do I feel this way?
Like you betrayed me.
It should be cut and dry—he hurt you, it’s not your fault,
you are the victim, you are the only victim—
but I can’t bring myself
to put my lips where his mouth was.
I can’t kiss you when you ask me.
When I hold you at night you’re so cold, like air,
but so heavy, like nightmares,
and you tell me I grind my teeth.

This poem is not politically correct
and this love does not come easy.
Because when you wake up,
I don’t see you the same
and before you say, I love you
I just roll back to sleep.

I’m sorry.

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A cool washcloth on your forehead

Traveling down an opal road,
dreams drift by, rivers are afloat.

Turbulent weathers creep inside,
rain down orchids this sunny night.

Cotton candy igloos protect
the orchestra of lewd rejects.

Caramel oozes down my ears,
grab me one of those jelly beers.

Ride this leviathan through space,
ink splatters splashing on your face.

There is nothing left to surprise
the dancing dolphins in my mind.

- M.A. Tempels © 2015

“Rejoice in the wife of your youth.” Proverbs 5:18
It does not say, “Rejoice in your young wife.” — that girl you married when you both were younger. By now, time has gone by, maybe a lot of time. A lot has changed, but she is still that girl who gave herself to you on your wedding day.
You both have seen trouble and sorrow, maybe more than you ever dreamed you would. Think about her faithfulness to you through the years, despite your weaknesses and failings, through the many hardships, all by the grace of God. Let your heart melt again, and rejoice in God and in her. Then, your marriage can be a God-given source of rejoicing

burning-effigy asked:

Ohmygod sazhi verse pleeeeease. It is actually the best thing. I re-read all your posts often and I just can't get enough of it. Thank you :)

D’awwww, thanks darling! ^_^

The first time Mario goes over to Geno’s house, it’s because everybody’s having a rough time with Sidney being missing.  He doesn’t know exactly what the story is with those two (he has some theories [they’re wrong]), but he knows that whatever the reason, Sid’s disappearance has been especially hard on Geno.  Thinking he might need someone to talk to who understands just how terrifying the current situation is, he heads over one day.

They’ve barely made it into the living room when Mario very nearly has a heart attack.  He’s going to make an appointment with a cardiologist this week, that’s how close a call it was.  He’s offering some half-hearted platitude to Geno, who doesn’t look like he’s buying it any more than Mario feels like he’s selling it, when a small black blur shoots out from underneath the couch, leaping straight at him.  There are tiny yet razor sharp claws digging into his pants just below the knee, which was apparently as high as the thing could jump, but it wastes no time in starting to scale up the front of his body.  It’s fast, and doesn’t seem overly concerned about the way its claws are catching his flesh beneath the fabric, and that is too close, entirely too close to a very sensitive area, oh god.  It’s yowling at the top of its tiny lungs as it climbs, and before he knows it there are fine scratches and pinpricks the length of his body, and a minuscule black kitten is clinging to his shoulder, yelling directly into his ear.

Geno just stares as Mario feels his color slowly return.  He got new kitten, he offers blankly.  Usually never come out for people, always hide.

Mario feels so privileged.



light casts unfairly, shaded
by envious shadows, hoarding.

lips denied exclamation mark busses
turn inward, bitten by mourning teeth

under gums of no glory.

would winds take note,
blow tidings benevolent, hereward

limbs undone by sunlight’s loss
would again turn a cellular face

skyward, luxuriant.

formless fate and folly
ground into paste’s pastiche

spreads itself as a cold butter stick
knifed by a warm blade, viscous,

eager to coat and saturate.

rise, snap collar about my face
open door,
endure such

shall i.