Vise

14596908000_a7ea2e7d6a_mI am driftwood, imperfect, but good enough to hold onto tightly while you figure out the shape I was destined for–I know you too well, Puzzlemaker.

You are one who must make fit the pieces perfectly, lest your life be unfulfilled. So you place me in the vise, and turn, turn, turn. Hold me fast and examine my form.

Where to cut? Where to shave thin? How do you make me slide into place? This is after all, your love game.

Blood into Ink: Submissions

Blood into Ink: Submissions

Blood Into Ink

What is Blood into Ink? It is a safe space for survivors of abuse and related trauma to share their experiences, yes. But I feel it necessary to invite those of you who love and supply emotional support to a survivor to read our blog, and express yourselves, too. Because abuse/trauma often does bleed into relationships outside of the Hell House.

If you are interested in submitting to Blood into Ink, you may do so here.

Peace,

Kindra

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Me Says

It’s been several years since I’ve had to check in with a man. Now, I answer to no one, save a person I call Me. Me says I can spend my free time any way I please, without apologies, without explanation. Me says I have the right to my silence whenever I feel emotionally overloaded; I don’t have to be the caretaker of everyone else–and it’s not my fault they require constant validation. Me says I can still love others totally, while addressing my own needs first; after all, what good am I to the ones I love if I’m no good to myself?

Me says you’re a child for being so demanding. Me says you might get an answer you don’t want. But Me also says that you don’t mean to be a dick–so don’t prove Me wrong.

 

Take “Dishonesty” and Shove it

You had an emotional crisis, and I went to you despite my poor physical health because I love you endlessly. I slept on a blow up mattress for seven days straight, and pretended every morning that my Fibromyalgia was under control; I pretended that my right hip, so fucked up from Rheumatoid arthritis didn’t bother me that bad because you needed me, your best friend, to help you through this dark time in your life.

And now, you have the solid gold balls to tell me I’m not a good friend because you had to read online that I was publishing my novel; you think I should have told you beforehand. I tried to tell you beforehand, but you wouldn’t answer my phone calls, or acknowledge my text messages because you were too busy being pissed off that I didn’t need your advice. Funny, right? I could have used your advice, but you wouldn’t answer my calls. You’re the cause of this shit.

And I’m fucking pissed! I’m pissed you had the nerve to call me DISHONEST. Me. Dishonest. Have you met me? Are you motherfucking new here?

I’m not fucking sorry. Even if it means our friendship is over, I’m not fucking sorry. Because taking the blame would be dishonest.

 

 

Electronica

pexels-photo-28774

Sky has gone steel-blue, stone heavy

Feeble sun wears charcoal clouds–a funeral shroud

Bass drums fade in fast as growing blackness settles low

Rumblings punctuate with a resounding boom

Enter snare drums, snapping

Electronica rising

Ribbons extend from Heaven to horizon and

Vanish, instantaneous

Thunder rattles rib cages with guttural power

Sky falls down in symphony

Electronica

On a pale horse

Jac, you kill me. You’re a fucking writing phenom. ❤

The Perilous Reading Society

Tonight you kill someone. Not a faraway kind of killing like a bullet or a button. Or a word. Misheard. Just the tearing of skin, and sin spliced out on the lathe

A sigh. Perhaps? He mumbles incoherence, poetry caught in the softness of drunken debut. And curled on his chest, the creature takes it close. Drooling silk in chorded symphony. Slipping and sliding whispers through his veins, his heart, his kiss. Click. Turn. Click. Turn. Another sigh. Deeper this time. Harder to take back. And inside his dream he sees time fused nuclear in endless ticking. Dust and bones on the evening air as the song of last becomes the howl of the first.

The creature leans closer, breath to breathe. And it rolls silent in victory as the sweet of his flesh fades, bled dry in dreams of all the colours that weren’t red.

And he fights. Yes…

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Liquid Crystal

Sheldon, this is awesome.

Sheldon Kleeman

20170528_040359 Being a person or a victim

Which liquid do you drink

It’s a decision you make

Everyday,to stand outside

Of yourself and take a long

Hard look,no one likes having

There hands tied,no one enjoys

Stand in the shadows of life

You can either sit and watch

Or you can be a willing participant

The choice is always there,you

Must believe in order to see

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