Creative Writing

The Unmarried Wife

I hear a click and a clang of keys as the door unlocks downstairs

Perhaps it’s the unmarried man that shares my bed at night

I turn over and think about him, while he does his bit down there

Again. I focus hard but I’ve forgotten what he looks like.

I wait for him, I stay awake in the hope of some intimacy

I fix my hair and lick my teeth and wait a little longer

I become petite on one side of the bed and slightly straighten the sheets

What takes so long for him to come up here from downstairs, I wonder.

He wallows there or so it sounds; lethargy lifts me from reality.

When I wake he’s by my side, or at least the half of him I see.

It’s my turn to rise up now, ready for the work ahead of me

I’m a stay-at-home, who cooks and cleans and wifes about the house

When I’m done I catch my breath and watch my husband leave

He walks away, no words exchanged – except my prayer for my spouse.

For recently it’s been quite good, I haven’t heard his voice in months

It’s ending soon, I know the signs. It happens this way with all my loves

I’m ready though, I think, to let go and consistently take my medicine

My doctor says I’m to tell noone or they’d lock me again in the asylum.

So please, for me, as I speak keep all I say a secret

The 32 loves I’ve had, hereditary, life long and recent.

Creative Writing, Momentary

The Poison, Drunk

They poured the intoxicants down their throats. White hot chemicals, cold to the touch but volcanic to the jugular. They noticed no changes as the sun went down, but when it had dissappeared so had their rationale.

In sweat the toxicity appeared to be leaving them alone. But really, the chemicals defied gravity, the chemicals splashed a bit around the brain, the chemicals justified going insane.

Temporality. Temperamental.

Occasionally one of them, one of them would drown. The chemical current would become more than a bit of splashing about the brain. Rather, it would pull the brain under, indefinitely.

Then it would have to be drained, people would come to drain the brain. To rescue the one who poured perhaps too much of the chemical intoxicants down its throat.

The people who would come would be qualified. They would look down on the one. The one, who would be covered in food from earlier that day and the acid that dissolved the food, the food they ate, would be lifeless. Noone knows where the soul goes in that time, but they would be lifeless; legs twisted to the side and bent at the knees, bloody perhaps; arms splayed out all over a street, with head unrecovered.
The one would need to be returned.  Recovery. Position.

The one might be lucky, facing the sea of Death and avoiding oblivion or the one might be unlucky and facing the sea of Death unsteady and falling fourth forever.

Momentary, The Fine Line


“I don’t want to think about any of it just yet, to be honest,” she said, “I just want to find myself in each moment.” She didn’t say goodbye, she simply shut down her mind and her laptop, turned off the stars that lit up her bedroom and crawled in between the freshly laundered silk sheets. Perhaps it took her two hours to fall asleep that night, but she slept beautifully, naturally. It was a first.