| Ter ger |
[May. 31st, 2006|12:01 pm] |
Resistance makes the faux energy spill,
melt, sizzle
off of my tongue
and into my cupped hands
where I am staring,
seeking, missing
your touch.
You were right there.
Now, a naked palm.
My head droops.
I dare not reach
or move or strain myself.
Brains drain out of
my hanging skull.
Hands tremble,
fingernails ache, bleed,
and your face appears in my
peripheral vision.
I dare not budge,
lest you run away.
From that to this,
I stare and strangle
you with my tears.
Drown myself in physics and
better planes
where names and symbols erase our humble
existance
and my hands fall ...
fall ... fall ...
open and scarred and
spilling pools of resistance
© 2006 |
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| An anniversary |
[May. 15th, 2006|03:47 pm] |
I look for it in your fingers
and in your elbow
and in your funny bone
- If I could see your funny bone -
I search within your joints
and between your hair particles
and underneath your fingernails.
I feel around inside your kidneys
and fondle your lungs
with a stethoscope around my neck,
listening for a clue …
a sign …
a quiver in your voice that says
you love me, but …
A red letter that comes to me in solid brass,
reeking of an age-old stench that reminds me of
antique-bearing women who tolerated men like you.
But I search for you.
I keep my eye out for subtle mistakes
you might make, and that particular way you
look at me without really seeing me.
I take notice of any uncertainties reflected in your stubbly face.
Snooping around, I find your organs
shred up into a million tiny pieces,
placed there by shame and blame and insecurities.
Along the way, I unexpectedly find your heart,
proverbially broken, but mending as I
tickle your fancy
and announce my discovery:
You love me, …
© 2006 |
|
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| shoe shopping |
[Apr. 7th, 2006|11:56 am] |
He isn't my whole world.
Just enough to disperse it from its course.
Just enough to shake it to the core.
Just enough to knock me off my guard.
When last he spoke, I listened. When last he screamed,
I cried. When last he criticized.
I catch glimpses of him - when his beady, green eyes
peer out at me from the mirror. In every glance I stumble upon,
I write off my own voice, and give him center stage.
His insistence would have me do no less.
And no more.
When last he spoke, he convinced me he was right.
And I was wrong.
Ugly. Fat. Stretch marks are the epitome of obesity.
Flab is the cynical soul of my own cynical world.
Lately he has noticed the puffiness in my cheeks
and in my brow, and in my pinky toe.
Lately he has noticed the extra weight around my midriff,
around my kneecaps, around my ears.
Lately, he won't shut the fuck up.
I listen more intently. Believing even the spaces
in between his words.
When last he spoke, his voice was just low enough
for me to have to strain to hear him.
But I heard. And he knew I did.
And he relished. While I measured the weight of my tears.
© 2006 Roxanne Hack |
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| Fullerton, CA |
[Mar. 24th, 2006|01:13 pm] |
Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate the sun.
I hate the wind.
I hate the way it feels when the ground under me shakes.
Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate the ocean.
I hate the way the sand creeps into my sandals.
I hate salt water and seagulls.
Some people are made for California.
Me, I hate crowds.
I hate a traffic jam at noon.
I hate the Gap.
Perhaps I wasn't made for any state,
except of mind. Of affairs. Of chaos.
Perhaps I wasn't made to belong in any county.
To find myself wherever I go,
instead of going somewhere just to search endlessly.
Perhaps I was made to be where I am,
content to not belong -
and belonging by default.
Some people are made for California.
Me, I think I am.
©2006 Roxanne Hack |
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| Back together |
[Mar. 23rd, 2006|05:51 pm] |
Beyond what I think is the border between
what I believe
and what you want me to believe
lies uncharacteristically bonafide excuses
for what you've done.
I barely hear the promises you make.
I hardly acknowledge the lengths you go
when you search for the forgiveness
I keep hidden amongst doubts and
stubborn attitudes and
a lucid frame of mind.
I am not as sensitive as the tears I cry.
They're merely what keep me human.
Beyond what I think is the reason for my
staying and my going,
I see your self-righteousness
and call your bluff.
We aren't what we think we are.
We just are.
Together. Lost. Found. Broken. Repaired.
Absolute. Halved. Solidified. Liquidated.
Loved. Despised. Wounded.
Forever - if not at least a really long time.
©2006 Roxanne Hack |
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| Serenity |
[Mar. 15th, 2006|01:55 pm] |
A psychotic elitist once told me
'Yellow snow is a sign of life.'
I wondered what kind of life he meant
and got lost in jokes of lemon lime.
My eyes have never seen fog before today.
The kind of fog that comes with clear skies.
Rain came at just the right time.
But never snow.
So, no life.
Just piss.
©2006 Roxanne Hack |
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| a battle for one |
[Mar. 15th, 2006|01:54 pm] |
Because I can't resist the urge to torture myself,
I ground another stake into my upper thigh.
Hidden beneath clothes and strands of thread I once thought made up my life,
the blood oozes. I don't even try to stop it anymore.
The world swirls around me as I prepare for another
self-mutilating test at just how much I can handle.
A stab. A scrape. A bite. A bruise.
The scars say nothing about the war inside my head.
Proof I'm alive is all I'm looking for. And the proof is there,
red and black and staring me in the face.
I am alive. And this is real.
And battle after battle, I hold myself hostage,
a gun to my own head, wanting silence
and hearing nothing.
Wanting revenge, but hating the word.
Needing solace - and refusing to let anyone in,
lest I scatter my weary brains on the putrid walls.
Because I cannot stop for death,
I breathe a little and try again.
Press pause on the recorder that replays
the words over and over and over and over...
And over
Something haunts me. Pinpointing it is useless.
Screaming is senseless. Crying, laughable.
So I sit in my cell
and take another stab at another hidden body part,
dulling the pain so I can feel it again.
©2006 Roxanne Hack |
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|
| Conversion |
[Dec. 29th, 2005|10:31 pm] |
At church one Wednesday night
- We'd go twice a week, plus a weekly youth group meeting
where mom and dad taught,
and monthly adult bible study, where I babysat. -
my pastor said God talks.
He said that it was up to us to be patient
and listen for His words.
I sat Indian-style on my bed for three hours that night.
I begged. I pleaded. I cried for the voice of God
to ring in my 13-year-old ears.
He never spoke.
How many ounces of God are actually in a gallon of vulnerability?
©2005 Roxanne Hack |
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| You and Pastor Tim |
[Jun. 15th, 2005|10:45 am] |
And in my darkest moments,
I always blamed myself.
I'd shunned my own name
by denying You and Your good deeds.
In some ways, I was proud I'd made my own decision.
Most ways, I was stubborn.
And in my darkest moments,
I'd simply blame myself.
And always would I fight the battle -- blind or deaf or dumb at the time --
I'd fight until I'd fall,
and then get up and fight some more.
Without Your help, I'd think.
But here I stand, before You and Your capital Yous,
admitting defeat and fighting no more.
This was not my fault.
I met Pastor Tim at my most vulnerable.
I believed every word he said.
When he'd smile at me, I thought it was You.
When he'd laugh with me and comfort me, I saw You.
When he saved me, and helped me save myself -- You again.
And in the sins he would commit, I saw Your fingerprints.
I saw Your red hands on his crimes.
Your eyes saw more than mine, and mine saw enough to know
he was no saint, nor an honest man.
His grotesque habit burns my brain with harsh sadness and shame.
And in his darkest moments,
I simply blamed You.
This was not my fault.
©2005 Roxanne Hack |
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