Amnesia

I was lost in the apathy of a broken heart,
the disloyalty of dreams that had been
drug mercilessly through the sharp,
splintered edges of a fake romance.
I held animosity close to my chest,
covering myself in the lie that was fear
and cowardice. I courted misery
as if somewhere in the depths of
his indifference I would find hope.
I dressed myself up in swaths of
optimism and met the stare of disdain
with a heart coarsened by hatred.
I searched for endless hours through
the rubble of my faith and staggered
across the first moment I saw him –
the thick sprawl of his lashes
against storm blue eyes and
a smile that sent a lurch through me,
knocking me to my knees.
I remembered how love tasted of
his breath and forced amnesia
for our fragmented love. I forgot it all
and loved him anyway.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

---

Written in response to the prompt at The Reverie Journal.

I Will Ask

I find that I can be irrevocably human with you,
that in the sharp darkness of my soul,
I have made room for your light.
I have allowed the clouds to shift and fade,
have clawed out in desperation against the skies,
twisting in the downpour of adversary…
I have drawn out the irrelevant fears,
snipped them tight as a deadened nerve,
eliciting bright hibiscus blooms of paranoia and chaos.
I ask only that you love me in the darkness,
that you find beauty in my shaded bloom, and that
all of my broken pieces will be held tenderly in your arms.
I will not ask you to stitch me back together.
I will not be your doll.
I will only ask you to love me in the darkness.
I will only ask for your love.

---

Written in response to the wordle prompt at MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie and the prompt given by The Reverie Journal.

Little Deaths

Your fingers slid down my spine.
Four demanding, nocturnal snakes
slithering in the darkness.
Madly dashing for the little gilt knob at my base.
There, you could trip the switch and
turn me on. And I would sing. I would sing, and
sing the omen of little deaths to come.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

---

Written for the prompts over at An Artist at Heart, Uncharted, and Three Word Wednesday.

An Artist at Heart: Miniature Writing Challenge – Music

Uncharted: Six Sentence Stories – Trip

Three Word Wednesday: Week 463 – Madly, Nocturnal, Omen

 

Scattered

I loved you in the darkest of night.
And somehow I expected the imperfect light
of the moon’s crooked smile
to light me up like daybreak.
But you were a lame sunrise.
You were a harrowing curve
and I was scattered as broken glass.
I was scattered as change spilled from your hand,
rolled across the hard, tiled floor.
I was a head’s down penny
and my copper had lost its luster,
so that even then,
in my weakest moments,
I was not worth the effort
to bend.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

---

Thank you to Uncharted for their Six Sentence Story prompt  “change,” and to Three Word Wednesday for their prompt words: imperfect, harrowing, and lame.

The Beach

He woke up alone on the shore of an unfamiliar beach and
watched as the waves crashed down
like the thin, translucent skin of her eyelids.
White caps were salty, tear-stained lashes and
he laid his cheek against the smooth sand,
let them caress his face. His fingers dug
through each grainy strand and
he knew then, that he knew her well.

And when the waves receded,
pulled back from his touch to fill the void,
she screamed out –
so loud and long and low,
that for a moment
she simply disappeared and
all the was left in the space she had been
was the sound of her agony and
the salt stuck to his skin.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016

---

Thank you to the Miniature Writing Challenge for their prompt: “He woke up alone on the shore of an unfamiliar beach…”

Skeleton Dance

I am ready to spill my skeletons,
open the door to the proverbial closet
and watch them perform an irreverent
skitter-dance across our bedroom carpet.
They will two-step in the moonlight
shining in jagged strips through the
wire screen against our window pane.
They will sing a false swan song
with lipless mouths and bones that
rattle as change in your pockets.
They will twist up on one another,
like a bow around a present,
and I’m giving you this gift,
because it is no longer possible
to keep them in my head.
I am dragging them out from under
the piles of old neglected things
that hinder our ability to speak freely
and humiliate what is left of our love.
I am giving you faceless truths
and praying that the melody of our past
is enough to string us back together.

©Laura A. Lord, 2016

---

Thank you to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie and The Sunday Whirl for their wordle prompts.

Birth

I came out like someone had dusted my skin with turmeric,
the bow of my mouth carved into a rigid scream,
my eyes – two angry slits,
with the thick purple cord pulsating around my neck.
It was as if the Moirai started out my journey with
the filament stretched between their wrinkled fingers,
ready to cut me out like a malignant lymph node, but…

Cary and Kacey Jordan, Flickr Creative Commons

They laid me into his hands, where he stroked my cheek
with tobacco stained fingers.
I was less than an hour old,
barely enough in this world to be an aftertaste:
the slick slide of emotion down the throat that catches
like it suddenly turned to concrete at the tonsils
and the adhesion becomes so strong you can’t just swallow it down,
you have to cough it up,
admonish yourself for the sentimental hang-ups
that come with the territory of fatherhood.

And someone let that shining filament go,
loosened their grip,
and let me live.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

---

I don’t know why this collection of words from MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie made me think back to my birth story, but they did. Perhaps baby thoughts are just on my mind. I’ve been working towards becoming a surrogate mother and so I’ve certainly been thinking about babies and births lately. Either way, a big thank you to MindLoveMisery for the wordle prompt that inspired me this morning.

Sunrise

Creative Commons

The bright light of morning crept through the cracks in our curtains,
shattered across your skin in an astonished display
that outlined the deep blue of your nightgown.
It broke a pattern of light and shadow across your face,
and I let my fingers wander to the lacy edge
draped along your thigh.
Morning’s red rose lips kissed the snow white skin,
there, on the soft spot at your wrist.
For a brief moment, before the light slid heavy and thick
up to completely illuminate your sleeping eyes,
I found myself afraid.
Afraid of what the night had left, scattered about my bed.
Afraid of what the light had shown;
and that somehow it would disappear.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

---

This time of year makes me think so much of people who are no longer with me. I remember this woman, from entirely too many years ago. It didn’t last long, but I always wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t been so afraid of commitment back then. She was beautiful…

---

Thank you to Six Sentence Stories and Three Word Wednesday for their prompts this week!

To M.

Of few things am I certain,
but that there is something magical in the Christmas holiday,
and perhaps it is only the sparkling paper
and cinnamon scented kitchen air,
but you, I find, are transformed in these moments
and I see in your smile the boy you were
before you lost enough to turn you into the man you are.

© Laura A. Lord

---

Thank you to the prompt over at Miniature Writing Challenge. You can find this week’s prompt below:

From Miniature Writing Challenge #22

Winter. Rain. Snow. Cold. Christmas…

As the year dwindles to mere days, it brings along these familiar words. This week’s theme is centered around the coldest season of the year, its traits and the celebrations it brings along with it.

 

Overture

Creative Commons

 

I am a wide range of musical tastes.
I am the savage beating drums of a war dance,
the tense build-up of an ancient overture.
I am vengeful in my need for an audience.
I am needy and blaring,
turned up on high volume.

I am a wide range of musical tastes.
All a little sour, all out of tune.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

---

Thank you for the prompts at Uncharted with Six Sentence Stories and the word range, and Three Word Wednesday with the words savage, tense, and vengeful.

In Whispers

Creative Commons: Flickr User, thamimzy, Quiet

I am the powerful voice of the masses
spinning tales from the lectern.

I insist, I’ve something to say here.

I am hanging by one precarious thread,
dangling off Charlotte’s web.

I had the words, until

I became blind by people
the hot coal of their voices
seeped past my ear drums
and burnt the rods and
safety cones that kept me in line

I think I knew what I meant to say.
I had a powerful voice, once.
I had the pen, the words, the wonder.
I had the lecture hall full and then
I stopped and spoke in whispers.

© Laura A. Lord, 2015

---

Thank you to The Sunday Whirl and their wordle prompt.