Make Me

I don’t need fragile smoke whispers
slipping past my eyelashes
and hanging as beads of sweat at the hollow of my neck.
No, darling,
I have forgotten who I am.
I need the molten mocha of your eyes
to burn through the butterflies of doubt.
I need pupils dilated,
heavy breathing,
sounds-like-someone’s-breaking-me
kinda burning.
I need you close as ivy, grasping on the legs of my pale skinned veranda.
I am a foreigner in my own skin
and I don’t need your swaying, sultry song.
I need you to scream my name into the back of my throat.
Make me remember
who I am.
Make me.

© Laura A. Lord, 2018


Thank you to Mindlovemiserysmenagerie for your prompt 🙂

3:30 AM

3:30 AM
and I am awaiting the hallucinogenic memories
that slip into my dreams
like we slid,
slick, hot bodies,
across the yellow vinyl of that ugly couch.

3:32 AM
and you are my gateway drug,
the little pill I pop under my tongue
while the shadow growth on your face
rubs a passionless rash
across my cheek.

3:35 AM
and I am as flat and stiff beneath you
as a carcass under the steady,
sharp beak of a vulture,
I pull away from you,
scalded by your touch.

3:48 AM
and your breathing has deepened
to the steady rhythm of slumber
and I dream of yellow vinyl couches
and the first time you slid,
slick, hot body, and shattered me like an ancient mosaic.

© Laura  A. Lord, 2016


I just finished a book, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve, and without spoiling the story for you, because it is amazing and you should read it, the main character spoke numerous times about passion leaving a relationship as the time past. It inspired this piece, along with the wordle from MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie.

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Photo by Ales Krivec, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

Dancer

 

You are the delicate fuchsia flower –
a tempestuous dancer frozen in the middle
of a lustrous pirouette. I found myself
stargazing in the deep purple of
your petals, as if I were watching
for Orion to slip over the knoll
and appear, there, in the soft skin
of your eyelids, closed in fraudulent
sleep. I traced the sunlight, bright
and thick as yolk, as it draped along
your leg. I passed the stain of your
birth, there, at the back of your knee
and minded the flutter your
lashes made. Your breath stuttered,
in spite of your control and I gave myself
up to your kiss – a slow drip of laudanum
that numbed my lips and set you
to dancing, again.

© Laura A. Lord, 2016


All things considered, I never dated a dancer. I did have a very passionate fling with a gymnast, but it burnt out quickly. Thank you to MindLoveMiserysMenagerie for the wordle prompt that inspired some memories this morning.

Photo by Matthew Wiebe, Unsplash

Design by Book Genesis

1 A.M.

It is 1 a.m.
and you are draped across my body –
the potency of your soap
spreading across my skin.

Sleep is pounding in my skull,
but mutual lust is dripping –
a slow leak
down to my leopard print high heels.

Creative Commons
Creative Commons

Your mouth is pressed against my breast
and I gasp,
head thrown to the side of the bed
and our tiny room is tossed into a prism’s light,

the luminary lighting his small face in the crib
making dark eyes beam hazel
and so I slide out from beneath you.
He is crying and I take him from his bed.

I wrap him in my arms and
sidle down into the bed with him.
He is groping at my breast,
and it is 1 am

and he is draped across my body –
the smell of lavender in his hair
it’s a complete 180
and I’m spinning from woman

to mother
from desire, to nurture
from you to him.
It is 1 a.m.

and I am the light
cut from the prism’s heart.
I am one and all,
wife and mother

in leopard high heels…

© Laura A. Lord 2015


There is something odd, and yet beautiful in being a mother. It seems we always have so many different coats to wear: wife, mother, daughter, friend…Sometimes those coats seem to overlap, we slide from one thing to the other with little thought.

This was written for MindLoveMisery’s prompt.

Over Vegas

wpid-8kmhoik7do5rurgorauxeaibfgh1-rnjcnhbfcmxuvx8gdkx57fh2hdomkyosaxdomhpml077etcep324xqrf2mzeujy2jgrzvszvajxa-wfewh2gfcoqlom9amtcmmcpfpwtFairytales start with “in a land far away”. Fantasy novels are set in worlds manufactured by their authors.
So what is your idea of a fictional world?

In a land far away, Karma has swept me up on her wings,
made me strong and vibrant as sequenced
pasties on pale, pink nipples –
instead of the dying bulb in a neon sign,
flickering over Vegas.

© Laura A. Lord 2015


This was written for the Miniature Writing Challenge #7. You can visit the prompt, here.

Reverent

I am a conspiring she-devil,
the physical embodiment of pious fear.

Make the arch of my back
the alter you worship at.
I am worthy of reverence
and the soft spoken words of generous desire.

I am pillow talk
and fingertips
and lacy edges of a baby blue negligee.

I am a thunderstorm in your belly.

I’m in power
on my knees.

I’m bringing down an entire dynasty.

All encompassing.
Swallowing.

I am worthy of reverence.

Take of my body
and find immortality in this moment.

© Laura A. Lord 2015

Exploration

I was ready for exploration,
a bit of adventure in my
one window life.
Your fingers scrolled along
the relief map of my skin,
toured the pale purple peaks
and staggered down through the amber waves
at the apex of my river valley.

Oh you were my Sacajawea
and I was a bright pink plastic
vibrator with triple set speeds
and a versatile set of rubber rabbit ears.

You brought beauty into the mire of my world
and I stamped it out.
I drew four-lane highways across your domain
and planted my finger like a flag
right on the heart of the subject.

I’d never seen beauty shatter before.

© Laura A. Lord 2015


Written for the prompt over at MindLoveMiserysMenagerie.


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Back ‘Er Up

A few months ago, the husband and I went through a terrible loss. After multiple trips to the doctor and finally getting the green light for some quality time of the midnight-everyone-is-sleeping-we-still-have-to-be-quiet variety, I took the doc’s advice and went out and bought spermicide.

Let me just interject here and say that we are obviously two people who are simply not meant to use any form of contraceptive except implanted birth controls. Truly, our brains are simply not wired for this stuff.

But the doc said no baby making for two months, so we wanted to get in some practice before we catch that next green light. It was sort of like a Christmas present. Insert spermicide.

Literally.

images

I read the instructions and proceeded to remove the applicator and try to fill that thing with the gel stuff. It was like packing my own tampon. I finally called in the reinforcements, which is when we realized that the applicator doesn’t come together in the way it is supposed to be used. You have to take it apart. Switch it around.

After I’d already filled the plunger part halfway with gel.

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Yay. Let’s make a mess.

Finally, between the two of us, we managed to get the thing filled and then I continued with my instruction reading:

It is best to lay on your back, with your knees bent to insert.

Of course I read this out loud. Which is about when I get laughter and this from the husband:

Head down. Arms in. Knees apart.

I mean, as if the romance wasn’t already flowing at this point, now we were collapsed into fits of laughter that made it impossible for me to even attempt to insert this thing. There’s nothing so hot as watching a chick on her back, knees apart, clutching a syringe-looking thing of spermicide while she is laughing uncontrollably, eyes-watering and make-up running.

Hot stuff.

Insert as far as is comfortable.

Gotcha. So I did, let out a loud ouch, and got:

That’s not comfortable. Back ‘er up.

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At this point I was giving serious consideration to slapping him into the moment. I mean, as if this whole thing weren’t stressful hilarious enough, he has to jump in with his little comments. I kept thinking about my mother telling me her horror stories using this stuff. She and my father tried it one time…

By the way, these are the kinds of conversations that put your children in need of therapy. Just saying.

…and my father had some sort of reaction. He supposedly jumped up and ran off with his necessary love-making parts on fire. They obviously didn’t use spermicide again, and we were left with an ungodly amount of fear.

images (1)

Yes. Let’s add liquid fire in here. Not like it’s sensitive or anything. This should be fun.

So, we finally get everything in where it is supposed to be and I read the rest of the instructions.

Product is active immediately after use and for up to one hour.

Crap, we only got an hour! We gotta go! Hurry up! C’mon!   -Me

That’s really romantic.

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I won’t fill you in on the rest of the messy details…except to say that at the end of the this tale, we didn’t get our happily ever after.

We got towels and attempted to wipe clean every surface of our bodies.

It just screams “Sexy”, doesn’t it?

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The Telling

Last, but not least…Here is the reader’s choice from my latest book, The Telling.

Submissive

I like a dominant man in my life. I like someone who is in control. I like to think I’m in control, pretend it, brag about it, lie for it. I like that I know, that he knows, that I know I’m not really in control.

We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.

The perfect line. The perfect pitch. He’s already made the decision, but poses it in such a way that I can make-believe it is mine. I like to take what doesn’t belong to me.

He’s a steamroller in my life and I like to be laid out flat. I like his hands on my chest, pushing me down whenever my back turns to the span of a bridge. His hands on my thighs, forcing me flat, flat, flat. Yes. Yes, I like that.

He makes me crow like a rooster and I want the world to know I’ve seen the sunlight. It’s like daybreak bursting to life inside me and for a split second I’m lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in Times Square. My body becomes a beacon, a calling card, a flash bang grenade and it draws more, more, more. I want a sunrise that keeps coming, up and down like a yo-yo on fire.

I like when everyone can hear my sunrise, my daybreak, my rooster call.

I’m vocal about it.

I’m in charge of it, or so I pretend.

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