They call it breakthrough bleeding –
There’s a leak in our bathroom sink
and I’ve had a fan blowing for two days,
as my aunt’s fancy kitchen towels brine in musty water.
It blows a brisk breeze on my bare calves –
my skirt billowing out around my ankles,
puddled on the floor,
with my berserk little hormones
borrowing into the floor under my feet.
My breasts hang low and drag across
the peel and stick tile
until my bloodshot eyes finally focus
and find the bleak little ray of light –
shining simply because it’s switched on.
They call it breakthrough bleeding
and I know it means I’ve lost you somewhere in this dilapidated bathroom.
You have scattered your cells across the pad floating,
on the floor between my feet.
They call it breakthrough bleeding,
but it’s really a leak
and the floor’s gone soggy,
so one wrong move
and I’m tumbling down with you.
© Laura A. Lord, September 2018
Thank you to MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie for their prompt.
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
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…”