Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Dancing At Midnight

I dangle here, lightly.
Spinning these silver threads.
As the wind catches me and spins me slowly,
As if I was dancing at midnight.
I build this structure around me.
One that is soft, sticky and strong.
This home is something that will shelter me from the unknown, the painful.
Hours I spend working,
These legs ache, they become numb like licorice in a child’s fingers.

I push myself harder,
So I have this place around me.
To provide for me, to protect me.
Finally I see the intricate patterns,
It is beautiful as the moon catches it and it sparkles.
It is those things to which are often hidden, overlooked.

I am proud of this foundation.
I worked hard for this place.
I lie upon it and rest my head,
I close my eyes for a minute and take a deep breath.

It is here; the rain comes and washes away these threads.
And all this time I spent preparing.
My efforts seem as if they were for nothing.
I feel the disappointment run across this small frame.
What good was this for?
To work hard for nothing?

It is during this moment of frustration and loss.
I realize I am being tested.
It is here I begin to rebuild this structure around me.
That foundation, that refuge and the future I desire.
I will have this web of sureness.

One Over the 8

I lay here at full volume,
2 a.m. fitting me like a tight, wet dress.
My hair lay in tangles,
It innocuously hides pieces of a velvet areola.
I find that it tickles somewhat,
Yet, this bland touch is firming.

My breath and my tongue have become red wine soused.
I find this matter pleasing and flexible.
My words are loose,
Like the knees of a prostitute.
As this room spins around me,
I become one over the eight content with who I am.

Yet, part of me still wishes you were here,
So this alcohol could help me take you down hard.
Make you bleed,
The way I bleed for you.

As these heels begin to tear the sheets that you do not lay in.
The rain comes down fast,
Spitting cold mist at me through the window screen,
Drops land next to tiny freckles on my left shoulder,
The thunder claps, hard like an angry mother.
I take his chin in my hand, pulling him close to these red wine lips.
Breathing him in,
I know that he will be the one to bleed for me.
Tomorrow.

Drops of Red

I feel the warm droplets of your red,
As you lay before me un- engaged,
Your body slowly decreases.

I saw the signs long ago,
That our chance for triumph was slight.
Yet, still I bleed.
And still, I pray in hopes that your pulses will rise strong again.

Even though resiliency and breath is absent,
My heart can only surrender to itself,
And those who wish to claim it.
For there lie victories all around us,
Waiting to be sung and celebrated.

These deficiencies are great,
And further hinder our ability to cross the river before us.
For the water is too deep,
And the time has carried on leading us to a new kind of thinking.

In our darkest hours we choose to lay awake with only memories,
Instead of pleasures.
For we have lost our maps,
And our voice.

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