Smeared Words

Obsidian fingerprints,

clustered in ragged heaps—

a starless night against

flashes of white—

gripping bones until they snap

and crumble in

silence

so deafening

you don’t hear the break

only the soft tattoo of rain

as you beg for

purification,

release—

one more hit and I promise

you will forget

carry on, bare your reflection

red and raw

against the iniquitous blemish

and forget—

you were not yet a woman

but felt the sins of Eve

all the same—

a snake in the garden of

youth,

a dismissal from the hand of

innocence.

I never understood what was so wrong about being different. I still brush my teeth in the morning. I still toss and turn at night in hopes of something more concrete than a few hours of half fluttered eyelids. I still yearn for love in a way that makes my collarbones ache. So what if I stop and gasp and swoon over the way the light filters through the autumn trees on campus? It’s called vision; I just feel bad for the blind.

I should have fought harder,

dug my nails into your wrist

so they could sleep next to your veins,

braided our muscles into intricate patterns,

let my eyes weep without shame

and ruin your favorite, black polo

torn away all my kevlar and

shown you the moist organs underneath,

that infallible heart

which went above and beyond

to animate the parts I allowed you

to see.

I should have opened my mouth,

let my feelings smear in grimy patches

across your face,

used a poet’s diction to woo your

reckless mind

and planted truth

amongst your dying gardens

kept you in the hollow of my throat

and begged—

without consulting my pride—

for more time,

more nights doused in sweat,

more of you

and a chance to prove

that I really could be

beautiful.

For me, you turned your home into

a temple, a shining beacon of

honest compassion,

a refuge where I could nurse wounds

with laughter and fill holes with trust;

you pulled me from the wreckage

of a discarded family into the

remains you held with so much pride.

I waited for raised voices and

bitter retorts, but heard only

the amusements of a sweet child,

the playful barking of welcoming dogs.

I searched the place for anger,

rifled through drawers of forgotten pens

and overturned all the cushions,

but between the crack in every paint flake,

I found only understanding.

I have filled a cargo ship

with all my gratitude and sent it

down the river for you,

to always be reminded that

your presence in this world

is much greater than my arms

can hold.

Not houses standing proudly

in perfect rows, red and gold lights

waving in the dark,

but mounds of unconsecrated earth,

piles of gravel, mountains of sand,

a dirty river reaching around the city

and dead trees heaped together in

a mass of decay.

Not walls papered with

glossy eyed faces, the whispers

of poetry,

but white, and off-white,

unwashed space where there should be

color,

entire sections of naked surface

shrouded in silence.

Not voices singing softly

from beneath closed doors, and the

shriek of out of tune strings,

but the murmur of a television

entertaining an empty room,

the muffled thud of a heavy footstep,

doors creaking on hinges and slamming

down the hall.

Instead of neighbors,

faceless strangers,

instead of home,

a place to sleep.

Moving to a new place, after years of being stuck in the same old, small town, should be…exciting. It shouldn’t be wrought with loneliness and an inability to find a sense of belonging. It shouldn’t be ultimately too quiet, too empty, too alien. Children’s shrieks drift in from the school down the street, but there is no comfort in their laughter. Only the dull ache of nostalgia twisting between my joints. There is no home here; just a hundred or more people living in the same building and no desire to know their names.

I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, for what felt like hours. My back still stung with the unexpected heat of violence, but the screams from two floors below had long since subsided. I decided then, in the aftermath of abuse, that I would no longer be a prisoner. I would no longer let myself silently submit to the daily trauma. She had already taken too much of my heart and too much of my sanity. If I stayed any longer there would be nothing left for her to take. With swift, weightless movements I flew around the room, stuffing necessities into a bag. Not just for myself, but for Lucas, as well. The thought of leaving him to her wrath had never even crossed my mind. I crept down the hall on what I prayed were silent feet and quietly opened the door to his room.

 

Lucas’ eyes were closed, his limbs hugged tightly together and a small pool of light illuminated his expressionless features. Asleep, he was the picture of innocence, untouched by the anger which so often devoured his childhood. At least it wasn’t him tonight—I’d take any amount of beatings in his place. No child deserved to feel the ache of another bruise or the guilt of another secret. I gently roused him awake and pressed one finger to his lips so he would not call out. His eyes focused and lost that childish, dreamy look the minute he saw the bags slung across my shoulder. We had talked about this escape before, but always with the tone of wishful dreamers. He immediately got out of the bed, packed a few more things, and we were back into the battle zone.

 

My heart had never seemed so loud in my ears, practically bouncing off the empty hallway walls. The absence of any family photos, any warm messages, reminded us with each footstep of our reasons for leaving. Lucas held my hand tightly as we tiptoed through the house, every minute expecting to feel the weight of another blow. If we were caught there was no telling what she would do; the sky was the limit when it came to inflicting suffering. Finally the front door swam just before our eyes, but it could have seemed a thousand miles away the moment we heard her voice.

 

“Going somewhere, at this late hour?”

 

Lucas and I froze, turning slowly to face the woman who had never failed to bring despair into our lives. She stood in the shadows of the hallway, with her mouth twisted into an unpleasant sneer. Those eyes, which sat flat and empty in her face, bore the cold determination preceding violence. I felt myself shiver against her penetrating stare, but I was tired of being afraid, and I wanted my life back.

 

“Go now!” I shouted to Lucas, as I pushed him behind me and lunged for one of the heavy, oak chairs we kept in the foyer.

 

I gathered all my anger, all the bruises, all the hate, and hurled the chair toward her. I was in no way capable of lifting a chair that heavy, but something broke inside me that night and I watched it sail through the air. I stayed long enough to assure it caught her in the chest before bolting out of the door after Lucas. He was already waiting in my car, parked a ways down the street, anxiously motioning me forward. In a minute’s time I was wrenching open the door and starting the engine. My foot smashed against the gas pedal and we sped off into the night, away from her.

 

“We’re finally free,” Lucas whispered with a stiff smile.

 

“Yeah kid, we’re free.”

 

A specter’s lips tripping up and down

raised vertebrae, gooseflesh erupting like malice

too long contained, the black blood of longing—

dark bruises on her chin,

and the feet of thousands just kept walking,

walking,

walking.