shaunterrywriter

These are my writings. Ideally, these are the most honest expressions of myself that I could give.

Nothing creative about this

My dad’s alive, hiding out, and he may be dying.

How do I feel about this?

I couldn’t tell you.

What’s Between Us

Space People

Here We are:
Space,
filled with Space,
floating in Space,
surrounded by more Space,
with Space between the Space
and more Space outside the Space.

And the Space out There
and the Space in Here,
between You and Me,
and surrounding Everything,
is all the same Space.

“Well, I Prefer It.”

Warning: this is sexually graphic.

Bloody Mouth

She yelled and then pushed, her naked tits hopping in front of me. She asked me why I’d done that, and I simply sat there, the pool of saliva growing inside my mouth. You’ll catch a fly before long, my mother would’ve said. Of course, my mother would’ve said a lot if she’d borne witness to this.

I didn’t have an answer for Charlene – “Charlie,” as I liked to call her – because I’d never even thought about it. What makes someone prefer french toast to pancakes? Blackberries to blue ones? A landing strip over full bush? What makes a person bite your mouth so hard that it bleeds?

It took me a few days to figure it out, and maybe I didn’t figure it out, but I know that I like the metallic taste; I like how it’s not thick or thin in a way that any other liquid is, I like that, in these moments, the line between pleasure and pain isn’t a line at all – in fact, I don’t think that there’s any distinction. I like that, when I taste blood, for a moment, I become concerned with whether it’s my blood or someone else’s. When I taste blood, my brain asks what it is, even though I already know, and even though I’m afraid, I’m satisfied.

But Charlie must think that I’m crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. My mom would probably think I were crazy, if she were still around to take a guess. And why hadn’t I recognized that this isn’t normal? Why had I thought that I could just go for it like that?

By this point, Charlie’s satin-y blue panties are halfway up one thigh, and wrapped around the knee on her other leg. She’s yelling something, but what is it?

She thought that we were friends and not that she were my whore. What the fuck do I say to that?

A Mildly Maddening Imprisonment

coffee in bed

My eyes feel old and pressed-upon,
cracked, dried, and burned,
like old, tan, dusty leather,
rusted-over roses,
bleeding the dried, motionless blood
of a garden in winter.
My eyelids wash them with turpentine,
briefly glazing them
with the vinegar-y residue
of worn, ineffectual tears.

The red rivers in my skin,
filled with magic, medicinal mud,
vibrate,
and the edges on my face softly hum
in alienating and alienated agitation.

If a pillow and a pill
could stop the world still,
I’d dive in headlong
and sleep to any bedsong.

An Early Summer Walk

Field with flowers

I sauntered about an herb garden today,
cradling a mug of Peaceful Pleasure tea.
The name’s corny,
but peace and pleasure I was needing.

I passed unfamiliar plants,
as the early summer sun warmed my sour blood,
and my hair gently blew with the breeze.
I watched bees nosh on oat grass nectar,
their fat little bodies nimbly traversing giant plants,
munching on flowers’ tops.

We hardly see bees anymore.
They’re dying.
But some things are worse than death.

I’ve thought it might be better to quit existing.
Maybe, when the bees have gone,
everyone will feel that it’s worse than death.

It was nice to think and walk in the early summer breeze,
surrounded by the fresh smell of flowers
and listening to the soft hum of bees.

Fire Drills Aren’t Actually Different in China

Did you know that there’s no statute of limitations for rape cases in Kansas? I could pull the trigger any time I want to, but I would never even threaten someone with that because you don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea or you just wouldn’t even think about it. I still have that damning email, but I wouldn’t. I thought of threatening you with it, but that would only make things worse, in the long-run. It might save me in the short-run to threaten with it, but it would hurt both of us too much, so I wouldn’t. Your dad thinks I’m a piece of shit. All your friends do, too, but no one knows about this because I would never. Which isn’t fucking fair, but whatever. Okay, I told one good friend. You should thank her, actually. My hips and stomach hurt; you wouldn’t understand. You never even showed that you cared about how hard it all was for me to deal with. It was great for you, you said. But now, you want your name to come up in every job interview. You wanna take food from my daughter’s mouth, even though I would do what you want. I want to marry you and have as many babies as you’d like. I’m going to therapy now. I’m volunteering at the soup kitchen again. I’m going to meditation groups, and I’m trying to get a third job. I worked so hard to get to where I was before this all happened, and I fucked it up because I got too ambitious and because I took you for granted. I made a mistake, and I didn’t manage things well. That’s my fault. I’m sorry. You were right about everything I was doing, and I didn’t listen because I’m an idiot. I assumed that you’d always be there. You kept talking about Twin Flames, and maybe you’re right, but I could use a friend, and now I can’t even talk to you, when what I really want is to spend 72 hours curled up in a ball with you such that I can’t tell which arm is yours and which is mine. You hairy little shit, with your distracting armpit hairs. I finally got used to them. But why are you doing this? It won’t change anything except to make things harder for me. You’re just making my life a little shorter, and for what? So that you can demonstrate a little control? I’d go to couples counseling with you for the rest of my life, if it meant that when I went to sleep each night, I could rub my hand against your soft, sweet cheeks that I know so well. I want what you want. I want to be who you want me to be, and I just need to keep working at it. Can’t you just be a little patient? Maybe I don’t deserve it, but if you get what you want in the end, isn’t it worth it? Maybe no. I don’t know what you want anymore. I love you, and I intend to be with you if you’ll let me. Maybe now’s not the time, and I could respect that, but fuck. I said something stupid because I was hurt. I shouldn’t have. But you do know me. I get that you’re scared, but you DO know me. Let me start again, and I’ll try to be less of a dumbass this time. Just let me marry you.

When Your World is Incomplete

Good-Will-Hunting-Painting

I was a log on the forest floor,
I was the half-peeled molding around a couple’s bathroom door,
I was a day-old muffin, being picked over by fruit flies in a big, brown coffeeshop.

But you taught me to breathe,
to use all of me as an instrument to feel with,
to softly kiss your beautiful mouth,
and to make sweet love to you.

But it was too much.
I trembled with fear.
What you gave was all I’d ever wanted.
I assumed you’d always be there.
So I blamed you, I crushed you,
I gashed you with blame and dishonesty
because feeling right felt wrong,
and I didn’t see you.

I looked into your big, beautiful blue eyes,
and I felt your tears sliding down my face.
You were so much wiser than I,
and I fought to be comfortable with myself.
I assumed you’d always be there.
Maybe you’d be gone one day,
but I didn’t expect it to be today.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe,
but you know me so intimately well,
and you could show me again.
I’d listen with no fear
because I’d know that what you gave was all I’d ever wanted,
and I know that the scary parts are only scary because someone can take them from you,
if you don’t focus on her.

It’s not fair for me to say it now, but it’s true.
I wish you’d forgive me and let me make it up to you.
I’ll always save a place for you,
and it’ll be all of me.

I still smell your soft skin.
You’re still my best friend.

When We Lost Them

Lonely Man

Floating in dopamine,
reveling in oxytocin,
swimming in the softness of your touch.

A brief moment of relief,
a rare, pure, pleasant instant,
freedom from our fears.

And it’ll never be this good again.
It was never this good before.

My eyes, salty and burning,
my face covered in oil;
I imagine the faces of our babies who will never be.

The Moments Before a Lamp-flame is Lost

Darkness

I feel the warmth of the last fuel in your lamp,
as you try to burn it out.
You’re cutting off the air supply
that blew your flame askew;
a breeze that went bad.

But you glow so beautifully
when the potion’s right.
I’ve blown too hard too many times,
so maybe it’s time to let the flame die.

But I would miss your unique luminescence and warmth,
and that means something to me.
Everything beautiful dies,
but I keep hoping to indulge in a few moments more.
A momentary loss of grace shouldn’t have to last forever.

Everything in the universe eventually finds peace.
What if we could have a peace of our own.

Hallucination No. 1

Hard, charcoal-colored rubber rubbing, scraping off onto I-40,
driving ten miles over at 4:28 in the afternoon,
missing my tiny little baby girl.

Is this the best I can do?
Should I be leaving now,
like this?
Will she forgive me?
Will I forgive myself?

And then, the devil gets into me.

Hell’s hedgehog,
with its spiny, abysmal black skin of poisonous hard latex,
is bouncing along the road on all fours, like a toad,
about 50 yards in front of me.

I feel its danger through soft pricks to my skin,
changing my composition,
elongating each line of hair.
I feel the blood inside me
changing color, matching the poisoned darkness
of the danger outside.
The danger,
from whence it came.

The terrible little creature jumps at the hood of my car
and vanishes,
and I’m left feverishly shoving air through my face,
my skin suddenly reptilian,
and I’m wondering.

And then I think,
Maybe it’s not the devil.
Maybe it’s just me.

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