The Writings of a Ginger

I awoke to guns and silence
waiting to feel if he’s alright.
Because I’ve got a boy in this war
and I know that I can feel him yell –
when he does it rips the clouds
until it gets to me.
At night I know I fight beside him —
I take bullets until I
wake up dead.
Because I’ve got this boy in a war
and I wonder if he feels me yell –
its reflected in the sun in hot shrieks
and burns his skin with me –
I stroke his face with red fingers.
Because I’ve got a boy in a war
And praying is no guarantee.
I fear the color red
and the way it splatters him –
when I close my eyes I gather
all the pieces of him.
Because I’ve got this boy in this war
and I just want to make him whole.

I see you in the setting sun, 
the last words of sunlight
shouted across the darkening sky,
rumors of purple and yellow
that cry from me to
wherever you are, so that
you may look up -
at my sky,
at my words,
at my whispers in pink -
and hear the yelling
that ruptures my chest,
and feel the beating of my heart
in the palms of your hands,
and know.

and I’ll show you how to flirt
and which boys to ignore
and how to add that dark line on your lids
and I’d brush your hair
and teach you how to braid
and give you bows to stick in your hair
until there’s twenty on top
and you’ll love tutus
and dancing in the living room
and you’ll refuse to cut your hair
and I’d pretend to be mad at you
but secretly love the way you battle bangs
and I’ll make you tea
to get you to open your eyes
and you just need to breathe
so you’ll know I fell in love
with your pale and purple skin

God likes to hide from me,
giggling as I search everywhere
but behind the curtains;
He sits on the couch with His
hands over His eyes, insisting that
I cannot see Him -
He cannot see me. 

Page taken from Macroeconomics 7th edition by N. Gregory Mankiw, page 176

Rain falls like drops of perfume,
filling the air with the scent of lace
and night. It sticks to skin
like humid hugs and kisses.
Refuge is found in satin sheets
and hushed giggles that flood our hearts

until they are no longer hearts
but ponds of cliches and cheap perfume.
Protection rests under shields of sheets
and a quiet of delicate lace,
broken only by the rain’s rough kisses
on our roof and soft murmurs into skin. 

The center of the world is our skin.
We are the slow beating heart
that fills this life with breathless kisses
and pumps bland love full of perfume
and satin and soft lace,
all through veins of satin sheets.

Our thoughts have been threaded into these sheets,
woven with the dreams we breathe on each other’s skin,
edged with the beaded blue lace
we hope will one day clothe our hearts.
Lit by candles of white perfume,
they are more beautiful than impulsive kisses.

Life exists only within kisses.
Moments of importance only those in sheets
and memories triggered by the smell of perfume.
Emotions crash on the shores of our skin
while dreams interpret our hearts
and play us nights of loving lace.

We live tied together by lace,
enwrapped in our whispers and kisses,
pinned down by our hearts,
tangled up in thin sheets.
We do not have separated skin,
our life defined by perfume.

Our skin holds the perfume of each other,
our clothes only lace and sheets and the love
within our hearts, echoed by the rain’s cold kisses. 

I am soft and yielding,
molded by your desires.
Tell me what you wish.
Is this position right?
It hurts my knees but
I won’t say.
It seems to make you happy.
Dominated, I am your field,
you may work me as you wish.
My voice cries, it rips my throat,
as it screams your name;
my heart yells it, too.
Fingers yearn to grab hold
and never let you go,
so that you may remain
forever in me
and I forever happy. 

Even the sun seems different here.
It wakes me every morning,
surprised to find me still here.
I prefer to shrink away from the sun,
hiding in shadows and secured in
blankets that smell like stale cats.
The air pretends to be pretentious,
acting smart and sophisticated
before snorting at poetry and
ugly laughing at the word “duty.”
I see through its act and it knows.
It flees at the sight of me
and I choke on my own disgust.
Food must be imported from places
no one here can find on a map.
Restaurants serve only meat covered in
layers of grease that also coats
plates and tabletops and
ignorant fingertips. 

I ran through hallways last night,
white hallways with red lockers.
My feet smacked linoleum with staccato beats
accompanying the crescendo of screams.
And suddenly you were in front of me,
your eyes full of pitiful sorrow,
the way you always used to look at me
back when you could look at me.
I did not move, no longer running.
Not when I saw your gun.
Not when your words
tore through me like your bullet
piercing skin,
ripping muscles, 
tearing organs.
And I woke from my dream
in the convulsion of nightmares.
But I did not run.
I can never run,
for you are always in front of me. 

i see you in the morning.
You fly on sunbeams to come and
smile me awake. 

i feel You in the leaves that
brush my cheek, carried
by the life of a summer’s breeze. 

i smell You in wintery nights,
a breath of cold kissing my face.
i feel You in sweaters that give
relief to frozen muscles. 

You are the first sip of tea
and the last bite of chocolate. 

i see You in every piece of pollen
hidden in every flower; the
essential element that saves
each one from loneliness. 

You are the one
holding up the sky,
keeping it from crashing
and drowning me. 

You are the one
that closes tired eyes
and breathes sweet dreams
into my life.