Realness
Fingers moving quickly though there’s no feeling anymore
No emotions drip into me as I watch anymore except disgust snd shame
Awkwardness of being a Peeping Tom, regret of even trying.
Porn lost its zeal years ago when I found true feeling and desire.
Porn used to know where to go, using the map of my body well,
But it must’ve lost its guide since ir just misses completely
Leaving me sweaty and confused and so very numb at the end.
My escape has been tainted, washed away by passion and desire.
I find myself sighing and tensing at the thought of touch,
The imagined feeling of someone laying on top of me,
Warmth pressing against me and reminding me that I’m not alone.
I am loved, someone real loves me and I can feel his pulse and his skin
His sweat is a suave film that sticks to me, marking me.
I’m his, I’m someone’s, someone wanted and chose me.
But I’m no one’s and that leans onto me as I finish,
Running my fingers through sweaty pubic hair and sighing,
Biting my tongue to hold back the hot, regretful tears.
I’m just a lonely hairy college student in a frigid bed who needs a shower.
The Lonely
The torturing hour has become torturous as I lie in bed with my thoughts. There was a time where this time three years ago, there would be something looped around my neck or blood trickling down a canvas of brown. I can't anymore, yet the thoughts straddle me, tempting me with its rotting sent and captivating soulless eyes. I was once soulless like it and now that I've dipped into the River Styx, I can feel hee discouraging me with every bad thought. Yet she knows that the weeks waning into months are slowly driving me insane and that all I can see are my old friends. I take inventory of the blades every night so I know where to run when my soul sleeps in and the urges take over and drag me by my puppet strings back into the abyss.
20 years
I don’t have much experience when it comes to death. My grandfather on my father’s side died before I was born. Funny, isn’t it. He lived through a war, through battles, through heartbreaks, through pain and joy and anger, only to be brought down by his own body.
For my grandfather it was his heart that gave him away. The treachery of his own organ was his inevitable undoing. He had the first attack at 49. Far too young, far too early. But he survived. It was the second one that took him. 69. 20 years later. Long enough to watch my dad grow up, to watch him begin to take shape into the semblence of a human being. My dad was 20 years old when he lost his father.
Sometimes, when I was little, my dad would tell me stories about my grandfather. Stories that made me giggle till my chest ached, stories that made me want to cry, stories that made me long to know this man, this man whose’s blood courses through my veins.
My dad says he would have liked me. Me, my headstrong, stubborn, frustrating self. He says I would have liked him too.
My dad had a heart attack at 53. The betrayal, as it turns out, was not due to the smoking, or high blood pressure, or multitude of unhealthy habits my grandfather had. No. Genetics, their own DNA was the cause. Undone by the essence of their being. But he survived.
And they pump him full of pills and treatments and strategies and appointments. But he is still my dad. But for me, the thing that changed most is what I fear. I fear history. I fear DNA. And I wonder if I will have 20 more years with him.
So, how would I like to die? I think the answer is obvious. I don’t want to. I don’t want my heart to stop beating. I don’t want to lie, cold, silent, unmoving on a metal tray. Blue lips, grey skin, decaying body.
I want to live! I want to see the Northern lights and travel to Greece and climb a mountain and swim the depths of the ocean. I want to live!
Inevitably, I’m going to die. One day. One day I will stop running and singing and jumping and writing. But until then, until my life is taken from me, I’m going to close my fingers tight around every moment of existence. And death be damned, I choose to live.
Con(sense)ual
"But, we aren't having sex..."
Aren't we?
The way your eyes caress me, the way your words undress me
The way our hearts make love in plain sight
The way our souls connect in the night
In the day
The way
You hold me with your thoughts
the way your secret longings and fears penetrate my own
Your attention and compassion kiss me so sweetly
and I melt beneath the touch of your listening ears
The delicious foreplay of a "Good morning" text
And the satisfying climax of "I love you. Good night" on my screen
This is sex like I’ve never seen
Sweet and sour
A beauty so exquisite
Peace and purity
Outlined in sparkling bits of light
Filled with the truest form of love and empathy
Finding Spurts of lust and jealousy
Sprinkled with tainted lies
Accompanied by pain so excruciating
Scattered pieces of a heart once whole dies
Layered with strength and courage
Swirled with hope and dreams
Unlimited knowledge
Topped with faith and belief
Does MY SOUL sound good enough to eat?
Written by Michele Del Russi
His Love
For years you broke her heart, eventually turning the broken pieces to dust
Ripping her apart and destroying her soul, piece by piece
Hiding her from the world,
so no one would ever know
How broken she was inside,
covering up her screams and cries
Slowly manipulating her mind,
to make her believe
That is love...
Written by Michele Del Russi
Insight for Writing
May 27 Quote: Ray Bradbury
“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as a writer.”
Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yoe8pLhfFys&feature=youtu.be
WIKI: Ray Douglas Bradbury (Aug. 22, 1920 – June 5, 2012) was an American author and screenwriter. He worked in a variety of genres, including fantasy, science fiction, horror, and mystery fiction. Predominantly known for writing the iconic dystopian novel “Fahrenheit 451” (1953), and his science-fiction and horror-story collections, “The Martian Chronicles” (1950), “The Illustrated Man” (1951), and “I Sing the Body Electric” (1969), Bradbury was one of the most celebrated 20th- and 21st-century American writers. While most of his best known work is in speculative fiction, he also wrote in other genres, such as the coming-of-age novel “Dandelion Wine” (1957) and the fictionalized memoir “Green Shadows, White Whale” (1992).
Published May 27, 2019
Orange Roses
“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. Red roses are too cliché, he’d say. Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?
I’d smile and kiss him. Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend, I’d reply.
Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese.
It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan.
I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college.
It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours.
Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did not want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction.
And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-”
“Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.”
At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk – he barely fit – and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of He’s right here, officers.
I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk.
“What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.”
He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.”
“You – what?”
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: Campus Drive. It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?”
It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. Cute? Harvey, what? You have a girlfriend.
“I – yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “Why are you staring at me?”
He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.”
Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I – I’m straight.”
He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.”
I considered. It was getting late, and I was hungry. “Sure,” I finally said.
When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.”
He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.”
He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.”
“Oh, I’m Har-”
“Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though – wow. They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?”
I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.”
He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?”
“Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.”
He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart and cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.”
I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re…pretty good-looking yourself.” Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?
He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.”
He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages.
Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name Logan and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?”
I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care.
Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says.
I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer.
His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past.
I hope so too.
I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged.
Tonight, though, it’s beautiful.
I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I could feel in a relationship until Logan.
It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken – preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available – and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus, he’d said.
We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan.
A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before.
“She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face.
I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the I’m envious way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.”
“I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, ‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”
I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-”
I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it.
When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.”
I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.”
He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.”
And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed.
He laughed again and pulled me back in.
I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching Suits episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show.
And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since.
And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride.
I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there.
My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has.
Just a few more steps. Almost there.
“Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little.
Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply.
The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses.
“I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.”
I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set.
I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves.
“Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?”
The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice.
As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against.
I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart and cute and mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.”