My love is a glass of fine red wine. That settles luxuriously on my tongue, slipping down my throat and warming my entire being. A tingling sensation washing over me.

Happiness, is champagne. Sweet bubbles dancing in my mouth, swirling and jumping. Leaving my cheeks flushed.

Sorrow burns my eyes and stings my lips with it’s sour pulpy juice. Lemon aid, unsweetened with a bitter rind and hidden seeds.

My anger pours forth Black, hot, steaming. Strong and thick, pungent coffee.

A tall cool glass of water, calm and peace, tranquility.

She cut his tight strings

with a pair of scissors -

a clipping sound

of new adventure,

a wandering

of wondrous things,

just over the hill

but far from home.

Pulled on hiking boots

over her restless feet

walked on down the road

no longer carrying her load

free to be me, she said

before I’m stone cold dead,

encased in strangling dread.

No longer tied forever

or poured in cement,

she’s let off the hook

and absolved of rules.

But what’s that rope

blocking her trail,

anchoring her soul

and tying her

to man she just left?

Elastic rope pulls her back,

snapping against her skin,

to the jail she knew

and tried to escape -

a nightmare of strings

choking her will

into final submission.

You can try, and keep it in...

All the girl that you possess.

...Tho, you have so much to 

Give...

Like a weight upon my chest,

All those nights that I denied,

And tried to question your

Good grace...

...I could've just accepted 

Love,

Wearing the honor 

On my face;

Except my Ego 

Came to play...

 I had to prove a tired

Point...

...And guess who lost 

The race that day?...

The stupid Shit who's 

Out of joint, 

And writing to your 

Open mind...

...I hope it's still as open

Now...

You can try and keep it in...

...And with your 

Hard heart

Toss the towel...

...But we'll still be bright,

And kicking

In the tableaus of

My mind...

...Like a polaroid that's

Sticking

In an album 

I won't find...

Yes, I know a fire 

Burns there...

...That's a truth

You can't deny.

©

2017

Bunny Villaire 

Moody blues of the ocean

     murmur its mystery to me

     spumes urging, “follow me”

     sea serenades rhythmic

     breath in its swells

     speaking my language

     silent crabs skittering

     across shell laden sand

Moody blues of the ocean

     fish surfing on bosom of froth

     across seaweed sand

     rush of the tide soothing

     whisper of waves

     tumbling water roars

     commotion of ocean

     foam covering flaws

Moody blues of the ocean

     angry winds, frowning clouds

     pounding on frosted peaks

     fog shrouding anger

     gulls spearing the surge

     weeping of white crystal curls

     crested symphony of sun

     hidden gems spill their words.

Tendrils of space and time

Wrap around my heart

The universe beckons

#haiku #space-time #amwriting

Prologue

Dear Diary,

We've gotta get you a name soon that doesn't sound so cliche. Honestly, if I'm gonna have to address you as "Dear Diary" the whole time I'm writing, we're gonna have to part ways. For one thing, you're definitely not dear to me and, for another, I feel like a cunt writing "Dear Diary" over and over again.

But that's not the point.

The point is, I've gone another day hating myself and I honest to God have no idea what's going to happen to me tomorrow. Dad and I are under a temporary cease fire now that our war has breached Mom's territory; a big no-no, mind you. You see, Mom's becoming a doctor in three months after spending seven years trying to do it. And I just so happened to fuck up majorly, causing her to come home and deal with us early to keep us from metaphorically dropping atom bombs on our lands. Because of that, she's on probation at her internship, meaning that if she leaves early again for any reason, bye-bye Ph.D, hello seven years of wasted time.

So my house is in shambles. It's been in shambles, actually, but now it's worse. It's like that dude who thought his wife was a hat  (Mom had me read that book and it was quite the experience). It ain't gettin' any better, kid. And that sucks because then I feel shitty and then I get destructive thoughts that affect my parents and little brother later. So I don't talk about my issues because my issues are irrelevant to the bigger picture. The bigger picture are those colleges sending me emails and hanging out with friends like, ya know, a normal kid. But I stress a little too much. I have anxiety. I panic at the drop of a hat, but not everyone knows that. So I isolate and I think everyone knows that one.

I'm getting too ahead of myself. Let me start by saying hi. My name's Toni Hurston. I'm turning sixteen next month. I'm a black girl with my entire race on my shoulders. I have two over-achieving parents, one of which most likely hates me. My brother and I are fifteen years apart. I'm best friends with Jesus Christ and a short girl who has a cinnamon roll, dreamboat boyfriend. I have a crush on a guy who lives two counties away and who's probably homosexual. And I'm a writer, but I'm a shitty one.

I'll go more into the details some entries later, Diary-Who-Requires-A-Name.

With Fake Love,

Toni

©SelfTitled, 2017

A

broken bowl

cracked and split

an accident turned art

beloved and shown to all

often the most fractured of bits

emerge as the greater treasure

while a supposed perfection

sets away forgotten

and collecting

dust.