K. Aten
katenauthor.com
[ay-ten]
Writing sapphic heroines into existence one story at a time
Words
make it right
don't pull me so close
please, no
I'd rather be against
these ropes
and when I hear you
crying on the phone
feeling so lonely
the guilt shakes me
cowering and unproductive
seemingly hopeless
failing each day for you
so you miss me
those are your words
and you need
so I miss you
all all your imagined
misdeeds
but it wasn't my choice
nor is it my voice
that tucks you in at night
make it right
what am I worth to you
in your arms
please, yes
make it right
branded
there is hissing in my ears
straight from the eden snake
whispering
taunting me
the shiny, red apple
hard and smooth, held tight
coiled within its grasp
nudging my inner EGO
propped up on my shoulder
like a personal anti-cricket
flashing thoughts
like sweet seduction
flitting vague notions
in front of me
tempting me
words like like brands
searing my skin
do it
say it
eat it
fuck it
sometimes I listen
and sometimes I can't
it's a lonely job
judging myself
and thankless
this is the dilemma for the hungry
the painted Mona Lisa
of a lost soul
the conflagrant need
of a poet without a pen
my sigh builds inside me
tripping me
and doubling back on my cowardice
meanwhile, your sweet smile
knocks me down
like a priceless work of art
and the brand on my skin remains
fuck it
insomnolence
sleep, sleep, sleep
let waters take you deep
where angels tread your dreams
where beauty makes you weep
then smiles to bring you home
and wash away the tears
where love steals your heart
carrying you through the years
anticipation: the speed of wanting
I have decided there is a time of now
a time of wanting
the feeling of cold hands
warmed and trembling in your flesh
a fast and heady pleasure
it is a smell
the sweet taste of anticipation
the joy of wanting
and wanting again
in our own time
and we will take it all
every drop of sweat and mewling cry
like liquid beauty in our ears
as life seizes you
I am below catching as you fall
and your soul I will adore
reading the secrets those eyes can hold
for it is in my hands
glistening and poetic
that a casual magic is born
melted and solidified
you come in the heat of fire
and you will leave
only with the press of my lips
against your brow
and your scent
lingering on my skin
no waiting
panting and gasping
my ears are cherry red
frothing as I spit that shit
onto the page
in a fit
of self indulgent rage
superimposed and overly hopeful
as I spin and spin
on my heel
and feel the fragrant
perspiration of success
I go and come back
I re-address
rolling my r's onto their backs
yeah, girls are like that
and I flow
no, not so you'd know
but free and thinking
in the dark and sweet
nectar drinking
I speak in your ear
and whisper hoarsely
my hot breath sears
that's right baby
it's ok
give me a second
I'll give you a minute
til tomorrow becomes
what once was today
with passion not abating
we'll do it all again
no waiting
she is a minor chord
it is most nights
I find her on my mind
slow and sad
she touches me in places…
closed
like the fish cleaning station
in the park
or my heart
and my music reflects her
reveals her
as my well and my salvation
in her voice
I find the notes of melancholy
it is the innocent laugh
as much as the twitch invoking
whimper
that leaves me wanting
and waiting
in vain
and in my head I scream
it should be me
while in my head…
a scream
dies slowly
fading with the last note
I wait the span of three breaths
then play her again
when I recluse
in my drops of seclusion
I ponder life through a lens
love in the balance of a word
my heart is the simple dichotomy
of disappointment and devotion
when I am true
there is no path to stray
and when I am wandering
there simply is no path
I take each day as an adventure
and each new companion…
with a smile
as for my inner beauty
it is found in what I can do
and how I can do it
it is my smile
or my frown
and the way my words
will wrap around your soul
touching you with the intimacy
of a slow caress
Fears of an Author
Distraction is a ghost
flitting through the halls of my head
It is a disease that stymies my creativity
and lowers my self-esteem
How much worth is a collection of words
when one book would steal from its sibling?
And you hang on tenterhooks
Awaiting the next judgement
worrying about each fresh slaughter
of your tender imagination
And every created novel is birthed of love
Each new book written is another baby
born of a first-time mother
Will this one be a genius
or be relegated to the gutter of fiction?
That is the thought keeping me from the keys
those are the words
rolling through my head like tanks
Their treads trundle over my ideas, and they fire
Shooting stories from the sky like pigeons
And obsession, oh! You don't know it
Not until you've refreshed a page hourly
day in an day out with each new work
recording the metrics
The measurement of success and failure
That is why distraction haunts me
And I wonder if my fount of worlds and words
runs dry with each new tale
relegating me to naught but dust
Left to blow away
on the next storm of criticism
KJR
I was not quite four
a long-haired sprite of a girl
too cute to be rebellious
and too precocious
to get away with much for long
and I loved my mama
and I loved my sister
the same way I loved my daddy
before he left
and my sister
so small
as I held her in my arms
like a doll
but brighter somehow
beautiful
dark hair like me
and it felt real
the days that I waited for her
were noisy
and full of play
a child being me
and me
being a child
and when my mama returned
so soon before my birthday
it was like a gift
specially made
just for me
a gift that was not meant to be
present rescinded
against the unworthiness
of the dark-haired girl
that I was
you see
there was a day
in the blustery morning of october
in the early hours of dark
when I would normally be awake
and mama slept
there was a day
when my life was first touched
by loss
when mama's crying
seemed so loud
into the telephone
and my gift lay silent
in mamas arms
her tiny mouth
and little pink gums
wide open
and pale
the white ridges
in the roof or her mouth
did not seem to fit
even to my young eyes
did not seem right
that still thing
was not my sister
yet she was not a doll
she was just...
gone
and what remained
was a hole
and the remembrance
of what could have been
of a life that was swept away
a sweet little girl
passing too soon
what remained
was me
an only child
and the product of a woman
heartbroken by loss
and so embittered by creation
she would never try again
what remained
was a family that never was