Pavlovd [Poetry]

You know I’ll be around when your heart starts tearing,
When it gets harder to breathe and you start heaving,
And the room gets darker and hope seems fainter,
When The End is in sight and you can’t be any more eager.

You know I’m there, before I can even say.
The second your heart splits, the second it sways,
In the thick of the blizzard; underneath the snow,
In the heat of the moment; the climax of your woe.

I’ll be around, by instinct more than will,
To see you to that same old trip downhill.
When your heart starts tearing, you know I’ll be around;
Conditioned to come running when I hear that sound.

You call me over to listen to thoughts of calling quits,
What ifs, and regrets, to the beat of your broken heart, moonlit.
I’ll be there, I don’t have to say,
At the first beat of that broken heart, I’ll be on my way.

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 160
Is it weird that I message you at the most complicated times of your life? You’ve yourself to thank.

Was There [Micro-Poetry]

Was there a start without an inevitable end?
When lines reach the edge,
Do they keep going or simply bend?
Why are these letters addressed,
If you had no intention to send?

Was there a go that had no inevitable stop?
Can I surpass gravity – to fall and never drop?
How low can I go
Before I find myself crawling up?
Why would you let the phone ring thrice
If you had no intention to wait for me to pick up?

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 82

Deciphered in Carbon [Poetry]

Through death; post-grim
Her voice still ring.
In still she instilled
A steady growing din.

Unspoken words, uncovered.
They claim:
A secret, her secret:
one’s to be seen.

Rest, she’ll never.
By restless words, she lives.
Unawake till never
The sun set again.

Another piece to the puzzle:
her unknowable mind.
For the brute to dismember;
And the layman to deplete.

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 61
Unseen Sylvia Plath Poems Deciphered in Carbon Paper

plath.jpg

Strangers Lost [Short Story]

You lost? She blinks once. How drunk did you have to be to hear the moon? You deaf too?, the moon asks – but it wasn’t the moon – a boy was sitting on the roof just outside the window. She sticks her head out for a better look. The moonlit boy shrugs and sinks back into his beanbag. Cool place you’ve got here. He scoffs, Ah, she speaks. She crawls onto the roof with him. The boy didn’t seem to mind, she thinks. The side of the house they were on was nowhere near the nauseating yard. Underoath played from a tiny speaker nearby. She winced at the fact that she knew the band, let alone the song. She sits where it wasn’t awkward – where she thought wasn’t awkward. She stared at him, staring at the moon, before staring back herself. Stare too long and you’ll get moon blinked. She saw the boy smirk, or maybe she imagined it. Now, if only your taste in literature was as good as your taste in company. She shrugs.

The moon continued to tell tales to the two still strangers under her light. It spoke as it trekked the sky, but the sun wasn’t far behind. Though La Lune’s tale was far from finished, the book was about to close. The moonlit boy stands to pick up the tiny speaker. Hey, I was listening to that. The boy nods then shrugs. He steps around the girl and slips back into the window. Hello, goodbye.

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 250
The probable sequel, maybe. Read part one?

Strangers Lost [Short Story]

She swirled the soda in her cup and listened to the clink-clink-clinking the ice made against the glass. The music was blaring, but she was deaf to everything. This wasn’t her scene and she shouldn’t have gone before she stepped into the door. Right now, it’s like she had forgotten what it is to have fun. She convinced herself this was better than being locked up in her room – like she has been for weeks now. She looks up from her drink and starts to count the number of unsmiling faces in the room. Her eyes stop at a mirror one, she counts.

She stands and pushes through the crowd of strangers to get somewhere more tolerable. The yard was just as nauseating as the living room; she bolts back inside. She tries to remember whose party this was or who invited her out in the first place – she thinks she’s forgotten, or maybe she had no clue at all. Upstairs, she let her ears enjoy the muted version of the noise blasting from downstairs. She takes her time through the hall of picture-perfect, framed families and muffled, moaning doors, until she comes across one slightly ajar. The cold, night air greeted her as she pushed it open; the flapping curtains let the moonlight dance around in the dark room. She watched the moon peek in and out from behind the folds of the drapes. Before she knew it, she was at the sill, meeting the moon’s call. You lost?

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 250
There’s a probable sequel, maybe.
Read part two?

Self-inflicted [Micro-Poetry]

This isn’t what you need,
And how couldn’t you know?
Because it’s not me you’re mad at,
Look in the mirror, you’ll see;
You don’t know what you want,
And that frustrates you.
I’m not here to see you out,
Just listen to me talk;
Because I’ve tried this before,
Now isn’t any different.
It should come naturally, you think,
But know now it never does.
Everything will never be enough,
Not for the likes of you.
©coversonyourbed

Word count: 77

Counting to Three [Flash Fiction]

He taps his fork fifteen times before picking it up – thrice on each prong, and thrice again on the handle. He stared at his napkin on the table. He was anxious; more than usual, he could feel. He looked at his watch, tapped it thrice and looked at it again. They were late by seven minutes and forty-seven, forty eight, forty nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three seconds. He turns to look at the entrance, the host looks back at him and he looks away.
     “I don’t think it’d be a great idea,” the mother of his child had said earlier that week, “Jenny’s never been to a fancy restaurant before and she might be a handful.”
     “But not a lot of fast food places really get it when I have to tap the thing I want three times before ordering, and it certainly doesn’t help when the menu’s way up on the wall.”
     He’d only seen his daughter a few times and it wasn’t until tonight that he’d been allowed to meet her. Giving her up wasn’t really his idea, but everyone thought it would be best. She’d been told stories of him, he was sure and almost too certain that they were all of his condition.
     He turned to look at his watch again and tapped it three times before looking up at the door. Right at that moment, he saw his daughter come in, her mom in tow. He stood up, then sat back down, then stood up, then sat back down, then stood back up to greet them.
     “Jenny, this is your dad,” Jenny’s mom said when they came up to him.
     Jenny stared at him; fourteen seconds, he counted.
     “Hello,” he said with a smile and a wave. “Hello, hello.” He said straight after.
     Jenny smiled. Her hair band was on crooked, he noticed. A curl of hair had fallen to her forehead. Her frilly, white dress had a stain at the side and her right sock was pulled up higher than the other one.
     She went up to him, in four, swift steps, he counted, and gave him a hug. Three seconds, he counted and wondered if he should let go. Three more seconds he counted and she wasn’t letting go. Three more seconds, he counted, but he didn’t mind.

© coversonyourbed

Word count: 385