mash's profile

When I packed my bag to leave, I wrapped you in brown parcel paper and string, like my package delivered from Russia. I carefully stowed you between socks and sweaters, crowded you in with unmentionables and my other loves, as a souvenir of time spent away from my life and obligations. I was a passenger then, a traveler in a life dappled with headlights and smoke, a life of obscurity and illusion, a life that wasn’t mine – but me disbursed through yours. Today, as I unpack my suitcase shaped ...

What I want is your heart. You can keep your soul, what would I do with a soul, anyway? Fill it with gawdy trinkets and wasted time. But your heart, plump and sweet, I'd fill with promises, sweet nothings and pain. What I get is sticky sheets, a phone that refuses to ring, a pet wolf that I can't tame, and the joy of knowing I've abstained... from abstinence. Just your heart. But if I can't have that, I'll take what I can get.

Outlaw not for love, but for impropriety - collaboration horizontale. Abundant indiscretions, poorly placed affections, tether you with barbed wire to lovers and wolves. Tarring and feathering as means of escape. Icarus with molten, sticky wings did not soar as high as you. Quills pressing through flesh are not as impeding as self-righteousness, due process and law.

The devil says “Maybe.” I say “Oh, of course. Where are my manners?” We agree to disagree, parting ways at the corner of Detox and Hope. But I don’t have the devil’s sense of direction. I’m on the wrong train faster than you can say “excuse me, Miss, you seem to have forgotten your name tag and your halitosis is offending the other passengers.” Twenty-seven detours later, I’m home. I’m naked in front of the mirror seeing what the devil saw. It ain’t pretty, but then, have you seen that forked...

Compressed. Compacted. You're squeezed tight into a space that wasn't designed to hold you. How's the saying go? Ten pounds of shit in a five-pound sack. How can you breathe? You're not? You're holding your breath. Suffocating of your own accord. You're overflowing. The seams are coming apart – some of your squish is showing. You're waiting for a rescue. Baby, it's gonna take the Jaws of Life to pull you out. Or maybe they'll have to cut down a wall. You'll come rolling out. But who has time ...