the heart laid bare

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the curse
Under seige
Beyond the blues
Introspect
Balloon
push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

one word

One word and there is a freezing heaviness,
Like sawtoothed icy rocks tucked viciously into pockets in my skin.
Stitched over abruptly with wire,
And covered in ash so that the scars will not fade.
 
I may tattoo over these unquiet marks
And make them mine to show;
Lines and swirls and cartoon characters that disguise me
By decorating the places where I am different.
 
One word and now, I am different.
I cannot seem to tread the measure
In time to your universal step.
I flinch to the music to which you all dance.
This tune in my ears is off-key.
 
One word and the weight of my bones is crushing me.
It seems to me that there are no quiet places left in the world.
I walk through graveyards to hear the whispers
Of the ten thousand lives I forgot that I was never a part of.
Ten thousand lives unsung.
I do not wish to mark ten thousand and one.
 
One word and all your goodbyes don’t fit inside my heart.
Not with this guilt saturating my skin.
Things unsaid;
Words that should not have been -
Were better buried beneath a crossroads than given voice.
I would wash my hands of those conversations
But for the stains upon my tongue.
 
One word and I have so little time to make this right.
Where do I begin? 
 
... with one word?

© mjc 16 May 2015

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.