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Tell Me A Story

A Poet's Journey

New beginnings should always involve an element of the unattainable as inspiration.

Poetry: Welcome
Poetry: Blog2
  • Writer's pictureAngela Stubbs

The Trouble With Trespassing

I like the woman I met. She did not know I'd need everything packaged in familiar paper. I knew destiny had a margin of delusion but found it difficult not to proceed in spite of clumsiness. We have many conversations because I like to talk. I announce I've crumbled and rebuilt the walls that secure the tissue and cosmetics of the body. The woman reveals she's been in a war, too. I can see where she’s been. On the outside, she consists of bricks. Her birth was all stars and water and mortar. A mold that split into pieces where wrinkles normally crease skin and imitate old age. When she looks at you, you realize she did not suffer the sister shadow of time. Silent exchanges occur. This functions as currency.

Over the years, the indelible mark of harsh subjects and predicates altered her heart. She, like you, suffered severe effects of conversations gone awry, but let’s you lean heavy. You know she has opinions but will not share. Even though she knows she's one of the chosen, she won't choose to make choices that involve choosing. She doesn’t need to say it. The last sentence of past dialogue always exemplifies the intimate knots of intricacies imprinted on the psyche.

She was friends with ambiguity. Once I ran into the woman on the street. Confusion cluttered the decision at hand. To speak or not to speak about things unspoken seemed to be quite a dilemma. A twisted path before her, she constricted vessels and heart strings for fear of further damage. She preferred spoons to knives and became watchful for those on her turf. Caution trespassed into the grooves and thickets surrounding her kingdom.

When we meet now, it’s in a tiny space. I tread water in a room, bursting with tears, pressing on her compassionate parts, causing formality to question its question. How could I'm not speaking her speak speak? She speaks me. I process vowels, consonants and predicates. The purpose is filled thrice inside an artificial heart. She makes lovely middles with band- aids and patent leather galoshes so to wade through results.

She can disassemble me in five seconds flat. Like the whip of the tail in her name, the woman remains quick-witted. I wonder If she's mostly pillows and cotton candy but someone has handed me a corrective lens. She now sees my impulse pulsing, always imploding in any given situation. I notice when I leave sleep by the door, discovered experiences tend to run amok. The shift of her eyebrow indicates I should lie down and listen.

A whispering voice makes an escape from the wound in my flesh. In the evenings, she stitches it up with moonlight.


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