An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Month: February, 2013


A woman’s chest

with a girl’s heart.


and broken.

Not felt

or loved.

Will either be missed?

Even remembered?

You lied to have them.

Went silent to leave them.

Whose have you stolen since?



Simple letters strung ever gently together forming words which flow sweetly into lines that hold me in place.

Scratches on a page so deep as to reverse the thought itself. Let it never be seen. Not even by your own eyes.

Give you a flower.

For you.

A flower.

Take it.

Do with it what you will.

Drop it to the ground.

Let it fall and slowly brown.

Or rip it apart

petal by petal.

Split the stem.

Discover and destroy every layer

if that is truly what you wish.

The flower is yours.

But if you choose to give it water,

help it live and grow,

show it compassion,

we can share it.

Watch it strive together.

And if it should wither and wilt,

let it go with dignity.

Give it the death it’s life deserved.

And let us part as friends.

Happy in knowing it lived at all.


Grasping at the cloth which hangs limp on your skin threatening to expose you. Your purity, your essence and worth ripped from you as easily as those sheets. Stolen by lustful eyes and wicked hands. Your body is no longer yours. It belongs to those who have conquered it. Soiled it. Marked it with their own flesh. Your body, your self is lost. But not a hint of sadness touches your ruined eyes. They have taken everything, but you must keep your pride.

A dream.

I was a little girl again. With a ribbon in my hair that matched my dress which flowed down towards my socks which were pulled up past my ankles.

I was running away. From or to what I cannot say. I suppose from everything. And to whatever I could find.

When I came upon the inevitable crossroads, I chose “the road less traveled.”  The road marked for sinners and mad people.

At first this hellish road scared me. Water filled the grass like a swamp. Another little girl stood under a tree ripping sticks and throwing them into the murky river. When she looked up at me and smiled her face was dark and twisted; that of the insane.

I was frighted. Should I turn back? Should I have gone down the simpler path?

I walked on and soon the swamp was no longer a swamp but a sprawling rice field. The sun shone brightly overhead and everything felt clean. Open. Fresh. Alive.

I looked across the field and saw a huge elephant standing watching me. Right away, as if I had always known, as if it was what I had been looking for, I thought, “That is life.” The elephant was life.

Next to the elephant stood an old men with a white beard, also watching me from across the field.

I ran as fast as I could through the watery grass but when I finally reached them, the elephant was just a baby and the old man had turned into a little boy.

Without a word, the boy took my hand and we began walking back through the field, the elephant moving alongside us. As we walked, we aged. Getting older and older with each step. The elephant too grew as we did.

The boy began talking to me. About life. About what is important and how to be happy. If only I could remember what he told me. All I remember is watching as the three of us grew old together as we walked hand-in-hand through the fresh water of a rice field.


I was running.  Fists clenched, eyes focused on the expansive darkness ahead. The sweat burned my eyes and a stinging pain attacked my legs but I ran ever onward, looking back only once to note my progress.

I stopped with breathless satisfaction when I could no longer see what was behind me.

There was a sun behind the clouds here. The rain was refreshing.

But night came soon. And I could hear the footsteps making their way back to me. Those terrible, ominous footsteps. They pounded in my head and shook my frame. There was never anything good at the end of their path. I could run again. But they would find me. I closed my eyes as they advanced, letting them take me.

I ran.

I ran.

Because I could not longer fight.

Because it was too strong.

I fled the place

where it was born.

I hid.

Found a new place.

This place would be mine.

No memories, former friends, unfulfilled lovers or

dried blood.

I hid.

Creating new memories.

New friends and

potential lovers.