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The strangest thing to ever happen in February was Chocolate.  A red-paper wrapped box of chocolates.  The air was telling me some thing suspicions was happening.  The air told me Caroline was lying when she said she left her shoes in the math classroom. But the air told me, play along, there's something sweet.  but my gut told me, don't open the locker, why else would they be pressing so hard, hinting so much.  Don't open the locker, this Pandora's box of chocolate.  

I open the locker and ignore the hear and the box.  Run away said my heart.  Stay, said my friends. This isn't what I asked for.  Bewildered, angered, confused and upset   I don't want to be your valentine, and I don't want your chocolate.

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How I Learned to Hate

I never understood how people got angry. As far back as I can remember, the whole concept eluded me. I never grasped how someone could get so pissed off, that they started to shout, that they turned to violence or malice or hatred. How they tore down something that they themselves had created in a moment of pure rage.

I would stand alone and wonder how everyone else worked, what process they went through to arrive at the point where this was the only answer, lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and thinking that I was different, incapable of feeling such intense emotion, like a robot, a clinical, sterile alien, devoid of sensation. Until I met you. 

You tried your best to prise it out of me. I tried just as hard to hold it back. Every tear you shed was a crowbar into my psyche, a bloodied hand that made to wrench my emotions free, and bit by bit, everything I had grown up with started to fall apart. You told me once that I was distant and aloof. You said talking to me was like trying to talk to someone in another room, but the night I left you, the night you asked me if I had ever loved you, we were fourteen hundred miles apart and I could have been standing right next to you.

The truth is I never loved you. At first I loved what you stood for, soon I loved what you had to offer, but after we had gone our separate ways I realised what I loved about you was what you did to me. You set me free. You cut my heart out with a blunt knife and let me feel pain like I never had before, and it made me so acutely aware that for the first time in my life I could feel hurt, feel hate, feel emotion, and it felt so good.   

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Your house smells like cedar and cigarette smoke and I don’t mind. It’s like going back in time. My aunt’s house was a mixture of this and lollipops from Valentine’s- sickly sweet strawberry/cherry glazes under our noses.

We were met with syrupy gazes when we tried to run away.

We shot snakes with bb’s from the safety of the four-wheeler while mosquitoes bit us (nature’s own blood-sucking vampire) and left the scars of childhood summers prominent on our arms and legs.

Do not scratch, my mother says.
Do not open until Christmas.

Months away we’ll be ok but today is punctuated by young girls who don’t mind where they are walking and step in front of pick-up trucks and fly so high they later dream they survived an airplane crash. Of course, none of this is of consequence.

None of this has anything to do with you or your house until you have something to do with me.

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With the curl of your tongue another piece of me is torn apart, set aside whilst you slide ungloved hands through the tightness of my ribs, in search of my heart. I watch you lick your smirk curved lips, crimson stained finger tips paused in their exploration of my depths to trace the bow of your mouth. I watch your body contort, as if my taste is something parasitic that slides privately within you, brushing your darkest of places with it's agreeable piquancy. Time stops in this void of time - this pivotal moment. And I realize that the whispered renunciation of my control and will as owner of mine and mine alone was written in breath and signed with soul. I cannot snatch it back. I watch abandon writhe against the edges of your ascendancy with every twist of my spine from your sharpened syllables. You slowly bleed me dry of defiance till dust settles on flesh, blowing it away with the exhalation of such skilled execution. Making me anew like stripping white sheets from furnishings once forgotten.   I lay here, you - straddled on this table made of flesh and arches, painted with pigments of blush and making a feast of my submission, served on plates decorated with docility. No utensils, just hands and teeth with which to sate your hunger. Under this thought I shudder which only fuels your appetite and I silently pray, that your starvation for me is eternal.

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The sheer expression of the emptiness is impossible.  An ache so impenetrable as to be consuming.  A cavernous pit seemingly too large to be possible. Yet it is.  It can be felt, though not touched.  Such utter devastation in response to a hurt long expected.

A heart wrung out until every drop is released.  A soul bled dry, no longer able to commune with it’s host. The tremble of the tear just waiting to drop as the pain collects the only way it knows how.  Words spewed onto a page haphazardly and with raw and astounding ferocity.  An internal scream to be heard by none but felt as if it was ricocheting off the walls of the mind, louder with each change of direction.

The strange comfort of giving the pain it’s headway. An unheard emptying of the heart onto a page.  An act begging for relief, for a balm to soothe all that aches.  No end in sight.  Sheer wrenching, impenetrable, desperation

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no nothing, know nothing

“I know you, I know you,” says an empty face. Its fingers wander up bare bones and the air dries to cement in your lungs.

“Maybe you did, stranger. Maybe you will.” Shivers and tingling, singing organs. Home is far away, and it is never pleased.

“Will I find you when I stop looking? Need you when I no longer want you?” It journeys further. Warm hands dare to claim virgin spots and souls, but you will never let it touch your mind. 

You sit up and begin to redress yourself in old skin. “Pluck an answer from my ashes. Whichever you like. The phoenix will never miss it.”

I know you,” it insists, and tries to put you back where you belong.

“I… I don’t remember,” you fumble with words and your other disguises, then turn around and run out into the ocean.

It sighs. ”You should have learned to breathe by now…”

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Bringing about change is like trying to spin the world the other way

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My Astral Space

The forest was endless. Not miles, not swallowed-up horizons. Endless.

Where trees ended, trees began. Trees circled round the torus of the sky above. Trees ran far, but trees only met themselves. They just kept going. Onward. Endless. And I flew just above the branches, close enough to taste pine needles. Just above them, I was just as endless as the trees.

I was too light to fall, but far too heavy to reach the green above. I moved in three dimensions, but the world only followed certain lines. There were only certain planes. My path was limited.

Below, things were dark, heavy, and rich with the scent of falling pine needles. Memories. Fears. Shafts of light pierces through the endless shoots and little spears, just enough to reveal so little.

Above, there was only an endless green. Above was meaningless. Irrelevant. It had no context.

That is, until I saw a tower in the distance.

Then flight became movement. Along became forward. Time turned into distance traveled.

The tower, you see, gave me direction. It gave me more meaning than up and down. More than heavy, scented earth and unimaginable skies. I always had wings, but the tower gave me height.

I rushed along the surface, up and up and up. It wasn't smooth, but marked in a language too fast to comprehend with eyes in motion. They told me that I was racing, that I had speed, velocity, acceleration, but they didn't tell me where I was going. Where I'd been. Even where I was.

And at the top of the tower? There was a woman. A woman with red hair, without a face.

She wasn't a woman; women have faces. She wasn't a woman; women have names.

She was a muse. She was a reason. She was a destination.

Women are none of these. She wasn't a woman.

But I still try to find her, even now. Up and up.

She gives wings wind.


An alucinante Anonymous asked you: Write about a dream you once had.

This really is a meditative dream I've had since high school, when I fell in love with the wrong girl and never quite recovered. I just keeping putting other girl's faces on, hoping she 'fits'.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, review requests, or any feedback.

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I was kayaking on the lake the other evening when I cut a flock of ducks in two. 

It was a beautiful evening. I had managed to step into the kayak without capsizing it or soaking the cuffs of my jeans. The lake was still and the kayak felt steady in the gentle swells. The shining red prow cut the water like a warm knife through butter. I had been working towards the ducks for some time - they were interesting ducks, black with brown heads and a white band around their necks, and adorned with feathery brown crests across their skulls.

While watching them, I paddled overzealously and shot into the center of the flock of ducks. They didn’t divide evenly - only one duck remained to my right, and the rest hurried off to the left. The kayak slid on between the ducks, but I turned to watch them.

The larger group disappeared into the rocks of a nearby island, while the loner remained, quacking plaintively - it reminded me of the way goats will bleat, bleat, bleat when their keeper walks away from the herd, wailing to attract their friend back to the group. Safety in numbers.

The lone duck looked different without his friends. With the other ducks, he had been a piece of a whole. Now he was a nervous individual, staring at me through one shining eye. 

Quack. Quack. Quack.

The sun from the waves glinted into my eyes. 

The rest of the ducks didn’t seem to notice the loner’s absence. They paddled on serenely towards a smaller island far out in the center of the lake, ignoring the steady quacking of the loner, who paddled after them at a hurried clip. The group didn’t need any one individual, but this individual needed the group.

I turned the kayak around as quietly as I could and glided up behind the loner, trying to encourage him to hurry towards his compatriots, but he ignored my boat and continued steadily towards them at his determined pace, brown crest in disarray from the steady, cool evening breeze. 

The flock continued on obliviously towards the smaller island.

When I returned home and stood out on the porch a few minutes later, I could still hear the loner quacking persistently to the other ducks.

Wait up.

I’m still back here.

I’ll be caught up pretty soon.

I promise.

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Service With a Smile

Let me be your bone collector, sir and/or madam.

I'll make you all polished on the inside.

There's no need for compensation, dear, I run this service strictly out of love, more or less.

Not for you, no, naturally, but for the pretty bones you're hiding underneath.

I love the uncomplicated you.

Tell me your best lies; I want to tear them up like wrapping paper, like a paper-thin dress in the very worst of hands. I'll never touch you, but those bones will never stop. No matter how you try.

They're inside you, after all. Don't be ridiculous.

Tell me your worst truths; I want to turn your dirty business bright and wax-smooth on my fingertips. I want to be the soft cloth in your closet. I want to rustle when we're all alone. I want to be the comforting sliver of light shivering in underneath your door. No matter where you hide.

I'm here to hide you, after all. Don't be ridiculous.

There's no need to penetration, dear. I run this service strictly with my hands clean, more or less.

Not for me, no, naturally, but for the pretty bones you're hiding underneath.

I love the uncomplicated you.

Let me be your bone collector, sir and/or madam.

I'll make you all polished on the inside.



An intrusive Anonymous asked you: Skeleton in your closet? Throw me a bone.

I know what you did, but I won't judge you, so long as you don't just me for needing to know. (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, critiques, critique requests, likes, follows, reblogs, and a little place inside your...heart. Yes.