Acquiring a Distaste For Those Dishonest Little Pieces of Me.

 

I listened to his arms speak, I scared myself with the beauty of lies, he's not all the dishonesty

you know

that sits across from me on the bed, her legs skinny, bruised and cut, her arms tired from carrying all the weight of my distaste,

and my tongue has memorized loving him, I could do it backwards with my eyes closed and, most of the time,

I do.

He touches me, grazes himself over my breath, places I never knew existed become tangible then, his chest wears my name as I tease anger and curl his hair, possibly to make him a little bit

more like me.

Barefoot, I crush time with my toes, he never kisses them, he never takes care of this blood but the filth has still fallen from his lips and I wonder why they make me smile, why I laugh at all of this destruction and settle myself somewhere deep inside of him when it's too dark to witness tears,

I wonder who I am, but he knows, he always knew,

how

to twist me.

I whisper into his fingertips and press them to my cheek, I tell myself he's honest and destroy my friendships with his devastation, I never notice those

knees

as he raises mine behind his neck and tells me

he loves me

and my toes, they curl, behind his ear trying to involve him in the secrets of pain when there's nothing

but Thursday

laughing at us and the vision of twenty four women standing below me, shaking their heads and letting their hair drop to their feet, tears creating streams, and forgotten reflections...

of lies.

He's impossible and I love him, I adore the feeling of falling, twisting my neck around, behind me and twenty four yards in front of him, he makes me scream, you see, and the world's mosaic that I leave behind with the shattering of my voice

is beautiful

it resembles the pieces of him,

the irresistible words I've stuck in my back pocket, the whispers I rub between my fingers before I touch his face

before tomorrow flashes and I end up studying the smirk of dishonesty while he laughs

at this

frustration

at these

pieces of me.

Reviews

[Mr. Lopez]

There is something very unique about your writing style that makes your poem that much more attractive then most. Whats really nice is the haziness of who is being dishonest to whom. What i decipher is that in a relationship , people spend so much energy being dishonest that they end up both living in a lie. I could be off on this but I felt there was much sadness in this poem . Very very impressive writing.

[An owl on the moon]

Your words, beautiful fragments of thoughts that seem so perfect, move over my mind with vivid pictures of a world so profound. Absolutely marvelous in every way...

Craig

[Leah Simone]

whispering secrets into your fingers before touching him. I found myself wondering how many of the lies were his and how many were yours he never spoke of, but knew. Isn't that the difficulty of loving a man who sees into us and knows the arch of our vertebrae like the arch of a bow they can manipulate while hunting for bigger game. The broken child was a powerful image and I suspect it was metaphorical, perhaps the child was you - before he knew you, but always knew somehow. The knees behind his neck and toes curling by his ears was a very erotic image - a bit like a tango - despising/loving leaning/tugging and ultimately surrendering your love to spill all the broken pieces of yourself and him. This was a very passionate poem with many unopened doors allowing us to peep through the keyhole at the tangled intimate moments we seldom allow even ourselves to see.

[A.J. Smith]

Wow. I just shake my head at how good you are...this is unbelievably good stuff, Jeanmarie. If I had some unlimited wishes granted to me, one of them would be spent on spending an hour or two inside your creative mind, when you are writing like this. I'd love to know how that feels. Until then, I'll just keep savoring your words and the emotions they stir.

[Donald Meikle]

All those dusty corners, pollen covered tables, spider webs caught in the sunlight of your ever insightful musings. Soul searching without rose vision is a brave thing to do.

[Legion]

Such a surreal piece. Like deciphering a dream. I love the hazy feeling I get like choking cigarette smoke in a dimly flourescent lit room. Great write. Going in favorites.