Blood Clot
Through pink tinted lamp light,
I tilt in the chair,
hair sliding off my shoulders
until my countenance is black
with Japanese heritage
Last night, I woke myself up laughing
Your eyes, ivory with silver shimmer, fell on me
I cradled them until they busted
like a blood clot being bitten
You said “I can see you always.”
“Quit staring.” I moaned in response
“I feel ugly all the time.”
If I let my weight bring me to my knees
and my cheek scrape against the carpet,
I think I will feel pitiful in a sensuous way
Muscle Dust
I tilt against the lace curtain,
pale with exhaustion, half singing,
half moaning
The scarecrow argues
that I am dying and need a friend
to take care of me
Of course, he is just hay and rotten garments
He does not understand I am a muscle that absorbs
negativity and dust and
that I do not care if there is an infection
inside of me, or if I am too quiet to realize
I am alive
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her favorite book is “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice.
