EMILY WATSON
Poetry
Glass Corsets
I love her,
so I let her scream,
I let her take her anger out on me.
She tears deep, her words her weapon,
Into my flesh and to my soul.
She eats away at my heart, knowing it’s hers.
I let her.
I allow her to destroy me,
let myself be broken into pieces
So I can be rebuilt with her as a part of me.
I stare at her, meeting her gaze.
She raised her weapon,
Her face contorted with anger
When she saw the excitement in my eyes.
I took a step forward,
Trying to convince her
To do what she desires.
I watch her pull the trigger.
The sound rings loud,
I fall to the ground.
I clutch my head,
As her words echo in my ears.
I make a soft sound.
It grows louder.
As the ringing in my ears subsides,
My laughs fill them instead.
She screams, cursing me,
But I don’t mind,
For she had finally brought
My ideal demise —
My heart in two,
As my secrets hang in the air,
My thoughts, my feelings,
Every tearful word
That was just for her,
Now free for the world.
While my vision blurs
Her face falls, the anger draining.
She gives me one last glance,
Before she backs up,
Opening the door.
My sobs die down
As she disappears
into the blur of figures in the street.
The door slams shut,
My love is gone,
Her presence still weighing on me.
The lights shine bright in my eyes,
Reflecting my pathetic tears.
I curse myself,
And my trust in her.
How stupid I was
To think I could be loved.
I wipe my eyes,
And think about her.
Her rosy round cheeks,
Her skin so soft, turning red at my gentle touch,
Her smile so sweet, wide every time I look her way,
Her eyes so bright, full of life and joy,
Her words so cruel.
I stare at the closed door,
I think of her,
As she leaves me in the dark.
Sophie
.
A kind figure formed of words,
Her brightness burning bags in my eyes
Her single picture made of a thousands memories
.
Her kindness curing those blinded by smog
Calming the children with her melodic dance
Using her painted face to hide others' grief.
Changing her faded outfit for others' entertainment.
.
She was trying to take off her mask,
Trapped within ceramic
Forced to bury her desires within.
Her parents puppeted her mind
Her stuffed limbs always needing new stitches
Yet she fixed anyone but her cracked self.
.
Always caring for others, no one handled her with care
Her plush innards rusting over time
No one minded her rotting.
The smell of wet, sweaty copper followed her.
.
She lay on the floor,
The bottle in her hand.
Her dog licked the cheek her father hit and
Her ex-girlfriend kissed before spitting venom.
Her phone was laying on her bed,
The text to her best friend one plea:
“Please don’t be mad at me.”
Golden Hour
The bread pops from the toaster.
The woman’s picks it up,
Placing it on a white china plate.
The man picks it back up,
Minute crumbs fall onto the granite counter
As the knife spreads soft butter across the surface.
Soft laughs fill the quaint apartment kitchen.
Conversation and jokes echo in the small space.
The couple dance around each other.
Delicate sunlight shines through the blinds
Tinting their skin a warm yellow.
Pink bacon sizzles when placed in the non-stick pan.
Translucent grease leaking from the thin strips.
Next to it, egg whites turn a pale brown as they bubble.
The savory smell from the Teflon billows around the room,
Moving through the air in the form of steam.
She stands behind the pan, blue rubber spatula in hand.
She feels his beard hair scratch her bare shoulder
As his arms wrap around her narrow waist.
Her free hand lays on his fair forearm.
His calloused fingertips gently press on her tank top.
She carefully lifts the now shriveled bacon
Setting it onto a soft white paper towel,
The grease soaks into it, giving it a golden hue.
She slides the eggs onto a plate,
Careful not to break the vivid yellow yolks.
Moving away from her,
He opens a cabinet above the sink,
Taking out two glasses from it,
He sets them on the counter.
He fills the glasses with orange juice.
Condensation forms on the outside of the cup.
It makes his fingers damp as he picks them up.
She carries the plates to the table.
He sets down the glasses at each spot.
Two wooden chairs creak as the couple sits,
Basketing in the warm new sunlight,
Enjoying their time together, in peace.
Blood Moon
I
The moon rises over the horizon.
Doors and windows slam shut.
A gas lantern is the only sign of life inside.
II
The hunter gets out of bed,
Grabbing a rusted blade.
When the night begins, the monsters come alive.
Leaving the world of dreams and entering a nightmare,
They roam the streets, their coattails trailing behind.
The saw scratches at the rocks beneath as they drag it along.
III
The beast's clouded eyes fix on the hunter.
Their hot blood its prize
When spilled on the cobblestone path.
Repeatedly the beast swings at the hunter,
Screams and shouts fill the air
A body falls to the ground.
Heavy boots carry a heavy burden,
A high scratching sound following behind,
Leaving behind the monster's limp body.
IV
The girl watches through the curtain,
Waiting for her mother’s return.
But instead comes a hunter, holding her broken brooch.
The woman grumbles as the hunter passes.
New people, from different places, different towns,
Infecting their pure blooded home.
The man stares at the hunter with disdain,
A waste for a body, only being bait,
Bringing more and more monsters to their town.
Inside the chapel, incense burns,
Keeping the monsters at bay.
The chaplain promises safety to whom the hunter sends.
V
The monsters feel like home.
The hunt was too much.
His mind had gone with the sun.
With every kill a piece of him died,
Unfamiliar blood courses through each vein.
He is left with no part of himself.
Once a grand hero, stopping these beasts,
Now branded as a bringer of death.
Bodies pile at his feet, and his sanity disappears.
VI
Met with one of his own,
The hunter stands with his blade.
Two hunters, one here, one gone.
Dreams of providing safety are shatter
As the range of the slaughter grows,
One hunter now the prey
VII
The monsters retreat as the sun returns,
The doors open once again,
Lantern light reaches the now bloodied streets.
People leave their houses with trepidation,
Finding the bodies of those who didn’t make it by sunset.
Those who survived curse the hunters' names.
VIII
The hunter, not a hero but a legend,
Lives on through the forgotten towns history.
A name amongst the beasts.
