MythOfHappiness

Spring Columbine (Ballad) First there was the constant itching. Then came the awful squirm. Something shifting under the skin, his palm a writhing worm. So nails dug into flesh like hoes carve furrows into dirt and from the gash flowed vital blood, like rain that floods the earth. He drowns in it, or so it feels when everything goes black. For frightfully, a growing thing comes crawling from the crack. When he awakes

These are all works I edited with my Poetry Studio class. It was great having so many beta readers, and I think the works are better for it. Submitted to the GA 2024 Poetry Anthology!

I can’t chew bubblegum: lungful nostalgia blows bigger until POP! My insides like coca-cola bubbles, sweet on the tip of the same tongue that drew glistening trails over ridges all smooth. Fucking in the kitchen where my mother smoked cigarettes; her ash-tray kisses on wednesday after church let out almost covered up the whiff of brimstone. Sobbing like a bitch in my bedroom sheets sticky with our dried “come over” you’d p

Grappling “Do you think God is mad at us?” his voice so soft I can barely hear it. He’s crying again in the thin blue light filtered through the blanket covered window his tears are fragile sapphire lines. I want so badly to brush them away with my fingertips but I can’t bring myself to disturb whatever sordid deal or truce our bodies have made with time by moving. “If He is, I don't want to know. I don’t want to thin

The Eye I have an eye in my side. It lets me see the future. I try not to use it too much. I’ve found that if I spend all my time in the future I lose perspective on the present. The only time I allow myself Or maybe the only time I’m weak enough Is on first dates. The temptation is too strong But I have one rule - only a year. I allow myself to look one year into the future Any time I see someone new. I follow

Interlude 3, Marcus “Oh fuck…” Chris curses from the driver’s seat. Senna covers her mouth with her hand. The radio just said category three, on the ground, heading straight for downtown. I pull out my phone, dial my mom. “Momma, have you heard? Sirens are going off in town. I’m with Senna and Chris and we are headed your way.” She curses and then says a quick prayer under her breath. “Get home. Now. And don’t you dare hang up on me between now and then.” “I won’t Mom

Chapter 21 The sky breaks, then. Rain crashes down in a sheet like it had all been hanging in the sky waiting for his permission to fall. Maybe it had. My clothes are soaked through and that only seems to improve his hold. I can feel them constricting around me, trying to force my body to move the way he wants me to move. It’s not necessary of course, I couldn’t resist him if I tried (and I did). He’s got his hooks inside me somehow, moving my muscles and bones like they’re his

Angels There’s this discomfort That I’ve been trying to name Find a reason or an explanation It settles in my shoulders Right where they meet Where I would like to grow wings Do you think anyone had to teach the angels how to fly?

Chapter 20 The air around us tastes charged and I smell ozone. My skin tingles with it, the hair on my arms standing on end. It’s a threat as plain as a gun to the back of our heads, but Ryan doesn’t know that. “Buddy, I don’t know who the fuck you are but we’re having a conversation right now so if you don’t mi-” he’s cut off by a crack of thunder, hard and loud and far too close for comfort. Moses, because it can be no one else, turns sharply to my friend and speaks in a voice

I want you to Love me like a Serial killer Drill a hole in my head Make me wish I was dead Taste my flesh Raw and gushing Nails like knives Carving virgin skin Into fresh fillets So blue they Practically sing On your tongue Tell me how The way my eyes go Glassy and my Rigor-stiff Death moan Makes you Cum so sweetly Fuck me like an Open wound Gash wet

I can’t chew bubblegum pop my insides like coca-cola sweet on rubber-tongued dolls fucking in the kitchen where my mother smoked cigarettes smell like ash-tray kisses on wednesday after church let out I’d cry in my bedroom sheets sticky with dried “come over” she slurred snapping pink sugar into the phone calls sound so fake-carved with a razor into my arm wrapped round her waste of space, of time ticks do

Chapter 19 I find Asher and Marcus playing, of all things, Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade. Asher is bad. Like, really bad. His dancing is like his running was when we first met but somehow even more violent and unpredictable. He keeps flinging his hands around for some reason even though it is very much a foot based game. The song ends and Marcus, ever the gentleman, wins with dignity. “Next time, man” he says with only the slightest hint of irony in there. “Right” huffs As

Chapter 18 Asher’s apartment is destroyed. The place looks like a hurricane blew through, literally. What little furniture he had has been either smashed or soaked to the point of being unusable. I stand in the doorway while he gathers a bag of dripping but otherwise intact clothes and a few small, salvageable items. Once he’s done he stands next to me and looks at what is left of his home. “Definitely not getting the security deposit back… you ok?” I gently touch his arm. “Yeah.

I must have just slipped through the cracks somehow 🤷‍♂️. No big deal. Thanks for speaking up for me @AC Benus.

I wonder how it feels to be a shoelace all knotted up or loose, dragging on the ground occasionally stepped on. Grabbed roughly, unknown hands twisting my body into painful shapes so constant they are almost a comfort to be given a purpose even unwillingly what an honor.