My Valentine

Yesterday, I discovered the depths to which it is possible to be hurt by the actions of someone else. Enough, as it turns out, to have made me cry so hard my nose bled. While in time I will allow the circumstances to fade away, the fact that we humans have the capacity to inflict such pain on each other remains. My soggy Kleenex offered up a bit of hope, though. There, among tear stains and splotches of blood, a perfect little red heart.

A reminder, of sorts.

About love, kindness, compassion, tolerance, those sorts of qualities.  I believe in them. With all of my heart.



For Real

He puts his mark on her. Bites, with thorn like fangs, her left breast, directly over the source of all of the love and loss and longing she has known.  Her heart. Where no one will notice, unless of course, she allows them to see the  twin rimmed rings of raised skin.  There is little blood, but it hurts her, and tears well up in her eyes-and the wounds, she realizes, appear similar to the roughly drilled  holes on the cheap bone colored plastic skull bead necklace she found second hand.

Yet isn’t Fate supposed to bestow kisses instead?  Sometimes, maybe. When the stakes are not as high. For her though, first this mark.  This forever reminder, betokening her future as he sees it.

Now, his kiss-a sugar skull fortune that melts on her tongue. Choose to be yourself,  he urges her, his words like glucose. Or deny yourself, and die.