A Pen's G-Spot

These hands, the very fingers that type a post, are those of a ghosts. In all honesty --I should have been dead. Long gone in a coffin is all that my mind would be left for. But, thank every god I'm not. Thank you to the woman in a black Subaru who stopped. These past few weeks I have been cursing my decisions. My body has been simply falling apart under the stresses of school and work. Pain from a dislocated hip one night and then worries of failure another. I seem to understand everything in class but I can't retain enough for tests. I poison myself with anxiety. The year just started but already, I find myself needing to catch up and work harder on top of my 20 hour days. Last year, I could fix everything. I would run a smooth silver blade against my soft lightly tanned skin till the skin popped open just enough to release a stream of red blood cells all running away with liberation. For maybe twenty minutes, everything seemed fine --perfect. It's been over ten months ...

The cars break in fear of never moving, the body curls in fear of never loving, and the words suffocate in fear of never being more.  It's really starting to click with me that my summer of working is over. As much as I found myself complaining about it, I realized I enjoyed it more than school. I was working --living my passion --and learning, through the ups and down of work. Instead, I'm stuck in classes with students who have as much common selfs as I do money. My green machine is a perfect example. The hulk is not only older than me, it's had a crazier life than me by the stains it has. Nonetheless, it's a car for my endless amounts of book and paper, choices of outfits, and wands of independent flexibility. My work purse is buried with heels and skirts for readings but I never find the energy to go. Instead, I find energy to make endless batches of butterscotch candies white and brown sugar alike. After over forty candies and 12 triers, they are still a hit...

On Sunday, my body was seamlessly transported to an island where a lizard juggled not only double digits but also flaming balls. His tale was green and covered in scales but moved just as his facial expressions changed. Battle horses were as nimble as fabric tumbling in a dryer but their high pitch screams radiated louder than the waves hitting the shore. My mind was lost in the beauty of dedication and passion. At the "Amaluna" Cirque de Soleil show, I watched dancers and acrobats from all over the world performing. Truly performing. It was passion when the ballerina had her solo. Her face changed with the music to add emotion, emotion which she was feeling. Every muscle in her foot flexed as she pointed her toes and the nude feet pads made it that much easier to watch. The pirates that invaded the island were toned but they were human. A few had tattoos along their bodies --one of bamboo the other of miscellaneous symbols. All of the performers were human and the island w...

It all started with a rejection letter. After another unsuccessful year for auditioning to Denver School of the Arts, I swore I would never write again. Sure, this time around I made it into the interview but afterwards, I received a standard business envelop with my mailing address. It was light, near empty, but I held it up to make sure it wasn't. Nervously, My nails scratched at the letter and slowly unfolded the white sheet. Dear Anastasia, Thank you for your interest in Denver School of the Art. Unfortunately, we are unable to extend to you an offer of admission at this time. And up the paper went in flames. I took a photo and a lighter to the edge. Gone --words evaporated leaving ashes on a snow-covered roof. For almost four months, the only words I wrote were the ones for school. I felt defeated because I immediately blamed myself --obviously it was my poor skills.  One afternoon at a Starbucks waiting for my annual optometrist appointment, the motion in my hand...

The unmistakable buzz of bumble bees --running and flying half across the world to do their jobs only to day a few days after --can't stop coming out of my ass. With my latest fashion statement --bright yellow pants --and my black bra on underneath, I am a human bumble bee. Running, always running, from appointment to work to new jobs to homes. Every day I have to go to the right house, find a car or way to tutor. then back home, then to clean, then to write. Buzz Buzz Buzz zipping from place to hoping to make it on time. But the one thing we forget, no matter the country, is talk time. The time it takes to get out of the house to a car --that is talk time. When the owner of the house spends an extra few minutes or so chatting about their weekends plans and you have to reply. Or when you run into a friend and you have to inquire how their life is going since seeing them maybe a month ago. "I'll be there is half an hour," really should be "I'll get there wit...

Points in a story are; endings, beginnings, turnings, and anything that really sticks. I've been told I know how to make a point in a story;  I tried writing off the sounds as settling until I felt the eyes.             I should have listened to myself. I should have gone for help. This parting is an ending point of a frame in my chapbook (due the 15th for a contest).  Points in writing for me come easy; I have time to look over every element getting the words just right with no rush of anxiety and heart arch in between. My life is truly the moments that happen when making plans. In reality, points never stick with me.  Beginnings --that hard hitting opening --start quiet awkward. The beginning of my love story started with the dying need for a smoothie two day before our date. I had a lighter in my dress and no bra underneath and our first kiss was his lips on my cheek as something mesmerized me...

At my mother's house, I have now been moved to the upstairs bedroom and the shower there reminds me of a scene from a house in France where the lead actress is surprised by her boyfriend and they go on. But in reality, I'm staying in the study where the separate bathroom has a shower head of fury blasting needles into your skin screaming when you touch it. I have been busy with events so I never had the chance to write, I was learning about the marketing world and meeting people to help me move further in life. But in reality, I went to an Astrologist to look at my stars because I needed reassurance after the latest fall. I've been reading contracts and planning stories but not actually going out. Today is the day I got to a Literary Ladies Lunch-in and honestly I'm nervous. I don't even have my glasses here because of a late night concert and car confusions. I have no idea what to say. Last night, I went to a concert alone --lost my friends --and four gay men bef...