Bell's Musings
My poems and short stories, finished and in progress. Enjoy. Also, if you're interested, I have a fandom blog (mostly Doctor Who) at http://whisperrun.tumblr.com/.
My poems and short stories, finished and in progress. Enjoy. Also, if you're interested, I have a fandom blog (mostly Doctor Who) at http://whisperrun.tumblr.com/.
Poetry is what happens when you go grow up. When your cries no longer reach your parents’ ears in the middle of the night when you wake to find yourself in an unfamiliar place. Or when the dark closes in and the gaping shadows prepare to swallow you, and you suddenly wake up gasping for breath and no one is there to pat your back and say it was all just a dream.
Poetry lives there. When you have to put the band-aid on yourself after an accident. And then take it off later. You grit your teeth and pull it off, along with a layer of your skin, and you hold in the groans even if there’s no one to hear your weakness. When there’s no one left to hold you, rock you to sleep, or tell you everything is going to be okay.There, you’ll find poetry.
Poetry resides in the days that shine too brightly through your windows after a night painting the town. When you throw up until your empty stomach clenches against nothing and your nose burns with acid, but no one held your hair. When you sit by the phone waiting for a text and you can’t even tell your mother you’re in love because you’d have to explain to her how you fell for a woman instead of a man like she raised you.
Poetry flows from that place. When you drop your bags in the elevator and she drops hers to touch your face and give you the kiss you’ve been waiting for. Or when you, sweating and panting, look into the messy little face of the first thing you get to call completely your own. When you can say I did that! Poetry is born there.
to be noticed
to be liked
to like anyone
to be themselves
and to dare to like it
The woman adjusted her stockings, either unashamed or unaware of her proximity to the man in the cramped elevator they shared. Her elbow brushed his hip as she hiked up her skirt, revealing a lovely expanse of thigh. He gulped and lifted his eyes to the buttons beside the doors. Though this made the situation more polite, the highly reflective surface only served to enhance the view by providing access to the whole picture.
Of course she would be blonde. All legs in her pencil skirt and all breasts in her shirt, which still managed to accentuate her curves despite being a modest teal and beige plaid turtleneck. Five floors to go. She applied her nude-colored lipstick using her reflection in the doors, still seemingly oblivious to the man’s gaze. She fluffed her curls and checked the straps of her beige heels. Damn, she was a study in perfectly matched colors, wasn’t she?
Only when the doors pinged open and she stepped onto the floor ahead of him did he remember hiring a well-qualified secretary from a temp agency over the phone- scheduled to start today.
There’s a woman who goes home to her adoring husband and darling son (who happens to possess the perfect combination of his mother’s nose and father’s eyes). They eat together in quiet contentment, smiling closed-lips smiles at each other over their square meal. The little boy reads his picture books before blessing his parents in his prayers each night.
She works in an office where she gets to answer important phone calls and send them to their correct correspondences. She wears her hair in a ball of black silk, tucked neatly into the curve of her neck. Her shoes match her belt match her nails match her heart.
Her female coworkers love her. That is, until she walks out of the room. Their voices whisper like the soft clicks of their nails on their keyboards.The woman knows, but she wouldn’t let it bother her. She has enough friends.
The men in her life, those she doesn’t share a bed with, hate her. They sit, volunteer prisoners to her every story. They wait in tense silence for her to finish, so that they might be there first to offer a witty response. “I made her smile,” they’d say to each other, if that was acceptable to say of a married woman.
There’s a woman who lives a charmed life. People admire her straight, white teeth. They praise her smooth voice, like the good red wine they can’t afford. They clamor over each other to stand in her spotlight. She knows.
One day, she’ll rebel. She’ll toss her state-of-the-art computer out the window. She’ll stomp on her wedding ring hard enough to splinter the silver band. She’ll run until the stilettos of her heels snap. She’ll raise a fist to the sky and scream until her throat burns.
There’s a woman who waits. For what, she is unsure.
They swear they would catch her tears
If ever they saw them fall
Kiss away the gleaming drops
She’ll never give them the chance
She gathers her fragile frame
To dance around all the men
Her glance a coveted gift
To be won at any cost
The ease at which you’ll love her
Might astound you at the first
But soon you’ll fight just as hard
To keep her within your sights
If she stopped moving, the music would cease to exist.
Hips
Wrists
Waist
Shoulders
The rest of her body is liquid smoke.
Curves
Lines
Smooth
Silk
Her dance is water for parched eyes.
