Bleeding,
on sheets
so clean
I smell the rain.
Barefoot,
at the picnic
even the serpent
is happy to see me.
Beckoned
by your smile,
flowers spill
across my skirt.
Buoyed
by your memory,
I float
upon the surface.
Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Bleeding,
on sheets
so clean
I smell the rain.
Barefoot,
at the picnic
even the serpent
is happy to see me.
Beckoned
by your smile,
flowers spill
across my skirt.
Buoyed
by your memory,
I float
upon the surface.
Shards of glass dangle.
Walking through memories,
everything fades.
I am your fountain.
Take what you need,
leave the spiders to feed.
The cat’s all alone,
counting miles
before dawn.
Some will be bitten.
Some will be brave.
In the mist, I must exit,
not saying goodbye;
just the slightest
flow of coat behind me.
And though we’ll meet again,
it’s twenty years ‘til then,
and many, oh so many,
snowy evenings.
A vision:
Daddy’s little girl,
barefoot and beautiful;
but damaged on the inside,
burned beyond recognition.
If we are to die,
I want to lie with you,
poisoned and fevered
until we find our way;
bound together in battle,
holding your hand until the end.
I will kill to save you.
You will die to protect me.
As the glass shatters,
the blade penetrates,
deep, like the blood of family,
and we part like sisters,
silent, but sure
to speak again,
at least in anger.
You are chosen
by the sunlight,
your lover
by darkness.
Shadows like spiders
entangle this lover’s box,
creaking open
to spill your fears.
Old and shriveled,
you hide
amidst the twilight.
He, forever lost
to the night,
is always beautiful.
You lower the lid
and, with great sadness,
walk away,
the only true gift
ever received
now left behind.
The literature of her body
tempts him.
Reading by candlelight
he turns the pages,
but holds his love true.
The air grows chilly
with the smell of deceit
and the dark man
has much he won’t reveal.
Betrayal comes
in a small bloody package,
spattering
across his chest,
as the charade begins
with a kiss.
In the crevices between,
she is chained,
she is strong,
recoiling from the horror
of seeing him with someone else.
Still your girl
always,
but altered.
Not real,
but painful.
Not over,
but done.