Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
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.
Out in the light she shines, you know;
for me, the sun’s a killer though.
I watch her face for signs of fire;
when embers burn, I let her go.
Paralyzed, her lungs retire,
leave her with no heart’s desire.
Her eyes, her soul, her thoughts so dark,
no touch, no word, no friend inspire.
From slaughtered dreams they do embark
relinquishing that inner spark
for love has left them in a heap,
not nightingale, but rather lark.
So dance with me, my secrets keep.
Tomorrow, there’s still time to weep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.
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.
Thoughts travel my head
down hateful,
repetitive,
full-of-pain avenues.
The tortured voice
of evil is mine,
attacking:
you are fat,
you are stupid.
you’re so alone.
Despair lies close
to the surface.
How do we
keep from giving in?
Can we learn to live
with our shortcomings
when confusion and regret
are at constant intersection,
crashing,
leaving us injured
and bleeding
at the side of the road?
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.
She came for me
and I came for her.
We were lovers
for awhile,
the dark
and the light.
Awakening
in butterflies and daisies,
she didn’t know where
she’d been.
Who would you be if I weren’t me,
asking why you stole my boyfriend?
I try to send her back
to a world more tolerant,
but her charm
has lost its way.
Pink sweater,
banana,
orange backpack.
A fold in time
and it could be
leather pants,
red lips,
black fingernails.
Returning to the dark,
it overtakes her
and, once again,
she is dust.
Awakening to count sheep
in my pajamas,
unable to replace
bad deeds with good,
I lie to you.
Number three and a handshake,
told in shadows and tones.
Guilt holds me under
‘til my body rises,
pain deep in the center
like a rock.
He takes her
to the hilltop
in chains,
but she won’t listen.
She’s a brick,
all softness gone.
Thin lines,
not always drugs,
prove still addictive
and, having a long time fear of water,
drown me in my own guilt,
calling from the darkness
as I sink below.
expectations
are like handcuffs
with no key
leaving you tied
to your bed in a
compromising position
* * *
I want to grunt
and bury my hands
up to the armpits,
sway my hips
and dance my legs
around you
‘til I’m stained,
past possible
to clean.
Then I’ll come again,
blue and billowy
before you,
push my hair
behind one ear,
you sweet young thing.
So scrubbed
and oh so damaged.
Faded stains,
but never clean.
If we could watch life
ticking away in red
countdown numbers,
would we be content
knowing how many ticks
we have left?
Or would we rue each second,
too visibly aware
of how much is already lost?
Would fear overtake us,
gluing our feet to the very spot
on the floor where we stand
staring,
unable to live our lives,
unable to remove our gaze
from the numbers?
Or,
as they tick down
slowly,
one by one,
are we finally fearless,
having witnessed
the face of time?