Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
A flower
that shouldn’t exist.
I watch it bloom,
realizing I’ve frightened
away everyone.
The earth yawns,
or maybe only
pretends to yawn,
mouth open wide
to swallow us whole.
Lady in shadows,
full of her own voices,
gave me life
yet plunged me
into darkness.
Now the only place
to have me.
The flower no one
will pick.
The yellow crayon
looked like the sun.
She wanted to take it
inside her body,
color over her fear,
but she pressed too hard
and the crayon broke
into pieces.
She began to cry.
Her best friend rescued
the sunny segments
and tried to press them
back together.
Her tears made him feel
like he did when his mother
yelled at him.
He hated when his mother
yelled at him.
I’m sorry, he said
to the teacher.
I broke the yellow crayon.
* * *
The girl, now grown,
doesn’t want to hear
that he loves her,
tiny and scared,
ugly and evil.
That he remembers
the yellow crayon.
But his is the only voice
she can hear.
Her rage recedes
as a volcano of sorrow
storms from her eyes.
And he holds her.
Just that.
* * *
When the world returns,
it’s spring,
when flowers reach up
and we crawl from the ground
to follow,
far from wellness,
but healing,
able to see the beauty
of the blossoms.
And when we least expect it,
our soul returns.
girl fight
between friends
both strong
who wins
* * *
A strawberry, ready to pop,
but instead of sweetness,
there is putrefaction,
threatening even friends.
For there are no friends
when love is dead,
only fading moments
when love told her
she was beautiful.
Then death –
the great eraser.
If darkness disappears,
she is left with nothing.
Love is dead
and sorrow squeals
its hatred.
A naked throat
is vulnerable
to a blade,
to a bullet.
And if the skin bleeds,
the pain escapes,
leaving behind
an empty shell.
Raise your swords,
if you must.
There is no protection.
Rage fills my heart where love once lived
and fury moves into the room that housed the bullet.
So small the wedge that pierced her heart.
So complete my loss,
that humanity bails
leaving her behind,
still warm,
(so warm)
a gift for the gods
though they don’t deserve her.
Like a demon hound,
I track her killer through the woods.
He’s full of words, but no remorse,
not that it would matter.
I string him up between two trees,
silence the savagery of his voice.
Then I strip him of his skin,
like pa with a summer rabbit.
Nothing survives
when rage moves in.
home at last
arms and feet
lips on lips
legs and sheets
sweat and sighs
tousled hair
no place to be
but here
and here
and
there
* * *
Back to bed
without breakfast.
Hunger lies
not in our bellies,
but lower,
deeper within.
Sweat mingles,
parts tingle.
We disappear
in rusty sheets.
Holding hands,
we rise
late afternoon.
You dress in blue
to match your eyes.
Me, in white,
brand new
now back with you.
A shot.
Your shirt
(last words).
You fall.
She’s back
with a vengeance
wishing misery
on his head,
on his heart,
on his intestines.
She loves him still,
but wants him dead.
She feels a fool
for believing
anything he said.
Over shots of whiskey
with a kindred heart,
she shares her grief.
Naked on a tabletop
they find release
if not relief.
The tryst
is caught
on camera
for old lovers
and others
to see.
The man
who left her
at the altar
is quick to judge,
but who is he?
Who is he?
In a corner
on the floor.
Am I real?
Tell me more.
My mom is here,
but no, she’s gone.
I know she died.
It feels so wrong.
I’m dressed in white,
my arms are tied.
I know the truth.
They say I’ve lied.
That I am not
the chosen one.
No vampires fought.
No battles won.
A life created
in my mind.
I must believe,
they seem so kind.
My friends aren’t real.
My sister’s fake.
Destroy them all
and then I’ll wake.
My mom and dad
will take me home.
But she is dead
and he is gone.
Believe in you,
she says to me,
and as I go
her face I see.
I choose my world,
fake sis and friends.
Full of vamps
to fight again.
And if it’s not reality,
real or not,
I think it’s me.
Waiting for the ceremony on his wedding day, he thinks of what their life might be – comfort and kids and time to play.
They met at a revenge party. She was making some man pay for his indiscretions (she was a demon back then).
Later, when she was forced to give it all up and become human, she saw valor in masculinity for the first time in over a thousand years, because while he was flawed, he was a good man.
He found her quirky and blunt and sometimes overly attached, but he fell in love with her charm and her honesty and the way she felt in his arms.
Despite her powerful past, she was ordinary now, and that matched how he saw himself. So he asked her to join him for a life removed from heroics and hell dimensions – at least as much as any marriage can avoid such pitfalls.
They planned a beautiful wedding, filled with family and friends. Her family had horns and flippers, but were a pleasant enough lot. His were misogynists and drunkards and he remembered how they made him feel less than human.
Just before the ceremony on his wedding day, a man appears with visions of his future – a wife who resents him, children who hate him. He sees his bride grow old and sad as he becomes bitter and mean, drinking more and more, working less and less.
He sees none of the good parts, only how it goes wrong – how he’ll cause her much pain, how she’ll wish she never met him. How her face will reflect a canvas of misery that, on one brutal day, he’ll slam with a frying pan.
His beautiful bride! How can he marry her knowing what a hideous husband he’ll become? So he flees into the rain to wash away his sins, but they stick to him like genetic material, birthed deep inside, as much a part of him as the dark of his hair or his love of cartoons.
When he returns to tell her he’s no good, she comforts him, explaining that his visions weren’t real, but rather payback from one she’d wronged in her demon days, come back to spoil her beautiful day.
But the groom cannot be comforted, believing the only way to save her is to never marry her at all. To leave her now will cause a pain less savage than sixty years of togetherness.
He drops her hand and backs away. He leaves her on her wedding day. Beautiful and bleeding, she strolls the aisle alone, her heart spilling out in tendrils, her beauty stained and torn.
Weary of her own unhappiness, she returns to her vengeance career, bringing misery to men who break women’s hearts – something she was good at and knew would never leave her feeling so alone.
She’d said it so many times before.
It’s over.
But she always came back.
To his door.
To his bed.
Drawn to him
like stake to heart.
The fact that she despised him
only fueled the passion.
The fact that he loved her
only fueled the passion.
He’d memorized the barbs
she used to hurt him.
Sure, they hit home sometimes,
but he’d learned to think of them
as endearments.
It was, after all,
what she had to give.
But when she came today,
soft, in lavender,
and spoke his name.
The name given to the man,
not the monster.
I’m sorry William.
He knew
he’d lost her.
I’m lonely.
So
many
in
my
life
have
disappeared.
I collect trinkets
to keep me company,
stolen from those who ignore me,
presents for those who should care.
Stay up all night with friends.
No one wants to leave.
I wish it were for love of my company,
but it’s secrets
lurking
inside
the walls,
locking all the doors to keep us in.
In the light, we grow hungry.
Day beckons,
but the doors won’t budge.
Trapped we are,
together, battling demons.
If only you could hear my screams.