2:08 a.m. (Freewrite)

It's 2:08 a.m. & I should be dreaming. But sleep is for those who put reality to rest. & I stopped looking for the monster under my bed when I realized he was sleeping next to me this whole time. Forced me to make a home in the tough of these sheets and did the dirty work that sent me like housewife to the laundry in loads of bloody silence.

Tonight I lay in a pile of testosterone-stained, unwashed sheets & beneath my head is a pillow weighed down and flattened with shut-down screams. Like child woken from nightmares and night's scares, I fear the dark. My spirit trapped in this fighting body on this sin-ridden bed.

I moan. Quietly, still, because they say joy only comes in the morning; Never at night. I guess joy cannot find its way to me without sunlight. I weep in silence. Yet this monster, so close, makes his way inside me, and still he cannot hear my tears falling. Cannot hear the tears sliding across my face, and into my ears. He only hears my heartbeat, so he speeds up penetration to compete, drowning out my body's only call for help.

His appetite is satisfied. I cry, & Satan laughs.

Samantha Blake 2011©

Fingertips

Your fingers wear my waist,

Like

Shoes wear lace.

Tightening the grip around my hips

& the dips of my thighs.

Tracing battle scars up my skin

Like

Tracing river trails on a map.

Into the smooth of my back your fingertips dive

I unravel, uncontrollable,

Your grip loosens.

Index, middle, ring and pinky make inviting motions,

Beckoning,

Summoning me, "Come"

I return back to your hold.

And you squeeze into my soul.

Samantha Blake 2011©

Letter to the Last Lover

Dear Ex-Factor,

I will see you and pretend I am not in pain.

You will stare back at me,

Looking,

Eying me down,

Searching for that ex-lover's reassurance,

But instead I will look the other way.

The path I took to walk away from you,

Is the same one I'll use to take the long way to class,

Just so I won't have to be that close to you again.

But when we do cross paths,

There will be a "Hello" coiled in my throat,

Beneath tears suppressed and packed neatly above pain,

Waiting to boil over and flow in tears.

Two tears.

One for each year we loved.

But I will not cry in front of you.

My hello will only be a mere, insincere croak.

Words are hard to form when I'm choking on the pieces of my broken heart.

We refuse to speak, but our silence echoes.

Each time we don't speak,

Our bodies will gossip.

The awkward gestures,

Standing 6 ft. apart from one another.

It will only spread rumors.

Body language loud.

It all suggests our history.

Dates dating back to when we first started dating.

The night of our first kiss,

Battles of jealousy,

And the war of our worlds that tore us apart into separate people

Separate like continents,

Made the distance between us oceans apart

We broke up to defend our hearts...

Yet we're still curious about our desires,

Hungry,

I know you wonder how I'm doing.

But I'm smarter now

My love doesn't come easy

& I know you will never put up a fight for me,

Because you take whatever you can get.

I will watch you attempt to replace me at least 3 times...

So this letter is my final goodbye.

Sincerely,

Your Ex

P.S.- This is the last goodbye letter. I promise. I just hope I send this one.

Samantha Blake 2011©

His Piano Tune

Before his visit, no one played that piano like he did.

He was a church man.

Her parents admired his music.

But no one knows,

Church man kisses her too much.

His lips,

Soggy like her bowl of cereal drowning over childhood's summer cartoons...

Church man tells her he loves her.

Grabs her.

Doesn't wait for her to utter the polite words back.

Instead he keeps whispering...

His love comes with hushed warnings...

Church man pins her body down to her bed.

Hovers over her.

He presses his body against hers.

Her childhood is silenced.

Before his visit, no one played that piano like he did.

Now she is forced to master the piano.

Must play like him.

Forced to play church hymns and sing songs loudly,

As though the notes & words marked on the page mimic joys.

She is forced to make music that lies.

Forced to play music like childhood still exists....

Master black and white keys like mastering the art of secrets.

Like mastering paralysis,

Frozen during and after his instrument makes rhythms.

Back and forth penetrations racing against her drumming staccato heartbeat.

Forced to master his loud, crescendoing piano playing

Like she mastered timidity...

Her voice,

Quiet.

Airy.

Not strong enough.

But perfect for singing sweet songs.

Loud enough so when she speaks, no one listens.

She's not a musician.

Samantha Blake 2011©

Untitled & Unifinished Poem...

461 years since the slave trade began...

Since mother's land was raped,

Jewels traded,

Purity of gold spoiled,

And oil drained

Ivory robbed from the tusks of the mighty

Virginity, whored

Her children,

Diluted,

Watered down from their black beauty

Complexions brown;

Soil-like skin,

Blossoming new races

New faces

New people

Unfamiliar shades in foreign lands....

The children are separated

Belonging to new continents

Adopted in new homes

They no longer claim their brothers & sisters

No longer hear the tribal woes and warnings of the white man

Their tongues cannot sing the lullabies to offspring

Who were promised to be Kings & Queens...

Samantha Blake 2011©