Breaking Shoulders

breaking shoulders

Fingers drummed against the edge of the suspicious table. A habitual visitor painted my face crimson. Oh dear. The leather of my suitcase unearthed my skin. A sort of wet substance trickled. Couldn’t really notice. 

What’s in this luggage?

Won’t say, sir. 

May I take a look?

Perhaps not sir, perhaps not.

Why not? 

Because some things are too heavy to look at. My cheeks won’t seem so red. My eyes so blue. The leather so brown. 

Everything’ll seem black and white, sir.

Black and white. 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

wannabe ghosts

Specters

fruits of crossroads

wilt from bruises

deep rivulets

wrinkles carved into her face 

hungrily

smile at the lost muses

nebulous eyes

hunted

haunted by ghosts

virile oaths crumble to lies 

piteous floorboards are waxed

feverishly 

discoloring jeans 

a discolored organ pumps blood 

mechanically 

the door will open

free a flood 

yet

a fire alights 

begins to kindle in her lungs 

reminds her

of all their damned tongues

forgotten Prozac

unearths an amnesiac 

she gets up

discovers the phantoms’ tombs

abandoning her scars, she runs

realizing that there’s much more to a woman

than a lifetime

of sewing the dead’s

loose thread

© Margaux Emmanuel 

scared & scarred

Lying on the couch, scared of dying sane, drowning in spicy leather. Hungry fingers are yellow, but there are no cigarettes to be smoked. The thirsty throat burns, but there is nothing left to drink. To heal. Postponed trials leave bruises, but there are no words to be spoken. Letting the sun descend, afraid of heresy, breathing thoughts to be condemned. 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

whisper

Stolen flowers from the cemetery

answer sorrow’s questions

as the thin plumage of reality wearies.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

the bus

Doleful faces at the bus stop. I was one of them. The clouds were vehemently spitting thick rain, smiting the cobblestones of the streets, and trickling down our wan faces. Drowsy, I closed my eyes and let the cadenced sound of the rain lull me to sleep. Alas, the bus of perdition came. I never dared to get out. 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

sit on a tree, free

Tagging the streets with trembling hands, afraid he’ll break the lace.

Digging in the wind with trembling hands, knowing he’ll capture my pace.

Flirting with bridges with trembling hands, laughing

he’ll remember this face.

My hands stopped trembling 

it’s a chase

I whispered

the agony of the race.

© Margaux Emmanuel