Not for Girls

Fridays at the cyber-home of the Hedgewitch are unruly. All right, so that is a bit of a lie. In truth, they are filled with poetry and prose (55 words) ruled by none but the wild muses and wilder wants of the writers birthing them. Since my muse and I adore freedom-kissed tales with words in them, we wrote one.
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“Not for Girls”

“The eyeballs are the windows to the brain,” she said.

Science and conviction weren’t made for girls, I thought. “You’re wrong, dearie, they are the windows to the soul.”

She shrugged. “I went through the eyes, touched the back of his skull, ran into plenty of yuck and bits of brain, sir, but no soul.”

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If I Could

The first 3 lines of the piece below are a magnetic poem bit I posted on social media. After it was described as “sweet” several times, a friend messaged me to ask, “Were you going for ‘sweet’ with that little poem?” I said to him, “I was going for poetry.”

You see, my Wicked Luvs, I love fiction because it lets me build (and experience) complex detailed worlds that can rarely be properly (or safely) touched by nonfiction. Poetry is… different. Poems do wild things with words… caress language in ways that leave flesh and spirit (and parts we didn’t even know we had) gasping. Fiction shows us the path towards a story’s secrets. Poetry shows the heart and guts of a thing, and lets us feel… what we must.

So, that is that. And this is my bit of poetry for today:
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“If I Could”

If I could,
I would write you
a heart—
I would spell it right
out of your chest,
see if it bleeds
or if it just lies
there, pretending
to love,
to hurt,
to know
(to really know)
what it is to be
human.

If I could,
I would write you
a heart

to feel.

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– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, and linked to Poets United.

A Secret Pocket

“Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows.” ~ Pope Paul VI

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I wasn’t crying
because you’re dead—
I know your soul
will always be
blissful. I wept

while stitching a secret
pocket into your shroud
(for tiny whiskey bottles,
dance music, stolen kisses,
a handwritten note…), and I
pricked my finger
with a needle.

The note says nothing
about sleeping or castles,
just… I miss you.

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the wee notes…
The Wickedest of my Luvs asked for a “shroud”. I wrote one. Next week, I might write some “flesh”. We’ll see… since they’ve also asked for “souls” and an “eyeball”.
– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, also linking to Poets United.