Waiting by the Library One Freezing Morning

The pressed kiss of my buttocks
against the cold concrete is mediated by
the thin cloth of my jeans
This bench is a parasite
Across its placenta of 96% cotton and 4% spandex
it steals every molecule of heat
from my begrudging ass

In games of waiting I am a sore loser
with muscles aching and contorted from
spasms of shivering
teased out by every cold breeze
each of them lovers – must be
to garner such
instantaneous, overwhelming reactions

The wind caresses my face with ice
kisses the tip of my nose with frostbite
attempts other intimate contact
I would like to defer

There is nowhere to run,
only the cold confines
of this damn stone bench
pressed up against my backside
like some
unsolicited dance partner

I cannot wait
for this waiting
to be done.

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A silence grew when he walked into the room. Not a hushed, anticipatory silence but a silence of exclusion. It was a silence that wrapped its silent cloak tighter around its silent mouth and watched him with silent, screaming eyes.

standards of happiness {i}

From depths I could not fathom a voice inside me roared, “I AM ALREADY GOOD ENOUGH.”

And the tiniest of voices replied, “Okay. Now get better.”

The passage of time is marked by the weariness of men’s bones; the young at heart cannot escape the cage of their skeletons.

Are you upset?

Are you upset little friend? Have you been lying awake worrying? Well, don’t worry…I’m here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you.

Charles M. Schulz

Do you ever think about hurting yourself or others?

“I’d say I think about suicide about as often as I think about getting married.”