A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.
[Flutter flutter flutter] *sigh* MWAH!
wink (blink) one-eyed smiley ;)
So many ways to send expressions
of emotions. Tangibly flying over signal
streams. It’s a wonder we ever come
uncrossed. But I guess desire
always finds its fort. Write and with
unmuted vibrations: There is more
than one way to touch . . .
Imprinted by Thought[less Fingers]
I am hollow. There is nothing
left inside. I have been gutted.
Helpless. Insignificant. Disregarded.
Disposed. I have no lungs.
I cannot breathe. I have no mind.
I cannot process
thoughts of continuation. I have
no heart. I cannot feel
anything. Not even the empty I accept
is there. I want to blame.
You. But it is my fault. I trusted.
Cared. Loved. Believed
in the serial untruths I was fed
daily. I followed your dots
to a make-shift world. Thin as paper,
it fell at first light. Or was it first sight
of another shinier shell? You left me
wrapperless. Candy in the pennystore.
Tested and tasted. And wasted.
Now I am broken. Pieces
still on the floor and your shoe.
Scrape me off. Sweep me up. Or just leave
me to melt away.
I can breathe here. In the dark forest
behind [the glass of] your mind. I am
clearer in this lightless unbox. Without labels
and strings, I dance. The perfect butterfly:
broken and wingless. Yours. Without any need
for the prick of your pin.
On Pedestals Labeled Home
You worship such strange gods here.
In this room. Here
in this bed. [You have] Short-sheeted
devotion. Its stiffness scars my skin.
Was I not what you intended? To bleed,
purity is required. I passed that inspection
(just barely) and yet you are turning
toward a better sacrifice. I am
already open[ly failing]. What better fantasy
to feed the clouds. Willing is always superior
[to wanting]. At least when there is a hunt
or a hunger to feed.