Malia King

The Repetitive Battle
Her eyes were sprinkled with
Remnants of death
Of the injustices we had seen.
Her hair was ragged,
Like she'd been playing in a pricker bush,
Teased up into a knot.
A boring face
Puckered with scars.
Her fingernails,
Brimming with dirt,
Clawed at her thighs,
Leaving scarlet lines,
And her tongue ran quickly across her lips,
Sliding awkwardly along
The ridges,
Catching at the corners
Where saliva built and evaporated,
I could feel the moisture.
Her teeth clenched,
Aching my jaw,
As I offered an untaken hand,
She approached the steps.
Her bones creaked with anticipation,
And so did mine.
But I,
I was taken by her beauty,
In all of its crudeness.
When I bathed her,
I ground the dirt out,
And her skin became raw,
Tinted as a newborn.
Her eyes turned dewy,
And her hair was ungreased,
But still,
She resisted my touch,
she wanted to remain dead.
No effort or decoy
Would rouse her,
she chose to stay awake
In my mind,
Quietly planning her next vengeance.
She would show her uncomely face
When I was weak.

The Barren Locomotive
He was a train,
Barreling through me
Like a passerby town.

His engine
On full tilt
Smoke rolling out of him,
He billowed.
His mouth was the station,
Spilling grimy words of strangers
At me.

He was particular,
Schedule dense,
No room for track changes,
No room for my unease.

I was either on board
Or off it,
And if off,
I was to leave his
King-sized station.

And his whistle,
It tore me.
It was an order,
Do as I say.

So I did.

When Summer Fades
Sweaty palms
Lose hold of the dandelions,
And bodies drift
Through the blades of a fan,
But the wind holds its breath.
Wrapped up in their own turbulence,
Leaves crunch
Trees clench
For just a few more days,
Stubborn. Frivolity
And the scent of wilting