Everything I Never Told You

What was? What is? What will be? Confessions of a Reformed Southern Belle-The Unbound Edition


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Hands Over Eyes.

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Abstract art by Yours Unruly

Hands Over Eyes

Stand behind me
Take your hands and
cover my eyes, so
I don’t see all
those doubts that
take flight in me,
so I have nothing new
to fear. No new
heartache to blindside me
Loss always coming
unannounced.

Whisper filthy things
in my ear, so it can
breathe deep your words,
drowning out the
voices in my head
screaming “be cautious”
Imploring me to not
be so reckless with
another one so
intoxicating.

Give me new skin
to touch
so I no longer feel
like a castaway
in dark harbor
full of scabs and scales

Let me feel your warmth,
as hope slips inside me.
Face to face now.
You teach me that
everything opens
with time- eyes. minds,
and even a heart damaged
by love undone.

-Tosha Michelle


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Read Table 41 by Joseph Suglia


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What Type of Man is He?

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What type of man is he?

He’s of the tall and handsome variety
Bright, witty, well schooled in inky places.
He’ll seduce you with the sweet cadence
of his voice, making you think of velvet,
ivory towers, the first sip of hot chocolate,
and the fragrant smells of fall.

He’s the type of man who knows
how to wear his clothes. Fashionable.
fitted to his slender, masculine physique.
He is habit forming to the eyes
Sexy glaucoma. Sparking a fever
with this sentence, which ends
with an ache.

He’s the type of man who will appeal to
your darker places with his Machiavellian
maneuvers. Your upper and lower body
engaged in political debate. One part
rallying for a call to action
(la Marquise De Merteuil)
The other wholly disapproving. A rebellion
stirred in ungodly places. Places that
will beget and begat desire.
Remember even in the Bible
all that begetting and begatting
ended in tragedy.

He’s the type of man who can unbound
the tightest of books. beautifully,
unfairly. He’ll draw the words out
like the sweetest, stickiest of
taffy. The pages anxious to please,
willing to set fire to themselves if
he finds them lacking.

He’s the type of man who’s engaging, entrancing,
so very hard to resist. Touch if you dare.
He’s a stunning disaster. One you can’t
turn away from. The type of man
you will be fatally drawn to. If you touch him,
you both may suffer. Yes, I know. He’s so magnetic,
but he’s a danger zone. One you know, you
shouldn’t enter, one you must not enter,
but if you are anything like me, you just
might anyway.

-Tosha Michelle

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Exquisite Hate

jon_stewart_shrug

Hate can be orgasmic
There’s a certain pleasure
that comes from loathing.
For example, I hate
Jason Derulo’s music
I hate it with an almost
palpable pleasure.
I equate it to the delight one
feels when shot nerves
reach their peak and
everything explodes
Throat, voice, heart.
Climaxing in a scream
that sounds almost as
awful and as sexual
as “Talk Dirty to Me”

There’s bliss in the
release. Freud might suggest
that perhaps Derulo’s music
is just a sign of something
deeper. He might say,
“Think back to your father”
Did I mention I hate Freud?
Electra complex this, creep.

I hate spinach, the ungodly
noise of motorcycles.
the word mucus, fake flowers
Nazis, porcelain dolls,
the scent of jasmine,
Fox News, texting
pumpkin spiced anything.
People who prefer socializing
to reading, the feel of wet hair,
Wimpy, whiny men.
I adore hating them.

Detesting is delightful
It tastes delectable on
my acerbic tongue
I’m addicted to abhorring.
And love loving
so much more for it.

-Tosha Michelle


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Bite and Release

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And it always starts this way
You’ve been on the phone for hours
with an aching head and heart
And he’s screaming at you
And you’re screaming at him
Wishing to God you had never met
And he’s blaming you
And you’re blaming him.
Tallying up a score of who
hates who more

And it always ends like this
Three in the morning and
he’s at your door
Suddenly you’re a parody
of every chick flick ever made
And he’s French kissing away
your crazy
And you’re caressing away
his pride
Bodies fluent in each other’s doctrine
You fall into bed and something
that is easily mistaken for love.

-Tosha Michelle


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The Allure of Lemniscate

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I may never go home again
My new lover likes to
feed me cake
and serves iced
champagne for breakfast.

He clothes me in himself
and says I wear him well

I wonder if he knows
I would go anywhere
with him
Even if we had to live
on pocket change
and the tic tacs
in my purse

At night we lie in bed
and make soulful art
He traces his name
on my body in heavy script
And I paint his concrete
city with graffiti

Afterwards, we lay
heart upon heart
and he beguiles me
with stories
of ancient mariners.
and sanguine times
I marvel at his semantic fusion

In the morning, he wakes me
with soft kisses
before he goes to work
I always link my fingers
with his
as we say goodbye
Two branches entwined

I hesitate to let him go.
Fearful there will come a time
when I wake up and find that
Michelangelo has left the chapel

And I’ll wonder
if I imagined him,
and he imagined me,
until there is nothing
left just paint splattered
dreams, an a anthem
of some place
we’ve never been.

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