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1 11%
5 56%
3 33%
Voters: 9.
Top two go through.

Sir Thomas the Quiet

I've been watching her forever.

Supple curves and a birthmark on her left thigh.
She's so embarrassed by it. Always puts make up
over it while she's getting ready for the day;
even though no one ever sees that far up
her long long toned legs.

Her current boy is a douche.
I watch him too. Not when he's naked though;
he's not pretty.
He's ugly.
Like scuff marks on a newly cleaned and bleached
tile floor; he sticks out against a beautiful world...
he is sin and hell and evil.

He tells her she's fat and
too stupid to amount to
anything at all.

He hits her.
hits her with his fists.

And I watch. But I can't do anything.
If I did, she'd know I exist.
That's just too risky.


Last week I watched as he broke her.
Bones and soul.
His neck tie,
her remedy

feet kicked; legs stretched forever toward the floor
and she was gorgeous; the beautiful side of death.
Her body a hand carved oak casket,
with intricate designs so wondrous
only God could have crafted them.

I couldn't do anything.
I'm a watcher. I don't cry wolf.

She spun toward the window;
I had my moment with her.
Eye to eye. Heart to heart.
Death to Life.
We loved each other to the end.

a cold roast dinner

we will walk slightly further ahead and behind of each other
until people wonder whether we’re together at all.
i will hate you and you will hate me for that.
one dinner i will say ‘pass the salt’ and you will pause,
pass the salt and then complain at how i always say ‘pass the salt’
and never ‘please’. then, how i never appreciate the effort you make,
how you feel like there’s an ocean between us.
i will stand up, knock over my water and the glass will break.
you will scream, i will ignore you and leave.
i will walk down our street and through the park alone,
looking at leaves on the path
and pushing away tears because everything looks ugly.
everything looks like wasted opportunities,
wasted words, wasted life.
with trembling fingertips i will trace the lines on my face,
chest slowly pulling tighter under wasted skin.
my knees will hit the pavement first,
then my palms, flesh tearing like paper.
my breath will slow, becoming shallower and more desperate.
as my face presses into the concrete,
i will see my high-school graduation;
me sitting in the toilet cupping my face with my hands,
thinking of how to say, ‘i love you -
it doesn’t matter if you don’t love me...just let me love you.’
then i will see myself five years later
pushing through theatre doors,
struggling for air and fumbling for a cigarette,
loathing myself for not being able to move on,
loathing you for being who i have to drive home to.
i will close my eyes and feel the asphalt pressing into my pores,
feel you stroking my cheek on a Wisconsin beach.
blood will pulse through my head
and you will be standing beside our bed
with a hot water bottle and paracetamol
asking me if i need anything else.
everything will go dark slowly, like i’m falling asleep.
i will say, ‘there’s nothing’, and ask you to leave.
i will die alone, nauseous and cold,
knowing that my last breath won’t find your ears
to speak of what i will have just figured out.

I Can Take A Hint

I'd sworn off of cigarettes
after watching the flesh of filthy fingers
tap their way through Fibonacci.
I'd kissed the lips of such an addict,
spat tar and social intellect for days.
I'd fallen in love with a pickett fence smile
only to find that the grass
had been greener on the other side.
I'd descended from a smoke ring
with no choice but to breathe it in.
I'd given nothing other than a new meaning
to the word devotion.
Until finally I shuffled through a deck of cards
and sat there envying the king of hearts.
I bet that he doesn't hurt anymore.