Aphrodite’s Disaster

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She burned the box devoted to him,

And scattered the ashes in his car.

Hiss —

Irises flared in heated rage,

As she hugged her knees in the backseat.

~

He broke the window to her bedroom,

And stumbled through on drunken legs.

Thud —

Trembling knees cracked on wooden boards,

As he dropped his head to the mattress.

~

She found their picture in the glovebox,

And clutched the print with bloodless knuckles.

Rip —

Smirk and smile mocked falling tears,

When she tore their faces to pieces.

~

He saw the frame upon the nightstand,

And seized it with a strangled laugh.

— Crash —

Glass shattered, denting white plaster,

When he threw their love across the room.

~

Splintered,

Tattered,

Disfigured,

Destroyed,

She clawed his skin as he crushed her heart,

And Aphrodite sobbed from her throne,

As her masterpiece fell to Hades.

– kh.

March 2017 | Placer County, California

Her Beelzebub

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Her mother sensed the evil

When she found black stains on white sheets.

Torn fabric and charred wicker

Sent infant cries from the cradle.

A string of coos hushed the child,

But unchecked went streaks of red in brown irises.

~

A depraved soul not yet sixteen

Sat atop frozen roof tiles,

As her mother lamented friends

Sent to push her over the edge.

Burning lungs reflected a life turned left,

And a shooting star sprinkled ash on coarse skin.

~

She turned twenty-four in a black alley

With blood on her hands.

Jagged metal pierced skin

Before disappearing into cold flesh.

Her mother’s sobs rang in her memory

When the steaming vent released a cackle.

~

Her death fell behind metal bars,

Fluorescent lights turning pale skin gray.

Red roses turned black

On a shattered gravestone.

Tears dripped from her mother’s cheeks,

For she knew the path below the grave,

~

And Beelzebub welcomed his child to hell

As she clawed her skin raw.

– kh.

© February 2017 | Placer County, California

XXIII. 2 Poor Kids

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He picks her up in a Benz,

But my lover comes by himself and a dozen roses.

He probably stole them.

He’s got a smudge of mud on his eye

Here to make me break into a smile,

‘Cause he drives them mad.

Dollar signs all around us,

We sneak onto the city bus.

Too blinded by what we have

To notice your mean old laughs.

And we’re just two poor kids from a really rich city,

What a pity.

‘Cause we’ve got a love story unlike the rest,

No fancy suit and no fancy dress,

 Just us.

– “2 Poor Kids” by Ruth B.

The Seashell

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Imagine a seashell.

All its life it’s gone unnoticed.

People have stepped over it,

Kicked it aside,

Barely even noticed it’s there.

But then comes along that one soul

Who sees it and realizes its beauty;

Its worth.

They take it home and set it aside.

It’s their little prize.

They show it off, display it, give it attention.

But after a while

They start to forget.

A few months pass

And the seashell has never come down from its shelf.

No one has asked about it,

No one takes any notice of it anymore.

But the collector still holds onto it,

Because maybe there is some worth still hidden,

Maybe it can prove itself still beautiful.

But soon it looses all value in their eyes.

They notice all the cracks,

All the scrapes,

All the flaws,

And it disgusts them.

So they throw it away.

~

You see, darling,

I am the seashell.

And the collector? The admirers?

They are everyone else.

– kh.

© March 2015 | Sacramento, California