I Saw Sparks

Sparks: 1. A small amount or trace of something; 2. a trace of life or vitality


There are moments across the carpets of life when the electricity runs through the body, connecting to the heart, the hand, the fingertips. So quick, so fast, like miniature fireworks that explode before they are released.

Children rubbing sheets together in the dark to see the quick flicks of gold. The moment you look up to someone else's eyes and your heart explodes into sparks across your chest. It must be glorious to live in that brightness. What would the world look like if we saw the sparks? Would words no longer be needed because the fire line says it all?
The city no longer needs lights because the sparks ignite upon the pavement and light the air.

I saw sparks accidentally when I saw you. Fireflies caught in my rib cage lighting the pulses of my heartbeat. I felt sparks at the most ordinary of moments.

Is there a trace of a life past that lingers here now? Is there a secret path that once was loud? Should I hold the fire in my hands waiting for the burn? Should I let the sparks melt my skin like you once did?

There was a trace, was there not? A glow that started in between and grew out. Light the dark windows, light  the night sky. Sparks that live in the lines of our fingertips, across our palms and into the wrists. Was there something I missed, was there something I had that you only saw once?

I saw sparks when you looked at me. Do you feel sparks when I do the same?

I will seek the tiny flames that crawl under my skin and put them in a jar by my bed. And then when the nights are cold, or the beginnings feel old, I will have sparks to hold.

Love Letters

Love letters
written in the eyes across the room
so quiet and intense
you might not know they are there yet
Love letters
hung across the space between two
hushed and incomplete
sparks from these fingertips meet
What if they're opened?
What if they're read?
What if this is dreaming?
What if this is death?
Love letters
reaching from the nearest lips
a tremble down the heart
washed in all the secret wants
Love letters
lifting from the page
words that melt onto skin
burning the heart from within
What if they're opened?
What if they're read?
What if this is dreaming?
What if this is death...?

The demons six

I hate the demons in my head telling me I'm less than I am.

The first one telling me I can't possibly be right - I'm much too self righteous thinking I could ever be better or that I stand out in the crowd and shall be punished for these thoughts 

The second one slyly reminding me of years long past and the taunting and teasing and not good enoughs'.

The third is much louder with pots and pans of "You think you can't; you think you can't; you think you can't!" 

The fourth always seems aloof, rummaging through my head and throwing over boxes and files, flinging paper in the air and giggling with wicked glee.

The fifth is busy in my heart wringing and stringing it all over my rib cage trying to squeeze the last bits of hope, faith and determination out of me. 

The sixth one is the worst one. 

The rhetorical demon, who is at his best with whispers of denial, of disgrace, always a hopeless answer for the questions I make. He sits there with his feet up and an air of importance because he knows he has me hooked. Like a fish on a line, there's nothing but time.

"My dear," he says, "why must you try to ignore what I say? You simply are not good enough. Tsk! Tsk! Look at that face, the heavy eyes, the crowded teeth, the bones that stick out like a scarecrow tree! You simply cannot hope for a light to shine through, you're over! DONE! You must simply make do."


I agree and collapse in the dark; I suppose it's much better here where I am used to the hurt. But I know I'm the enemy I'm trying to run from. And the faces I dread are only in the mirror. But with six little demons in my ears, it's hard to believe you were born with wings on your back.