This poem is written about a shell I found in the dirt and the life I imagine it living previously.

I lay in the grass brightly invisible

 I am dirt encrusted and lost 

My once gleaming body now dulled

My ridged edges mark where I have been

 Yet I am smooth inside, calm and at peace,

                                                        because, 

I know that in time I will be home. 

Ageless, yet, ancient

I am far from where I belong

Thankful, though, for my prolonged life

Had I not been taken by,

                                  the, 

Little girl with crimson ribbons in her hair 

And hole in her heart 

I would by now just be sand

Particles of me littering a white crushed shell  beach

Drowning in the oceans salty depths

I am lonely sometimes now, 

                                         since,

She no longer brings me up to her,

Soft pink ear to hear the sound she loves and fears

Waves, lapping, whispered footsteps

I sometimes think of what may have become of, 

                                                                                her,

Had she finally given in?

I hope, when I make it home, I’ll see her again

Feel myself in her warm palm once more

But now, I wait, sleepy, calm, and cold

-Liliana Jimenez

subjectively reality

 This story came off of a prompt, about fictionalizing something that happened in your life to put a new spin on things.


Coffee and cigarettes, my addictions were strong. Her hand found its way into mine. I smiled a joint hanging from my lower lip. There was something about her. I was addicted to her. She kissed my cloud of smoke as I exhaled. The skunky smell filled the small tent and I could feel it, the energy shifting, the ease gliding into me as I took another hit. 

  One could argue we were crazy, but we weren’t, not crazy just out of our minds. I took a sip of her coffee laughing at its sweet taste. Sickly sweet, just like her lips, like her blushing cheeks.  It was summer then and somehow freezing. A cold day, but I felt pleasantly overheated with her by my side. The tent was always scattered with various bottles of alcohol and pharmaceuticals, inviting bad habits to form. But god, was her smile beautiful. 

I motioned for her cigarette. She placed it in my mouth, her fingers on my lips, as I took a deep drag not wanting skin to leave mine. I loved her warmth, skin always so soft and smooth. I wished I could be her, she had tanned skin, chocolate colored wavy hair, deep set blue eyes,and her body a perfect hourglass.

The closest I could get to being her was being with her, and that was quite alright with me. She asked me once, on a day not much different from that day, if I liked girls. The thought was so simple it made me giggle. 

    “I like people, but not many.”  I thought for a long time while she quietly watched me. “It’s not the gender, I guess, It’s the way a person makes me feel, their personality, I like you though.” I held my breath.

   Her eyes brightened “Dirty indecisive bitch”. I remember relief washing over me. “Now I have to be jealous of all genders for you!”.

   We spent nearly everyday together maybe because of the drugs, maybe because of the oblivion that followed them.  I don’t regret it. I miss the feel of her fingers against my lips as smoke filled my lungs. I miss the smell of coffee and gypsy magic.

  I miss the nights where I could grasp onto her soft curves, even the nights I would push them away because it was too damn hot for contact. I miss the way she would lick my neck playfully, because she knew I hated tongues. But shit did I love her for it anyways. 

   She’s gone now, maybe I’ll see her again, maybe I won’t but its because of her I felt that summer, because of her I don’t remember anything but pure ecstasy. Sometimes I wonder was she real?

-Liliana Jimenez

boys

fuck boys. lame. fuck them all. not children or mature guys, boys like immature dickwads. 

Sleeping beauty...

She likes to surround herself in flowers while she sleeps... so precious.

Peach

Short and sweet poem about a peach, the she devil of all fruits. 

Sweat and juicy it's nectar teases me.

Whispering sweet nothings.

The simple beauty, overwhelming as it asks me,

Please be sweet to me?

Instant Poetry

Just some instant poems I came up with during an exercise in lit. People will say an object and an adjective, you get less than one minute to write a poem. Here are a few.


The grey streetlight


Casting fear across the street
Children hide away out of sight
The warmth that once descended, 
now long gone


The golden lunchbox


A golden box, full of what?
Treasure, you would think...
But no just lunch.


A stringy lamp


Pretending to be something more
It is luminous
But when the power goes out,
it is just an old lamp.


Purple elephant sheets


Purple elephant sheets?
He had purple elephant sheets still at age twenty
and now I wonder, Why I ever broke up with him.

Trouble

Trouble. Trouble is what he calls me

While his arms wrap tightly around my waist

  as we lay on the stiff leathered back seat

Trouble is what he calls me

While the harsh winds outside howl

   trying to grab onto our attention

The grass crunches down angrily

  as we ignore its fleeting calls

I call him trouble, and we stay there together

His scarred hands running over the fabric

  so inconveniently placed over my smooth skin

And my own two hands tracing his

   lips as he speaks to me about 

   realism, idealism, racism, sexism, classism

   and all the other ism’s there are in this world

So we can co-nect the dark tunnels

   that lead through the cerebral

Tunnels coated with idea’s 

   individual, media, parental, peer, 

  invalid idea’s

Insecurities littering the cold hard ground

   making it hard to move through

   they stain those tunnels

And he speaks, speaks, speaks

  those stains away 

   it makes me happy

But why is it some days when I think about his

   mouth moving tongue lapping over words

   encrusted in accents that I have yet to call my own

If this makes me happy. Why is it I cringe?

Is it because the sweet taste of 

  the forbidden fruit still poisons you in the end?

Still rips apart your intestines leaving only

   shreds of aching raw flesh behind

   as you groan alone and no one cares

   enough to hear you because its you 

   own damn fault.

And he’s too old and I’m too young 

  and he gets it but I don’t 

  when I understand he doesn’t

But we, 

   are lapping waves gently washing a

   lost body to land caring with
   just enough twisted darkness to do so

I am trouble,

   and he is trouble.

But we are just here, and our eager perceptions of reality cloud their judgments. 

-Liliana Eloida Jimenez