She is a collector of things. Shiny things.
Diamond rings. History. Snippets of text.
Books. Gossamer wings. Ancient flowers:
Pressed. Sea glass, shells. Specially shaped
Rocks and curved, bright bottle tops. Her
Mother’s polar rage, which froze her: deflection.
Instilled. Like distilled blindness to truth: Her
Drip-torture accumulation—of Love—this
Process of minimized self-deceits. Moon-shine
Spirits. Sheila is drunk
On her perception of
Her beliefs: she lives selfishly,
For herself, and so are we.
Unwittingly trapping to keep affection: disguised
As jealousy, victimization—of neglect, blind rage:
The shadows of the heart—are brimming
With the spirits of the others.
The shadows affect them
By the heart’s blind, kinetic magnetics.
Sheila is a collector of memories,
Experiences and habits.
Her black love is drunk
By the eyes: telling
The truths of her ways
Like a double shot straight to your heart.
That is part of the beauty of literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.
Knees bend, feet nestle in their fold. Palms cup blushed skin. Lips press white flesh. Six perfect slices. Crisp. Cold. Delicious.
Victoria can make out the strong cool voice of Thomas. She is presently focused into the sharp fierce eyes of Steve: A strong body makes the mind strong. A bead of sweat traces from her temple, dips smoothly along her outer eye socket as it rides her cheekbone swiftly vanishing beneath her chin. As to the species of exercises, I advise the gun. Steve’s eyes pull her body in for a hard furious swim, while this gives moderate exercise to the body, it gives boldness, enterprise and independence to the mind. She can feel Steve’s energy running its way through her poised, warm, limber frame. She can see pathways sparking in all directions from each one of their encounters. His looming (he’s HUGE) presence shading her sun-bleached life and also granting her a sense of freedom and a subliminally wide range of options she’d not felt with anyone before. Though, the soft ongoing gospel of Thomas is constant: Games played with the ball, and others of that nature, are too violent for the body and stamp no character on the mind.
Victoria is humbled by this odd disturbance; another’s distinct infringement upon the body with which she finds herself counterbalancing against each of Steve’s choreographed Hip-hop Anaerobic Mortal Combat blows.
As the class progresses she can see his very presence drawing things from her that she had not been primed to face in a work out. And, as they grow in tune with each other—find themselves less agressively entwined, elsewhere.
Let your gun therefore be your constant companion on your walks. —Fuck you and thank you, Thomas, she internally replies. Face forward, content with the present: actively involved in the attentive mind and body games she is culturing with her workout partner. The persistent voice ringing inside of her is no soft stroll along the river’s bend—cattails writhing in the swiftness of a firefly breeze. Her history is a deep, dark, threatening rift between her and anything, really, as her mind is persistently engaged with the thought-strings of those that came before. She worries. She can see in the looks he shoots her sometimes, that he can read her quite completely. Victoria sees that this could end quite tragically: violent bloody pools of her pulp at his feet flashing silently across her inner-mind screen as the rest of her senses dream.
Victoria chooses hope for an upswing as he carefully brushes her hot sweaty fringe away from the deep, sated, fear which streams from her open eyes—as his summon the nuclear shattering of her most sacrosanct and proper mind: for the ten-thousandth time .