Spoon.

The spoon as bent as the injury that brought her here,
Smoke curling, twisting towards the sky,
Sweet, sweet release, only a push away,
Veins retreating, collapsing, as if before her eyes,
A rubber band pulled tight, a stand off between life and death,
Hypodermic medical device, meets skin,
Euphoria exploding through her wrecked body,
Eyes rolled back, conscience breaking through Heaven’s gates,
An adolescent’s cry, tear streaked cheeks,
Two breaking hearts, one with emotion, one with death,
Muted sounds, blurry vision,
A final plea, a cry for help,
An orphan, a lost soul,
The mother or the child?
The wail of sirens, lights dancing across the walls,
A bent spoon,
A hypodermic medical device,
One broken heart leftover.

-Turner

Him, Her

So, I actually wrote a poem today. I know it’s usually Collin’s thing…but you know! Got to branch out sometimes. Although this one is pretty far out there, if you like things a little more racy. I was inspired by a friends illustrations and wrote this for her and decided to share with you guys. Enjoy.

-Turner

The silk of her skin,
Garter belts,
The heat of her breath,
Lace,
The burn of his beard,
A red tie,
The rough pads of his fingers,
A dark wood desk,
Heated moments,
An auditorium,
Secret memories,
A thick hard cover book,
Taboo desires,
The smell of fresh chalk,
Teacher,
Him,
Student,
Her,
Beautiful Catastrophe.

Scars

My body wasn’t the same anymore, the scars and silver lines providing a constant reminder of the thing that I lost, that I could never get back.
I ran my finger along the largest one, stretching from my navel to pubic bone. Mesmerized by the silky feeling of it. I’m not sure how long I stared at the mark, imagining my life as something different before he entered the room, silently and reserved, as he always was.
“You’re beautiful.” Is all he said. I don’t look up, not wanting to see the look of longing and loss on his face. I see it enough in my own. Instead, I pull down my top, hiding the marks of her life from us both. It’s only a nasty reminder and I’m not even sure why I continued to torture myself. Maybe because I deserved it.
I finally turned toward him, my husband, Ben. His eyes traveled up my body, landing on my own. His dark scuff perfectly sculpted, his even darker hair coiffed on top, dark brown eyes with just a hint of amber in them. He was a beautiful man, he gave me a beautiful child…and I took it away from him. I’m not sure how he can stand to look at me with anything but hate and regret in his eyes. It’s why I shifted my gaze away almost instantly. I knew I was pushing him away, but it was what he needed but hadn’t yet realized. He didn’t deserve a wife who couldn’t bare children, whose body killed innocent souls. I was evil. He was angel.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, playing with the frayed edge of shirt. Much like my life, it too had begun to unravel. The bed dipped beside me as Ben sat down. His hand grasped mine, pulling it away from the wayward strand.
“It’s okay, Hannah.” He said simply, with comfort. I didn’t feel it though, I couldn’t. He didn’t know what he was saying, it would never be okay again. I ripped my hand from his.
“Hannah…please. I’m your husband, I’m here for you but I can feel you pulling away from me.”
I shake my head, letting my blonde hair fall over my eyes, sheilding myself from him. “It’s not okay, it will never be okay…I’m..broken, useless.” I finally admitted.
His calloused finger gently pushed aside a lock of hair, relocating it behind my ear. “Never.” He whispered against my cheek, his warm breath ghosting across my face. His lips gently ran back and forth over my heated skin. A warm hand engulfed the other side, pulling me toward him. I tried to close my eyes, avoid the connection, but he didn’t allow it. “You are the most beautiful, couragous woman I have ever met. I don’t want to hear you ever speak about yourself that way again, Hannah.”
I scoffed, not wanting to believe anything he was saying. After what I did…what my body did, I could never believe that. “What about Julie, Ben? I killed her. I killed our daughter.” I spit at him, he flinches but his eyes don’t waver, I wish they would. I wish he would give me just a little bit of vulnerability I could feed off, so I could save him…

To be continued.

Turner

To everyone out there.

Sometimes…no, almost always, writing is my therapy. I needed a session today and I’ve decided to share it with everyone. I hope this helps someone else out there too.

-Turner

I’ve always tried to believe that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. That it came from within. That we should be looking at personality, not looks.
All the cliches, all the words of encouragement given to you by people who didn’t understand what it was like to look in the mirror and see a monster. To feel like someone, but have the reflection of someone else. A person who is unwanted, unattractive. Lumpy, large, freckled, pock marked…whatever it may be that you see. That I see.
Now, some may try to put the blame on society and the media for putting people, especially women, under a certain scrutiny. We are forced to play with Barbies with disproportionate bodies. We watch music videos and shows with young women with skinny bodies, perfect skin and long, glossy hair. Advertisers tell us how easy it is to become active, get a gym membership. Take these diet pills. Follow this. Do that. All the while raking in the cash of women who believe that what they are being told is true. That if we do this, we will feel better about ourselves. I do believe this has a very large adverse affect on our thinking, but it’s not all. Because it’s not always about our environment…
It is about us. Our sense of being, knowing who we are, what we look like and feeling less than enough. We are in constant competition with ourselves, we want to be better, do better. But our best never seems to be enough. I speak to all those women who fall victim to self doubt, lack of motivation. To those who see what I see when they look in the mirror.
I want above all things to allow myself to just be…to be who I am, not what I look like. I want to believe those damn cliches and I want to feel better. I want to fall prey to trends, I just want to let go and fall. But I don’t…because despite this all, despite the fear of reflection, fear of rejection and the all consuming grief I can feel sometimes…I know I AM better than this. I am beautiful, even when I don’t feel like I am, even when I can’t get myself into the store to try on new clothes, or when my skin breaks out and I try to turn away from people’s gazes. And you are too.
I just wanted you all out there to know, that I see you. I feel you. You’re beautiful, we all are.
Cliche, yes please.

Twitter: turnercollins_

some melodies never tarnish with time

I don’t listen to much classical music. I used to. I went through a phase in high school where I would listen to it quite often. Putting my IPod on shuffle the other day, it played a Mozart piece I had completely forgotten how much I loved. Listening to it brought me back not as far as you would think, but back to the 1910s and 20s. It brings me back to the old films I love to watch. I also have a strange feeling it was in an old film I watched, but I can’t for the life of me remember which one. Regardless, this piece reminds me also of memento mori photography (If you don’t know what that is, search it up. Yes it’s a little morbid by today’s standards, but I find them very moving). And finally it reminds me of the movie “Interview With The Vampire.”

Enjoy this timeless piece and get lost in the melody.

-Collins