Charlotte E. Wilde

Identities constructed on the linguistic champ de bataille | Words, like little foot soldiers, march out in the armies of my poetic failures

Category: Poetry

Metaphor is madness (you’ve been here before)

I always feel strange in the fall, disconnected, like a glass panel separates me from the world and I’m looking in– a tourist drunk on cheap souvenirs meant to commemorate that which is already slipping away.  I’ve reduced this feeling to a happy-hour cocktail that you didn’t want but ordered it anyway, a mixture of being and nothingness with a cock-eyed umbrella but ice so clear you could see your reflection. You could but you don’t.  You’re too busy starring in a re-run drama of intimate geometry– legs crossed and uncrossed, leaves slip with rot and you find that you’re Vāta, dry, cold, light, minute, and movement– but you’re fading fast. A lêche vitrine queen with weeks to live and an impossibly long list of things to ruin before the inevitable.

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It’s dark. Don’t go alone

My body unties itself
and my mind floats out
into the waves of my unconscious.
Tetherless, I’m drifting on our imaginary;
breathless, I find you waiting.

You trace my steps,
adjust your stride until you fit perfectly
into the curve of my thoughts,
my mind’s imprints
where synapses slip
like breadcrumbs.

One by one,
you follow
this sloping honey hoax home.

Phere[moans], don’t fly so close

I’m a kamikaze, a whirlwind of mistrust, distaste, can’t keep the pace with my thoughts between the hours of another 4am solitary (but let me lick this music-mind clean). You slip down my tongue like an impulse buy or a midnight snack– sweetest when I’m not allowed. And can’t we all agree that what happens between  thighs should stay there?

Let me teach you how to love me: unconditionally and at arms length; recklessly and on the side. Playing it cool was not a forté of my lo-fi fantasy. I can’t help but question if the thrumming in my chest was replaced by a double-bass in 2006 and has been tricking hapless humans into believing they see themselves in my pulse ever since.

You trace the pathways of my veins and lines of ex-marks-the-spot leftover from times when I was living. Do I hate myself to leave you the necessary room? I decide to love myself instead, and ignore my body when it scolds me for the lie. I came so hard with you on my mind, but mindfullness says ‘take it slow’ for sexual tension mounts like the physical downfall of our metaphysical touch.

Yes, I’ve been thinking. Thinking I may be the static electricity to your triboelectric effect; spread thin (hip-bone maverick), a peanut-butter and logic sandwich in which you are the surrounding brea(th) and I am lying jelly-still but trying on metaphors like Sunday’s best. Your whisper brings me back: asking if I like the idea of you more than the reality, when you know full well the impossibility of attaining the apex of this imaginary. I say nothing, but I write in cursive down your spine– this spot, as yet un-inked, the canvas of our possibility.

At night cyclical thoughts spin out in technicolor sublime, the waiting has me writhing, flying headfirst into future’s windo[pains] where I thought I was Iccharus and you were my father’s wings.

Overwhelmed In Fingertips

On Drearday I wake up partial and full of bywater, but today is not like every day.  I’ve been sucking feathers in my sleep again like some great slithering blacksnake, even though I’ve told myself time and again mornings are no place for a spine. My tongue is fluffy white, a terrible temptation to mental tar baby turpentine. Despite the crackle of my electric thoughts and comforter the cold air holds my head pinned like surgery until my jaw starts to unfurl. A moonflower, unhinged, unwired, it yawns itself aware until one single downy piece of fluff hovers above my head.

He lies oblivious, dreaming mechanical dreams, the whir and click of them audible above the heady silence of 6am city clang that slips through all my cracks. Tattoos pull fingers towards skin in ways that freckles don’t but snakes have none so I think alternatively of other possible uses for forked tongues. When I open my lips the crisp taste of the air deters the thought and I recoil; contact is as dangerous on Dreardays as any other.

Slithering movement that is not mine takes the initiative I left for dread. His shift and burrow like medusa’s eye holds me paralyzed, wavering steady for the span of an eternal sigh while limbs like tree moss drape and dangle. I am, at times, overwhelmed by the touch of him; having briefly felt the feelings leaking out through my skin into his fingertips— a cold feeling, like something being injected into my blood.

“There’s a difference between not having control over something and being out of control,” I whisper.

The feathers quivered their response and everyone was still.

“Whir-click,” he conceded, and I knew that he was right.

Box Me Up

Memories comprised of a stub,
a piece of glass from a windshield, a love note
that once merited tears.
Pasts composed of napkin quotes
a notebook full of scribbled sentiments and a blue marble
you found together and held warm in your palms.
The condensed version of a life; love
broken down and categorized
like pin-stuck butterflies and beetles
tagged, boxed up, and stored
on the top shelf in the closet
of your mind.

Vanity, Thy Name is Woman (A Muse Is Just Another Muse)

On fancy stationary in fine French ink I ash
a trinity of cigarettes to remind me of your taste—
one for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
Left-hooks swung slower in my dreams,
[ball and] chain-rattling reminders of Christmas’ past,
lest I fail to admit, or atone
for milky shades of skin-toned sin.
To be but one of many Eves, vanity, thy name is woman:
biting champagne shoulders, apples un-forbidden,
fault spread thinner than a revelation and jelly
where GF stands for gluten free, not girlfriend.

Misconstruals hung in prose-hall-haze,
my meditation, a wine-glass confessional,
musing: muses meander in multiples
adorned not in the uniqueness of a snowflake
but water pitchers marked: love.
No floor or internet left un-paced,
for fortune never forgets a leading role
or Oscar worthy performance
in deceit, desire, love, lore or loneliness
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa
te absolvo a peccatis tuis.