Poetry For Leonard

This poem sounds to me like one Leonard might have written, or at least appreciated:
 "I have shed enough
 blood to know that
 the wound is the place
 where the light enters you"

Look at Me, Don’t Look at Me

In today’s journal excerpt, Snow reflects on her first meeting with Jo.

By jkt_de at http://morguefile.com

Street people, homeless people, invisible people. None of these labels place the emphasis on the most important word, the one word we all have in common–PEOPLE.

I don’t know what it was about that Jo when I first met her. I didn’t think anything of it really, not at the time. Oh sure, there was the locking of eyes, the pull of someone “Seeing” you. Of getting you. For an instant it opened up a channel, like a switch on an electric circuit connecting. But it clicked off so quick, with a squirt of fear—Don’t look, don’t look, I’m ugly, don’t look.

Which is funny, that. That fear. Usually I’m like, look at me, yes, look at me you bastard. I dare you to . . . look . . . at . . . me.

Because they don’t, you know. They glare at you maybe. They may even notice you enough to step around you. But hardly nobody ever really looks at you. So why should my rage, my challenge to see me, turn to fear when someone actually does?

I don’t know. I don’t care. Enough of this bullshit. Let someone get close and they screw you. Everyone knows that. Think too much and you screw yourself.

So fuck her. Fuck that moment, fuck that instant of hunger and longing and pain. Stuff it all down deep into the dark core of ugly and save it up for that day you need all the rage you can find.

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Night Terrors

Ever wonder what stories occur behind the scenes of your favorite novel? Check back often to read read journal entries by your favorite characters from BEND ME, SHAPE ME. Here's an entry from Snow's Journal now.

They’d hate me if they knew.  Hate me and lock me up.  They put kids in jail these days and try them as adults.  Age don’t matter.  Don’t matter, neither, that it’s all fuzzy to me now.  Like a movie screen not focused right, not edited right.  Choppy pieces of film spliced together, over exposed and running at fast speed.  Dark images, too.

I only see it myself when it gets dark.  Not dark like in sunshine and light bulbs.  I mean dark that weighs heavy on you.  It dulls sounds, burns hot and fills me so full I gotta explode somehow.

That’s when the movie plays in my head, sometimes silent, sometimes loud with only scraps of words, screams. Blood on my hands, on the knife in my hand. Screaming in my ears. Every time the movie gets this far, the rage kicks in and the screen goes black and I gotta kill something, smash something, beat something with my hands, with my bleeding, bare, fucking hands.