I told you I had a secret.
You told me to write it down.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Success By Support [Haiku]
I'm too tired to keep going.
Tell me, 'You've got this; don't quit.'
Maybe then I'll survive.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Tell me, 'You've got this; don't quit.'
Maybe then I'll survive.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Friday, March 28, 2014
And Heartbeats [Six Word Story]
Our distance's between
thunder and lightning.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
thunder and lightning.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Like Moths To A Heartfelt Flame [Prose]
A haze takes to the sky, making stars seem like shadows. Moths make lazy spirals around what little light they can find, as though kissing quick fleeting flames. If they come too close, hold a love of too much passion, they burn fierce with the pain only a heart knows. Not much else can be seen, but these blurry-eyed stains that feign as stars, and the moths that wish to reach them.
I stand at the windowsill, the air so frigid it tickles my breath with ghosts. They take to my tongue and freeze the words that reside there, mapping each tastebud for all the stories they could tell. My fingertips reach to the glass, leaving the swirls of my own stories like see-through stains. If each finger is a chapter, the ending barely seems worth reading. My pinky holds the shortest story, but if you study it, you see the intricacy. And the secrets.
The words "I love you" fog up the glass, written not by my hand but by an unheard heart, but I shatter them instead of stare. The shards stick to my skin, stab, as blood drops take to beat the ground. Like a bass taking on a tempo on its own, it takes my eardrums and barricades away the rest of the world. This is the mild personification of a broken heart; someone else is battered, bruised, bleeding, yet somehow I'm still standing.
I shake my hand, distort the biting as glass shards sprinkle the ground, my own pain a minuscule moment compared to the heart that wrote on my window.
He feared speaking too loud, so he whispered it against the glass, a haze taking to the sky and my heart. And instead of hearing him out, I suffocated on the idea of what love might be like. I felt its shackles remove all movement from my wrists, felt the fear of the noose around my neck made not from rope but realizations. Realizing I'm human enough to be loved, to might love.
To hurt something horrid.
The wind licks at my skin, and the fog fights its way forward, but I don't step beyond its reach. Instead I stand at the windowsill and watch the moths dance dangerously. Knowing we can be burned doesn't keep us from reaching for a flame.
Knowing some scars never heal does.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
I stand at the windowsill, the air so frigid it tickles my breath with ghosts. They take to my tongue and freeze the words that reside there, mapping each tastebud for all the stories they could tell. My fingertips reach to the glass, leaving the swirls of my own stories like see-through stains. If each finger is a chapter, the ending barely seems worth reading. My pinky holds the shortest story, but if you study it, you see the intricacy. And the secrets.
The words "I love you" fog up the glass, written not by my hand but by an unheard heart, but I shatter them instead of stare. The shards stick to my skin, stab, as blood drops take to beat the ground. Like a bass taking on a tempo on its own, it takes my eardrums and barricades away the rest of the world. This is the mild personification of a broken heart; someone else is battered, bruised, bleeding, yet somehow I'm still standing.
I shake my hand, distort the biting as glass shards sprinkle the ground, my own pain a minuscule moment compared to the heart that wrote on my window.
He feared speaking too loud, so he whispered it against the glass, a haze taking to the sky and my heart. And instead of hearing him out, I suffocated on the idea of what love might be like. I felt its shackles remove all movement from my wrists, felt the fear of the noose around my neck made not from rope but realizations. Realizing I'm human enough to be loved, to might love.
To hurt something horrid.
The wind licks at my skin, and the fog fights its way forward, but I don't step beyond its reach. Instead I stand at the windowsill and watch the moths dance dangerously. Knowing we can be burned doesn't keep us from reaching for a flame.
Knowing some scars never heal does.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Breakfast At Tiffany's [Poetry]
Audrey stood at the window
staring in towards what dazzled
as the morning sun shined behind her.
Basic breakfast, coffee and pastry,
the glass a barrier between her
and a lifestyle without limiting.
Steam twirled up with the sunrise
from her soon-cold cup
but she still stood.
Breakfast at Tiffany's became a reminder
of something better:
a life that shined brighter than morning light.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
staring in towards what dazzled
as the morning sun shined behind her.
Basic breakfast, coffee and pastry,
the glass a barrier between her
and a lifestyle without limiting.
Steam twirled up with the sunrise
from her soon-cold cup
but she still stood.
Breakfast at Tiffany's became a reminder
of something better:
a life that shined brighter than morning light.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Shooting Star Syndrome [Poetry]
If my life is this big black sky
You're just a simple shooting star;
Fleeting, bright at first sight
But ultimately fading,
Completely out of light.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
You're just a simple shooting star;
Fleeting, bright at first sight
But ultimately fading,
Completely out of light.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
They're Streaking Your Skin [Poetic Pieces]
Are those stars
in your eyes
or tears
you want to hide?
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
in your eyes
or tears
you want to hide?
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Saturday, March 15, 2014
To Breathe Again [Poetry]
Teach me how to be strong.
How to breathe again.
I'm not sure my lungs know how to filter in and out air anymore.
The process is just too tedious.
Isn't this what CPR is for?
Maybe I need you to breathe life back into me,
before my lungs can manage on their own.
Maybe, finally, when our lips meet,
maybe then I won't feel so alone.
Friday, March 14, 2014
My Love Was Honest and Ignorant [Six Word Story]
Love isn't a lie.
You are.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
You are.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Lightning Celebrates Lovers [Haiku]
“Someone once told me
That the thunder echoes heartbeats.Love must be a storm.”
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
That the thunder echoes heartbeats.Love must be a storm.”
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
The Different [Poetic Prose]
If you look carefully, you’ll see a patch of red disturbing the night sky strands of my hair. They’re breeding, spreading against my scalp to add something of a shine against my otherwise stark dark. You see them? Right there. Standing out. Such an annoyance.
I planned to cover them with ink, dye them back into submission to match the black of the neighboring strands. Take these unique streaks and erase them entirely, so you can’t tell there’s a difference at all. Dark and dapper like the rest, so the entire night sky sea there is one entity, not individualized strands that sit upon my head. You wouldn’t be able to set or see them apart. All alike.
But those ruby renegades starting to grow on me, quite literally. They had a special shine to them, like a curling calligraphy against indifferent ink. They streaked my night sky with a dusky crimson comet, a rare and unplanned entity to add a gleam to things.
If you look carefully, you’ll see a patch of red disturbing the night sky strands of my hair. Not a thread sits the same amongst its neighbors, unique and undiluted by their difference.
You see them? Right there. Standing out.
Standing out to shine.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Three Words On Repeat [Poetry]
When I say
"I love you,"
I'm not following a fad
Or repeating words with disregard
For their meaning.
Those eight letters barely contain
The way my heart quakes
But I say them anyway.
So you can understand
That sometimes you suffocate
All other words from me
Leaving me with those three only.
Monday, March 10, 2014
The Tables Tell All [Poetic Pieces]
There are stories
in the coffee stains we leave behind.
© 2012 | Jazelle Handoush
in the coffee stains we leave behind.
© 2012 | Jazelle Handoush
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Addicted To A Ruining [Poetry]
Though my blood becomes sludge
From the poison you place in my heart,
Though my tongue has turned black
From the angry truths I've never told,
Though my skin has shriveled
From your every acid touch,
I always take you back
Because you're that kind of drug.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
Saturday, March 8, 2014
You Make Me Breathless [Six Word Story]
How do people who
are
in love breathe easily
when I suffocate?
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
in love breathe easily
when I suffocate?
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
What Lovers Mean [Poetry]
Love never made much sense to me; the concept
creates a disconnect between what we
say and what we mean.
The first time, my best friend spoke it between
sobs, as her tears soaked my shirt and the sun set.
The second time was my first boyfriend, as if two
teens concerned with the right angles of paralleled parking
know enough about chemistry.
Those three words seemed like a pit of quicksand to me;
each time I said it, each time I squirmed, it pulled me
down deeper, a slow suffocation.
The third was a lie to a dying man, as if I was the
wish he made.
Each one said 'love,' but I perceive they meant 'want'
or 'need.' Their hearts weren't beating beyond their chests;
they wouldn't bleed for me.
Lovers never quite say what they mean.
The words became an infinity, and unescapable loop
love seems to catch me in.
When we travelled in metaphors, 'I love you,'
'Forever,' and 'Always' became metaphors too.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
creates a disconnect between what we
say and what we mean.
The first time, my best friend spoke it between
sobs, as her tears soaked my shirt and the sun set.
The second time was my first boyfriend, as if two
teens concerned with the right angles of paralleled parking
know enough about chemistry.
Those three words seemed like a pit of quicksand to me;
each time I said it, each time I squirmed, it pulled me
down deeper, a slow suffocation.
The third was a lie to a dying man, as if I was the
wish he made.
Each one said 'love,' but I perceive they meant 'want'
or 'need.' Their hearts weren't beating beyond their chests;
they wouldn't bleed for me.
Lovers never quite say what they mean.
The words became an infinity, and unescapable loop
love seems to catch me in.
When we travelled in metaphors, 'I love you,'
'Forever,' and 'Always' became metaphors too.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Friday, March 7, 2014
When There Aren't Words [Poetry]
Is there something I'm supposed to say?
Its at the tip of my tongue, but the words taste all wrong.
How I wish I knew what phrase would freeze your pain.
Instead, I can only sit beside you, try to steal your sadness,
Stitch your sullen stretched lips into a smile
And remind you
Even without words, I know,
I feel it too.
I'm right beside you.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
The Strongest People [Poetic Prose]
The strongest people are the ones nobody realizes are fighting.
They wear masks to shield their pain from other eyes, stretching lips into convincing Cheshire cat grins and eyes wide with wonder. These are the people who step in to comfort you, though no one notices the scars they wear on skin, hearts, and soul. They make up a race of survivors, of spirits too often put down and trampled on. Yet they stand back up, never allowing another pair of eyes to see the stampede’s footprints on their backs.
The strongest people are the ones nobody realizes are fighting, bleeding, screaming silently, and yet still living.
They suffer in silence, instead of shouting to the cosmos of all the ways they’re scared and scarred. When other’s expect society to run towards them with open arms, to heal their wounds and scatter their tears, this unseen population of Strong and Silent remain zip-lipped. They believe that backbone and tough skin will get them by, help them survive, and they’re unaware that it’s a lie.
The strongest people in the world have scratched up souls, but they don’t allow anyone to see.
Its a population of you, them, and me.
And we’re convinced we need to suffer alone, in the shadows. We’re not hiding, we just don’t want to be a burden. We sit in silence while others suffocate us with their woes, though they don’t listen to ours.
They don’t ask.
So here is to ever member of the Strong and Silent. Here is to the boys and girls who think they are alone, unknowing we are a full society of secret keepers. Here is to those of backbone and tough skin, too often reminded of the painful world we’re in.
I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll see your scars and try to heal them with my own.
Just know…you’re not alone.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Cupid's No Angel [Haiku]
Unsheathe your bow, aim,
and pierce my heart; that's less pain
than love and leaving.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
and pierce my heart; that's less pain
than love and leaving.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Perpetual Bliss [Haiku]
The world stopped turning
and yet our hearts kept beating;
love will never cease.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
and yet our hearts kept beating;
love will never cease.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Monday, March 3, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Down With The Ship [Haiku]
If it traps you in
My lungs, weighs me down with love
I'll sink with our ship
Prolonged Suffering [Poetry]
Sometimes he thinks he's broken, and doesn't know how to
repair the pieces. He's never been able to handle a needle and thread,
so stitching together his shattered heart seems like an illogical solution.
There's superglue, but the shards don't seem to want to stick. That's when he realized
there's no easy fix.
You can't mend a broken heart because it seems like the next step
of the process. A friend or lover might demolish it and damn the thought
of the damage they've done, but that's only the prelude to step one.
He held on too tight when she shattered his heart, as if clinging to her skin
would convince her to stay and fix the fissures. He can still smell
the intoxicating aroma of her perfume and bad attitude; the latter
attracted him to the challenge. Left with pieces and pictures of what they
once were, he curled up into a ball against the glass, letting them scrape
at his skin even more.
To bend a broken heart, step one is to stand up and decide to restart,
instead of prolonging the suffering by remaining attached to the misery.
The Siren's Song [Haiku]
He fell in love with
A beautifully see-through
Soul that screamed sorrow.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
Oozing Black [Poetic Pieces]
There is beauty in dark things
If you look past the evil they bleed.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
No Blank Slate [Poetry]
The night sky hasn't changed; it remains ink stained, every night, despite its
disappearance during the day.
The sun still shines, moon sparkles alongside the stars, and the air isn't altered.
Humans shed their skin and take on a fresh layer, but it doesn't provide a
blank slate to start over. We are sun, stars, and the night sky; though
chemically we run through cycles of metamorphosis, we keep our names
and stay ourselves. The change is slow, but we don't shed ourselves
entirely. A blank slate still maintains what was there before, though
it appears faint and out of focus.
Who you once were still remains, though faintly, but that's not where I focus.
Who you once were is only a portion of who you are now, of the who
you are that makes you mine.
The past is only a portion of your present;
don't focus too much on lost time.
Made Into A Muse [Poetic Prose]
She had a messy mind and a patterned past but that was alright; it meant there were stories he could pull from her soul and streak against his empty pages. She would whisper in his ears all her worries and woes, and his fingertips would collide with typewriter keys in a haste to share with the world her tales. Not a single word went unwritten, and for that she was grateful. For with ever phrase of dialogue and demeanor he pulled from her veins, she was something less of a storyteller and made more into a muse. And she didn't mind this at all, for she knew she'd fade either way.
At least with her words across his page, she'd be solidified for all time. She would be renewed, each time she was read, and would never fade too far from the mind. She smiled sadly, thinking this, dipped down from behind his shoulder to give him a kiss, but her lips never met the stubbled skin of his cheek. With one last line, she whispered her goodbyes to the shadows, and became a mist the way only a muse could; always there, never seen, occasionally heard.
His fingertips kept the beat on their own accord, spinning the story of a girl no one knew. But somehow, he loved her. His heart swelled at the thought of her. A tickle toyed against his left cheek, and he brushed a few fingertips over his skin, imaging a pair of rosy lips there instead of empty air.
He heard a whisper stolen by the wind, pulled the words from the atmosphere and continued writing of a girl he never knew.
"I lived only for you."
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
A Draft From The Windows [Poetry]
Bleeding hearts bolt-lock all the doors
So no one sees the scars,
Or try to shatter what's left of the beating pieces.
But they forget the windows won't shut;
Their eyes scream the sorrowed stories wordlessly
For all other hearts to see.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
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