Your Galactic Gaze [Poetic Prose]

You know every time I look at you, I lose myself just a little bit more? As though your gaze holds an entire galaxy just for me. And when the black hole in your pupil threatens to pull me in, I want to let go and allow the suffocation to start. Have you drown me in the daydream of what we could be.

It would be easier, sinking into the stars I find in your eyes and make meals from the constellations, the distinct taste of Bellatrix tickling my tongue. We could cuddle in the Big Dipper, just dive in and drift off, counting planets as they pass. You would pleasure me with quick kisses that sprinkle stardust against my skin, making each spot you’ve marked shine for all to see. Loosen the asteroid belt that separates our sins and I’ll pull you in. And when comets collide, the sky will streak with the story of you and I.

But only for tonight, star-crossed lover. My heart is only in this retrograde spin for a single night. And while I’d gladly spend it drowning in the black hole of your galactic gaze, suffocating in a love story that suddenly makes sense, I can’t stay. So show the sky all the ways celestials shatter stars, and when I’m out of your orbit again, I’ll watch. I’ll touch the stardust tattoos you’ve stained me with, lick my lips with lust for Bellatrix, and tighten the asteroid belt I wear as a reminder:

Star-crossed lovers only love one star ever.

© 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

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.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

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

The Star-Studded Muse [Poetic Prose]

Stars used to always stick to her tongue and pop against her gums, but now when she licks the sugarcoated stardust from her lips, the world wants nothing more than to take a taste with a kiss. Every night she downs a cocktail of constellations, and they never taste the same. Tonight she swallows Bellatrix, savoring stars bit by bit, and hoping not to choke on the bottom dregs of the Milky Way, so thick. She’s been prescribed planets to fight the ailment of her misalignment, because sometimes being in retrograde spins her mind into an unwanted mess. And it knocks those around her out of step (a cause and effect).

She’s been diagnosed with a starry-eyed disease, caused by an overdose on the black holes that have eaten at her insides. Her constellation cocktails fill all these empty holes with stars that get sucked in, and they show against her soul. On an entire different level of gravity, she can make you feel like you’re floating and chocking. Between the sunspots in her eyes and the crescent moon in her smile, she’s a planetary mess of mental-made voids; there’s empty space among the galaxy clusters of her cognizance that make her a mystery. Undefined by astronomers, no telescope could keep her close, until one night she comes by as a comet and shows herself.

In mythology, gods shown in the stars step down to Earth to share a kiss with mere mortals. She, made of dust and fueled by constellations, shows herself in form of shadow. Wearing Saturn’s rings and a dress of space silk, upon the earth she steps, bits of ideas are left.

When she shares kisses with mere mortals, they’re in form of secrets. Inspirations sparked from the swallowed stars steal into her veins and sit at her fingertips and lips.

That peck upon the cheek you sense but never see? Her hello, solidified to start a story in your mind. The chill against your spine is meant to bring your brush upon a canvas to make it blush, or pull notes from empty air and compose a masterpiece for all to hear.

She’s been diagnosed with a starry-eyed disease, caused by an overdose of black holes that have eaten at her insides. She downs constellation cocktails to keep her sane, hiding in earth’s shadows or the space between the stars.

Aiding your inspiration is her detox, and it makes her divine.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Insomniac Strangers [Poetic Prose]

I’m looking for an insomniac stranger, a soul that never sleeps, and so it keeps its host restless into hours when the sky is painted with murky ink, the heat of passion shining through like sticky bits of glitter.

I’m looking for an artist so controlled by their talent, that his fingertips itch when he’s without pen for too long, or his hand feels like a stump without the extended digit of his paintbrush. Who dreams of new ways to speak with his soul to mass audiences that feign their understanding of such a fervid psyche. 

I’m looking for someone who inspires me. Who has such a rare quality of ambiguous beauty that I’m left staring, pen posed at the ready despite knowing that no word exists to personify his exquisite enigma. A force I’ll never been able to solidify with my ink, though I swear I’ll try. They say some beauties aren’t meant to be defined.

I’m looking for someone to make me into a muse. Take me beyond this skin and corporeal penitentiary, melt me into ink and brush me against their canvas. Swirl my shadows with those sticky sparks, until stars freckle the form of my face and brighten my eyes.

Until I’m the passion that keeps him restless, soul stirring with insomnia so we can paint the sky a shade of our inspiration.

Copyright 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Next Life [Poetic Prose]

I have nightmares of dying.

I know that’s supposed to mean that something is bound to change, but nothing ever does.

My ribcage is pried open so my heart can be reached, and the veins are snipped away with the scissors of a Fate sister. Blood red wine spills across my porcelain skin, and I see their eager eyes, as if they’re thirsting for a drop.

Vultures, circling broken lovers.

My soul is stolen next, though not entirely. Ripping it away is too difficult a feat, and the echoes of my screams go on for an eternity. The wisps are stretched into string, so my soul can be used to sow a story into the next life I live.

Maybe when I love, then, it won’t be a mistake.

Copyright 2014 | Jazelle Handoush