Mechanics - Loren Thomas

Scratch at skin marks
Wrapped in old tissues
Paint warrior stains with the leftovers
watch it melt down your eroded cheeks

Carve a new face 
With plastic features
Movement is a difficult sub plot

Pick up your lips, honey
They’re drooping
Do we need to get the safety pins?

Depth of breath is important here
It should reach the bottom of your lungs
For maximum effect

Callus your fingertips
To avoid future pain
Run them across tables
For a final polish

See your eyelids?
Slide them down a bit
Don’t let all your secrets out at once

Stopper the wine bottle
Keep the content pure
And sweet
None of those nasty additives

And rub gasoline
Behind your ears
Down your neck 
And on your wrists
For good luck

Normal - Loren Thomas

And she’s the girl who writes fires with her words
Singing at the lips of greatness
Kills confidence with a look
Crush organs with a flick of her wrist
And she’s the girl who removes her cloth shell each night
To find a fresh start in the morning
Lives free in that warm ultraviolet 
And she’s the girl who doesn’t live wrapped up
In a cozy blanket of fear
Instead reaches for her own hand in darkened rooms
And leads herself to the edge of cliffs
To view 
Not jump
And she’s the girl who can sleep like the dead
And still wake up in the morning
With a smile you get 
From listening to clean vinyl
No scratches in sight
And she’s the girl with a lifeline that’s perfection
To her sweet ending
The smooth dance routine 
Of a chess game 
And she’s the girl who likes feeling low
Cause she knows tomorrow will be a day of highs
That’ll lead to infinity
And she’s the girl 
I wish I could be

Strokes - Loren Thomas

Some people like to paint their nails
The ripe red of ruby
Or lips 
A crimson to entice

I like to paint my right thigh
A stinging red 
The bite of a sharp edge
That hardens to an earthy brown

Most like to flaunt 
And publicise their strokes
Mine stay behind cloth
A secret self-confidence

They like to break at 
inconvenient moments
My normal stride
Becomes a stagger
I’d almost 
forgotten the night 

It’s crawling down my leg now 
A sickening drip that stains
My well-worn thigh
A safe place

The strokes are spreading
My left wrist 
More dangerous to the eye
Maybe my life

But who’s worried about health

Contributor's Note

Loren is currently finishing her BA majoring in Writing Studies. She writes mainly poetry but hopes to expand in to prose writing in the near future.


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