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
before
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.