scorn

Musical Selection|India Arie: That Magic

The Scornful Woman by Egon Schiele — 1910

she’d been hurt before —
this scorned woman who is learning
how to love again — live again.
I sit on my balcony and watch her
carry on with her day as if
the sun woke up just for her.

she saunters to her car,
pulls the door open, and
jumps into it ready for another
day of whatever it is that
she does for a living.

I keep my distance.
I speak when spoken to.
I do not draw good energy from
her, so it is my duty to make sure
our interactions are few.

my monster of a dog shows
her teeth at her shadow,
barks when she strikes the
ignition.
I take heed.

there are some of us who
cannot conjure up
a welcoming spirit — too stuck
in the past to allow ourselves to
witness the future.

too afraid to move forward
and march into something new.
I was where she is and
I remember how my soul
smelled.
I turned people off.

there’s always a bit of
magic around, enough to
push us into the light of day.
I think she will be
okay the moment her
feet touch illuminated ground.

I can’t take her there,
even if I do know the way — these
paths have to be walked
by those who need the journey.

I will, however, make sure
she has someone rooting
for her from the sidelines.
I think my sign is
big enough for her to see.


Originally published via Medium.

fruits of labor & labored fruits

Flash Fiction

Wally in a Red Blouse by Egon Schiele-1913

Watch the hands wave them in, suitors and scavengers alike, waiting for their piece of American pie. They come in droves — lips coated in silver-spooned tongues raising their hands, bidding at all costs for the missing links of home. What they cannot get from the one they married, they will gladly pay the one they do not love. The wanting . . . The yearning . . . The overwhelming beasting of burly men stands at attention.

She can only be a symbol of strength — moving through the vicissitudes of life without fear, she gathers their names. She will remember them; their grunts and groans, the sounds of the room, and the premature orgasms logged in the memory bank of her mind. Three hundred seventy-five dollars will get you two hours and two positions. If you want more, add sixty dollars for an additional thirty minutes. Her time is theirs to have but at a cost.

This is a business. She is professional. Each transaction is documented. She prefers cash but will not decline plastic. Wear your words carefully and choose your tour wisely. The ins and outs of her will not be extended. Your personal escort awaits . . . Sign off and hand your ticket to Duane at the front desk.

You have been served.

The cars on the street honk their horns, their owners smile happily — satisfied . . . satiated. Their disheveled clothes are replaced by the clean items waiting in their bags. A new attitude is ordered. It arrives right before their feet meet the doors of their homes. Frequent flyers look forward to their weekend adventures — their secret life tucked neatly behind their backs. They’ll never tell. She’ll never tell.

The perfect exchange.


*Professional escorts provide their clients with undivided time and attention in return for payment. Their work can range from companionship to sexual services. — wikiHow (2019)

Candle’s flame

Photo Credit: Vladimir Fedotov via Unsplash

An Experiment

she — the candle’s flame
mystic creature on a moonlit river,
burning the midnight oil.

I stand by intrigued — willing
to engage her spirit in
a game of charades.

she dances on clouds,
makes the sun’s arms
embrace its orange sky.

night owl, “sweet child o’ mine,
savior saving the damned.
honeysuckle sanctification.

she’s a moonwalker
strumming craters as her keys,
a pianist composing “your song.”

I hang on her cherried lips,
passionately devoted,
a lover’s ballad is born.

where can I go when she burns hot?
the storm within me raging,
mad like a man without love.

I — on the “other side of the game,
play my cards right.
I hold no hearts, only spades.

joker’s always wild . . .
my soul, a casualty of war,
bows out gracefully — white flag raised.

she is a shark, “poker-face” beauty,
making room for judgment day.
apocalyptic naysayer.

look at her, damsel fighting distress —
turns on every suitor,
willing to admire her.

I won’t catcall,
I won’t ask her to smile,
I won’t lay my problems at her feet . . .

I watch and wait,
this candle’s flame, burning the midnight oil
won’t “burn” me.


*The music referenced in the links are from the following multi-talented artists: Guns N’ Roses, Elton John, Erykah Badu, Lady Gaga, and Usher.

Originally published in P.S. I Love You via Medium. This piece is behind Medium’s paywall and the link shared is a friend link (free to all).

Authors of SMITTEN Speak: Tremaine Loadholt

Be on the lookout for this amazing anthology including work by women who love women; we are SMITTEN.

Thank you to the Editors and managing writers, and anyone else who has helped to create this masterpiece and bringing it to life/light.

TheFeatheredSleep

Tre L. Loadholt is a Writer/Editor located in Southeast US. She has been published in several literary journals, anthologies, and print magazines. She has also published three poetry books; Pinwheels and Hula Hoops, Dusting for Fingerprints, and A New Kind of Down. Her work can be found at https://acorneredgurl.com and https://medium.com/a-cornered-gurl.

How does poetry and identifying as lesbian/bi come together for you?  

Poetry and being a bisexual woman come together for me just as a melody would to poignant lyrics for the soul. One does not exist without the other. Poetry is my love language–in most cases, it’s how I express myself. Thus, being poetical while being bisexual is a constant in-sync process, it is a truth that will more than likely be a lifelong fact.

How does being a poet inform your views on expressing emotions through writing?

I do not like to use the…

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