Blood Clot


Through pink tinted lamp light,

I tilt in the chair,

hair sliding off my shoulders

until my countenance is black

with Japanese heritage


Last night, I woke myself up laughing

Your eyes, ivory with silver shimmer, fell on me

I cradled them until they busted

like a blood clot being bitten


You said “I can see you always.”

“Quit staring.” I moaned in response

“I feel ugly all the time.”


If I let my weight bring me to my knees

and my cheek scrape against the carpet,

I think I will feel pitiful in a sensuous way



Muscle Dust


I tilt against the lace curtain,

pale with exhaustion, half singing,

half moaning


The scarecrow argues

that I am dying and need a friend

to take care of me


Of course, he is just hay and rotten garments

He does not understand I am a muscle that absorbs

negativity and dust and

that I do not care if there is an infection

inside of me, or if I am too quiet to realize

I am alive


by Ashlie Allen

Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her favorite book is “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice.

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