Tag: fiction

He Who Cursed Me

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Photo by Onur Can Elma

What do I suffer over now that the curse has lifted?
Who do I call when I’m no longer broken and bitter?
I walked two years with my eyes down, barely open,
Waiting to break a leg, begging to waste a moment.

My pleas did not make it to heaven, but neither did my gods,
And I erased myself from every good battle I fought.
The times have shifted into moments I hold so close.
I can barely unclench my fist from the stem of the rose.

And to you, staring my black rags up and down,
Just know that I broke the curse when my spark drowned,
And I built a new one from charcoal and sandpaper,
While Time prayed for me, hoping I would meet my maker.

With no one to call and no soul left to regret,
I am blurring the face of everyone I have met.
Yet the colors slide back into place, the sharpness persists;
The birds chirp, the sun rises, the mist lifts.

Is this only for a day, or can I trust the green light?
If Warmth starves me again, I will not pick a new fight.
The curse will find me again, but so will the cure.
There is no pleasure in keeping your worst intentions pure.

He who cursed me does not get a seat at the dinner table,
As I emerge from the hearse, twelve gravely months later.
Pain feels different, more like a memory than my fate,
And the smiling faces on my wall tell me
I didn’t need to drown to get saved.

-Jackie

The Archivist

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The diary of your latest test object.

Close-up photo of black and white journal
Photo by Min An

What a curse, what a privilege,

Looking through the director’s cuts in my memory,

Playing videos on my phone in an infinite loop

Until I’m sure of your covert treachery.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

I dig through the pages until my fingers bleed.

Your gags come back to me in waves until I choke,

Spiraling deeper, sinking toward the ocean floor.

They said it was a joke.

The panic attacks,

Sleepless nights,

Nosebleeds,

Fights,

Rashes,

Emotional downfalls,

Mascara dripping off my lashes.

…a JOKE?

My eyes were soulless, my skin bruised and ashen.

My friends told me we could outrun the death wish,

But we don’t talk about the winter of 2024 anymore,

At least not since demise herself told me to perish.

Humor.

Revenge.

Picking sides.

Dead ends.

I’m not sure how I found my way to the lighthouse.

The fog lifted one day, yet I waited for the waves to return.

Waited for your words to serve as the anchor.

Even silence scared me, quiet made my stomach churn.

Nothing.

Peace.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

Routines kept me alive, ink kept me sane.

The grapevine was quiet until a message came through.

A broken sea creature dropped on my doormat,

And I almost stepped on it before realizing it was you.

Obsessed.

Paralyzed.

Greedy.

Antagonized.

I lock the door to keep you out,

Hoping you don’t turn into a sea monster,

But nothing’s promised.

I’ve escaped dozens of nooses,

Even mine,

But yours was the only one that called me alarmist.

Until the day that you rot,

Until my stomach’s in knots,

We will watch each other in perfect symmetry,

Crowds wondering who deserves the penalty.

Keep wondering.

Guess.

I kept the records.

Kept the mess.

Context.

Clues.

Abuse.

Proof.

-Jackie

My Wake, circa October 2024

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Photo of a foggy forest
Photo by Anton Atanasov

Remain quiet behind the old graveyard gate.
The handles and locks make you think that you’re late,
Yet you’re just in time for the freshest slate—
Resurrection of a girl in the gilded crate.

Approach with caution, beware the emerald flame.
Don’t stare at the cryptids, the beast, the dame.
When the clock strikes midnight, shout out your name.
Watch the shallow grave shake from ancestral shame.

Watch it deepen and widen in quiet rage.
The priests will get butchered with a single page,
But don’t you run—wait for the gilded cage.
Observe her blood-red hair, observe that stunning mage.

A man will ask who put her to early death.
She’ll raise a single brow like it’s a cunning threat,
Then say, “Every captain I’ve ever met,”
Leaving you high and dry, stealing your mind and breath.

The mage will stand up only to fall on her knees.
Never trust your instinct to help the weak.
She’s a traitor tailored for devils and greed.
Someone who knew her said she was the Queen of Peace,

But rising tides filled her lungs with salt water,
Drowned her homes and hopes along with her own father.
As you watch her limbs stiffen up, growing harder,
You’ll question whether she’s a lion or a martyr.

The candles spin in thin air as chants come to be hectic.
Were her eyes made by gods to birth heretics?
Her frame levitates, killing your inner skeptic,
And curses bleach your soul like an antiseptic.

The first rays of sun peek through sacred trees.
Wet ground starts swallowing her bones and dreams,
Until her skin turns to dust, until the fingers freeze.
Some spit on her grave, some tremble like leaves.

The crowds disappear until only two souls remain—
A woman in green, a creature with your own name.
The lines on her face are carved from sheer pain.
Your eyes meet, and her voice spills out like champagne:

“She was forged from stone, rubies, silver, and heat.
Resurrections only haunt those who refuse to leave.
I’m yet to learn that lesson—should’ve let her become me,
Should’ve let her slash throats that claimed to be holy.

I tortured her to entertain the cruel and divine,
Until her name became the butt of a victor’s rhyme.
Here she lies, drowned in words that were never mine.
Here she dies, knowing she was buried alive.”

-Jackie

Vulture’s Song

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A vulture perching on a tree branch
Photo by Denitsa Kireva

The ice dagger melted hours ago,

The ghost hands holding it slipped off my waist.

Still, blood trickles down my side when I breathe in.

Knees buckle, hips hurt, head spins in most directions.

The lines and shapes blur into gnarly visions.

No.

Not even death is safe for me here.

Is it a murder if a woman dies without someone to hear?

No, not like this.

I just have to drag these bones a little further down the road

Where other people might notice what he’d done to me.

The small pieces of glass in my lungs burn,

And when I cough, I imagine it’s wine on my sleeve.

Pulp, bubbles, and fizz.

Maybe it is.

He got me drunk on some unholy spirit,

Forced twisted romance plots in my mind where he was the god,

And I was a love interest looking for a savior.

My feet got burned at the stake while on my best behavior.

There’s an arrow where my heart should be.

I must’ve forgotten to pull it out,

And, I’m not going to lie, the poison really helps to keep going,

Rowing my soul down a river that might never end.

Miles pass by, days become weeks,

I start wondering—how much blood could there be?

Seems like even my body survives just to spite him.

He cried crocodile tears when I left,

Then put a boot on my neck and wished me good luck.

I can feel his thoughts taunting me like a hyena,

Following me in an old truck,

Haunting my skull like it’s an abandoned arena.

Little did he know I’ve outrun worse.

“A vulture can heal her wing, a vulture can fly again.”

It hurts.

Still hurts.

Even when I step on the road.

When a car picks me up.

When the nurse tells me to take a breath.

“A vulture can wait him out.”

But it stings.

Bones mend slowly, you know.

Sorrow rises, then it falls like snow.

Sun rises, then it sinks like a ship.

And my wing moves.

My wings work.

Talons are sharper than ever.

He taught me how to stay quiet and still.

Blood leaves his cheeks when he spots me on his windowsill.

-Jackie

A Misprinted Poem (The Author Got The Story Wrong)

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When did you know you’ve lost my pen entirely?

Did the snake hiss gently,

Swallow the tail in its entirety,

Or glance with a thousand mile stare like it’s tired of me?

The tiniest acts of defiance were punished.

Yet, my trust knew no bounds.

I told you how the stories of my other villains got published.

So I have to wonder—is that how you got the idea?

You decorated my walls in white ink,

Pushed aside my hope and will and slipped right in,

And when I told the others, they said—it’s all blank.

I was looking for hints as my soul sank,

But I couldn’t find them.

My tongue froze over like the Inferno, one in a billion chance,

As the diary pages lost saturation.

Death was reaching out its coldest hands…

You set the books in my mind on fire,

The library was gone in a heartbeat.

The firefighters were calling me a liar,

A child looking for a hint of some heat.

Stop!

A pause, a breath, and I’m out of the door.

Not sure who dragged me, but there are only my footprints on the floor.

Each day I dive into the blues,

Each day I become paler and fainter, and more unmoored.

Your grasp on my neck is so tight it almost feels real.

Then, a day comes where I don’t hear you.

I look forward to a meal.

Healing, growing, almost healed.

I stay close, yet never too near.

The axe drops on your neck, at least that’s what they say.

Maybe my lips twisted into a smile, don’t quote me though.

I get another good day.

Then another.

If I stay really silent on starry nights, I can hear you pray,

But you know I won’t answer until you do.

When did you lose me entirely?

Did you think I had it in me to go quietly?

-Jackie

His Twists And Turns

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A great worm twists within me, trying to push forward.
If he wasn’t this ugly, I would’ve given him the foreword.
Bites cover my sleeves like participation trophies,
And I want to chew his head off for never saying sorry.

My guts are a dessert wicked men serve for dinner.
I’ve lost my self-esteem, but I don’t think I’m the sinner.
He consumed me like a meal, yet it made him sick.
The soft spot in my heart turned to cold, red brick.

When his teeth clenched my spine in a vanishing glory,
The calmness in my breaths made him feel slightly worried.
A door opened; I ran. He couldn’t even follow.
What he thought was my life was just a tiny hollow.

The great worm rots within me, screaming for air.
If he wasn’t this cruel, I would’ve given him care.
Scars paint my skin with blood of angry spirits.
Your reputation has only eleven minutes left,

Before I break it apart,
Play your favorite parts,
Kill the worm,
Make you squirm.
You gave me your word.

I hate hoarding useless junk.
You’re a rotten beast dressed as an accused monk.
Yet, a mercy killing isn’t a murder after all.
Please rest assured, no one will answer your call.
A great worm twists within me, lonely and broke.
If he wasn’t this mean, I’d have made him a joke.

-Jackie

The Great Freeze-Out

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A chunk of my heel has been missing for a while now,

And I bleed in the snow like a doomed ingénue

When the winter breeze told me a year ago

You took it when I stepped out of the lines you drew.

No way to excuse carnivores who eat for greed,

No way to romanticize cannibals like you.

My blood has slowed due to the freezing weather,

But once the spring comes, my pulse will fade too.

The leg might heal nicely until the next winter

Or it might as well rot to the bone like your smiles.

The pessimism in your voice was cut to the gut,

The only taste on my tongue for a month was bile.

I used to dream some doctor reached me in time.

I used to bite my tongue to protect you from swords.

What a fool I once was, what a shiny trophy.

Chew me up, spit me out.

Tell the crew when I’m no more.

-Jackie

Reading The Court Transcript: Manipulation

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Oh, but I know what happened.

Yes, I know that happened.

It happened.

You don’t need to tell me it did.

You don’t need to confirm.

The mountains were mine to move,

So were the storms.

There’s no shred of doubt so there’s nothing to prove.

He taught me that things could get worse.

You taught me things could get better.

That’s how it works.

But you’re not the recipient of this letter.

It was me all along,

Sitting in closets, haunting my soul,

Yelling at wind, singing songs,

Begging for a chance to become whole.

And all along I knew it was a trick.

Your words, they’re kind yet they sting,

Everyone around me got sick,

And butterflies lost their wings

While you told me you didn’t intend it to hurt.

You molded me like I wasn’t human,

Branded me a savage and a brute,

So it became the norm.

Now time passes and you sit with your truth,

Eat it up like a worm.

I know who did it so I’ll sit with mine,

Play your game of pantomime,

And if I’m wrong,

I’m fine being the one who crossed a line.

But if I’m not…

My heart is a prison, and I’ll assign you a cell where you can rot.

Because it happened.

-Jackie

Mugs

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The tea is warm, and my voice jumps an octave higher.

I spit out the words; they fall on the floor.

Face flushing, breath getting out of control.

You stump on my pieces and you ask me for more.

I was confused at first, lost a year to dead ends.

My body came apart at the seams each night.

Even friends told me I should stop crying wolf,

Even books asked me if I thought I was right.

You had your time exploring, picking at my brain,

Making sure I stayed busy while you observed.

When the nagging feeling escaped from my lips,

You took less than a moment to call me absurd.

Your first mistake was choosing me as a target,

Your second mistake was leaving footprints on graves,

Your third mistake was making yourself a martyr,

Your fourth mistake was thinking I don’t play games.

The tea is cold, and my voice stays cool and low.

I let the words roll off my tongue and I watch you.

Face flushing, breath shaking, no hint of a smirk.

Don’t you beg for comfort,

Don’t you ask for rescue.

-Jackie

Judgement

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In your sea of misery,

where do I float like a wreck?

Is it somewhere by the shore?

Do my ribs hang around your neck?

I’m not a thing you hide in corners.

I’m no longer twenty-six.

I asked for you to show me kindness;

you took an ax to fix it.

The smiles were all in your head,

the whispers were imagined.

I would have found some empathy

if this wasn’t so tragic.

Men like you have excuses,

men like you kill their muses.

Men like you do not lose,

but I can show you where the noose is.

-Jackie