I
You put my hand to your heart.
It was beating fast and you were breathing rapidly.
I swallowed deeply, almost choking.
"Faster, pussycat, kill, kill."
And I pulled my hand away.

II
And what of my love hate with Tuesday? That was a Friday.

III
And I stepped lightly out of my depths
and out of my mind...
and not nearly twice as beautiful as the nearest rainbow.
Oh, god, the touch of flesh, the smell of skin.
The taste of the morning dew as I breathe deep, nostrils flaring.
And in my palm, lightly cupped, giving,
I lean closely into a brave new world.

IV
Sleek and lean, she prowls
and the prey fights back - only sometimes.
She cleans her paws and basks in the sun,
sated, fat and full.

Look, Mom, I'm laughing. Me, the all too quiet girl with glasses and spagetti blonde hair. Still skinny as hell, Mom, but I'm laughing. Who'd a thought it?

I
Ah, you boys, your flattery delights me,
thrills me to no end.
I'm glad you look deeper, and see me,
and like me anyway.
(I share myself rarely with few.)
Like me even for my love of lust
and destruction and
absolution. Even for my imperfections.
Today, I am acknowledged.

II
Thank you, I like you for you too.

I
If you seek
The depth of her
You will find
A cold steel ball.
Where the stillness calls
And the darkness flows
And blood drips into pools below.
She, the keeper, and
She, the guardian, and
She, the mistress of the ball.

II
I danced today,
In lightness of step
Feeling absolutely,
One-hundred percent
Gloriously beautiful.

I
You don't ever mind
Garlic, onions or sweat.
You kiss me anyway
And I let you.

II
You thrill me to no end.

III
The shadows ebb and flow,
Gently crawling, through
Twilight as the dreamscape fades
And I am restless

IV
Hovering
Almost, but not quite
Yet discernable.
Then a spark;
An idea, a thought, a dream
And it was there all along
Inside me, waiting
Simply to be acknowledged.

What do I want to write? Something different. Something fresh. Something real. Something entertaining. Something Peach...and I'm gonna do it. I just started and I'm apprehensive about putting these things on paper...it'll be called, "Raising Myself from Scratch; Memoirs of a Texas Peach." or something like that. And it scares the shit out of me to write it. Here’s a brief excerpt of the very rough draft...

"First let me say that this is fiction. Oh, it’s a true story alright, some of it. It’s just that memory and perception, well, aren’t always accurate. I knew this, have always known this, but the first time I truly realized it was in speaking with my mother one time. As I recall, she wondered when we stopped being such good friends. My non-committal replies obviously didn’t satisfy her on this one. And yes, I heard her, but didn’t want to bring up my sixteenth birthday when I didn’t get jack-shit, but we went shopping and spent a cool few grand on her, running up the credit cards just before the divorce. It was 1986 for Christ’s sake, mom, the clothes sucked! Needing time to chill out, I asked her to repeat the questions, but she became terse. Of course I bit back with sarcasm and replied that it was probably around the time I turned three years old, mom. That led to a blissful quiet that lasted several years."