So, there’s been a lot going on in my life lately, and I’ve not been able to blog as much as I’d like. Sorry about that.
One cool thing I ended up doing last week was I took that blogger’s advice that dissociative people should undertake something they love and work with it. Okay, I haven’t been writing as much as I would like to write lately, but searching on Google, I found an online writers’ group called Scribophile, which features writers who want critiques from other writers about their works.
I’ll talk about that more in another post, but it’s refreshed my drive to write again.
When setting up a profile on the site, it asked if I had ever been published as a writer. Policies and procedures with a quality management system, my blog, publicity materials for the school, sure, but nothing creative in print, right?
Wrong.
I forgot that when I took Creative Writing at Massey University back in 2001, our teacher published a book of our works called Hot Ink to commemorate the occasion. I don’t think it’s still widely available, but I do hold the copyright for my work, a poem named “Ben”.
Without further ado, I bring you “Ben”.
Ben smells like sex blended with naivety.
His black tee shirt clings to his skin,
Outlining $60-a-month gym muscles.
Ben strides.Jer warns to steer clear of Ben; he’s possessive (“it isn’t nice”).
I could learn to like that trait in him,
If permitted closer.
Ben ponders.Ben commands attention, storming Marshall Fields on a mission,
His firm arms bare to the shoulder,
Directing my interest.
Ben detects.Jer outlines the intimate dangers of mixing with the likes of Ben.
I consider hanging out at Panera Bread,
As I’m beckoned closer.
Ben flirts.Ben parades in the latest from Abercrombie & Fitch (“not the outlet store”).
His claim: nothing less will suffice. He’s popular,
Acting like a rock star (wannabe).
Ben struts.Jer didn’t invite him to the party; Ben crashes it anyways.
I wink; he swaggers up the driveway like he’s en vogue,
Cockily acknowledging the crowd,
Ben rebels.Ben whispers tender words, his hand rising steadily up my leg,
“Let’s move slow. I’m in no rush,” shouldn’t be my response,
According to his carefully crafted script.
(Yet my body aches to keep going,
— Martyrs usually flaunt virtuous facades —
But he retreats quickly, one hand clasping the wheel,
The other surging through his short, blonde hair.)
Ben pouts.
Beam Me Up, Scotty 