"Pash Rash" by Emma Alexis Woodard
Poetry
Pash Rash - ACT 1 X. The Prologue Stitches embedded in fingers— such is the story of the bruise of a love that lingers. A shade of burning red stains my skin, tattooed by your callous scoff— at the nonsense language of heartbeats within. You were never safe, just familiar. I. The Question Have you found out what you wanted me for just yet? I am a part for you to use in your play, A melodic plot device—and I guess that’s okay. At least with me, I think I’m good. You sort of treat me like you should. Every morning, you wake up to her. I never fell asleep. Looking past the moody, muddy pools, I found what you didn’t see. I know what you are to me. But figure— What am I in you? II. The Push and Pull I bounce back when you insult me and make me small. I swing back into you when you spin me away. You broke my gifts and gifted me nothing. But still, your gift is being present. Breathing in the dark, The clean scent of hair too smooth Between my fingers to be so undeservedly mine— I snap back and remember it isn’t. It wasn’t then. Say it could have been. III. The Self-Realization I can honestly say I think I am what you need. Maybe you’re what I deserve. I never said hello so I’d never have to say goodbye. Now, every time you look at me— In the before, In the ask, In the yes, In the grip, At the end, Before I breathe again— I say hi. Hey. Hello. A thousand greetings to mitigate the feeling Of the silent departure— A bloody, bloody Irish goodbye. Pash Rash - ACT 2 IV. The Inevitable Comparison But his preference is redheads anyway. I wasn’t his type until I changed My favorite things about myself. Where am I in him? I see what he is to me And what I seem to be to him. Every breath of mine he steals Emboldens his love for everything I am not. Shortens my time. I am hopeless, And he is as helpless. V. The Distance Less am I helpless, And more do I find in him— My self-destructive opportunism. It reemerges To see if I can lick the edge of the knife You use to maintain the needed distance Between me And your respect, Your love, And anyone who looks, sounds, cries, asks, begs, screams, And breaks like I do. There’s nothing I hate more than The way I am after you. VI. The Heart’s Humor Your heart must have a sense of humor— The way I watch your absent-minded, Accidental comparisons. Little things I do differently. Little things she does so right. Let me down gently. My head is already at the base. I await the way My head is lopped From the heart That’s beating in time With the new kind of rhythm I learned to dance to— Just to keep in step with you. VII. The Masquerade The elevator music hums to your mind (In those places where you sing to mine). It’s canned, it’s panned, Like late-night talk shows When I’m in my masque, Staying awake with my Ouija board, Late-night TV with my demons and some Devil with his legions.
About the Poet:
Emma Alexis Woodard is occasionally the name of our poet. She has a lot to say, but no idea how to say it, so it comes out in various shades of anger and sadness in prose. She's 31, a west coaster, and a double Aquarius. Emma Woodard doesn't have a favorite or least favorite thing about herself. She's a big proponent of eating your waffles slightly burnt with creamy peanut butter. There are not many impressions she does well, but she does do a startlingly astute impression of a 30-something with their life together. Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Fluoxitine.