“You’re doing me good, America”

“You’re doing me good, America, and I think I can do you even better,” she whispered as she placed her cigarette on the ashtray before she burned her right hand.

The red Channel nail polish on her tiny fingers and the red lipstick on her lips made her fair skin glow as her long blond hair reflected the lazy afternoon sunlight that entered from the tiny half-open window of the one-bedroom condo.

“I bet you can,” he said, gently stroking her cheek, and continued, “I really think you can.”

The echoing siren of some police car outside didn’t seem to bother her at all. Neither some random shouting man, standing a block away, meant anything to her. She was honestly too good for that. She was stronger than any of that. As she slowly stood up, grabbing the keys from the glass table, she picked her black purse up from the floor and walked out of the door.

© 2018 Kiara Belle

Advertisements

Inside the Limpid Box of Isolation

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then–shuts the Door–
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—
– Emily Dickinson

Wherever the lady traveled, whenever she stayed,
The box, invisible to everybody else’s eyes,
Surrounded her body from her head to toes.

The men who saw her brown long hair and brown
Eyes led by her casual smile
Told to people, she was the pronoun for beauty.

The women who glanced at her well-grown bosom
Underneath her red dress
Shouted to the world, she was promiscuous.

Inside the limpid box, her passion burned.
She reached her hands to the brush and the pallet
And depicted her bare heart on the canvas, alone in the
Basement. With yellow and white, she painted the full
Moon symbolizing her love that would never to die.
Behind the full moon, she painted the sky

Of black shaped after her hatred towards the man and herself.
She was abandoned into the emptiness, in pained, which
Nobody else would ever to unvail.

After the three decades of seasons, the lady,
With her own hands, ended her life, when the cold
Rain drops colored the January morning and melted the box.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

The Definition of A Poem When I Was Twenty

A poem is…

Something like,
The sounds of rain during June,
The red glow in the morning sky on the New Year Day,
The tears of last night,
The very first heartbreak at the age of fifteen-

Or
When
The moments,
The emotions and even
The senses are
Transformed into words and
Meet the rhythm of a language,

Or
When
Somebody addresses the words
As beauty and elegance.

However,
The truth is I still do not know
What a poem is.

So please, just let it be
So undefined and
So unnamed.

Yes,
Just let it be the riddle
Extended to eternity.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

Last Night

What have I done?

She wakes up, feeling the huge pang of regret. This is certainly not about hangover. This is not about one-night stand, either. She wishes things were simpler like that. She has gotten over those sorts of craziness when she was twenty-three. Really.

The dazzling summer sunlight that enters her bedroom window does nothing to uplift her mind. But, maturity she has acquired over the years prevents her from crying. “Tears based on your unstable emotions are the only privilege of a teenager,” she thinks to herself. Negative feelings won’t solve anything.

She drinks a big mug of black coffee, desperately hoping that the act completely changes her mood for the better like a shot of tequila, though she is damn sure that won’t undo what she has done last night.

She brushes her teeth, washes her face, gets dressed, puts her makeup on, ties her hair, a ponytail, to hide the necessity to get a haircut and wears her favorite Pandora bracelet and Tag Heuer watch: her lucky charms. May today be a good day!!!

As she walks to the station, her unconscious thoughts automatically replay last night. Instead, she tries to focus on the beauty of the green leaves of the trees on the streets and watches people walking by and wonders why not many women wear skirts here in Germany when a majority of them seem to have tall amazing figures that fit perfectly in cute summer dresses.

She sits comfortably on S-bahn train and looks at Rhein River from the window, which is the very moment she feels truly grateful for her life in Germany. She loves how the water shines, reflecting the beam of the sun. Positive energy fully charged. It does not mean that she is dying from the terminal stage of cancer like her mother. Maybe, her mother IS the sunshine. So, come on, let it go.

As the train goes underground approaching Frankfurt, she looks at herself through the window. The fingers on her lap are still tightly crossed. Three stops later, she gets up and walks towards the city center with the mass amount of tall people. She voicelessly whispers to herself, I can handle this.

© 2016 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!