From the Musings of a Cluttered Mind

I'm Felicia. I write a lot. Occasionally, I post those writings here.
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posted on 10/18/2014, with 0 notesreblog

The Eroticism of Vulnerability

She chews her lip,
nervous about making the wrong choice
because pasta shape is of vital importance. 

She gives me a box of petrified spirals
and her hand brushes mine and
lingers long enough for me to reach for its
emanating warmth when she takes it back. 

I watch the way her hips move,
rolling from side to side in elongated ellipses,
as she browses the soda selection. 

Into the cart goes the ginger ale for her nervous tummy,
and she blushes when I smirk at her:
the tops of her ears flush a delicate pink
and she tries to hide them behind her auburn hair.

I tuck the hair behind one ear,
and her amber eyes widen in surprise.
My fingers trace her jawline briefly,
and I watch her eyes flutter closed
and her chest rise in a gasp.

I ask her if she wants bread this week
and she frowns at me and turns away,
and her hip movements are exaggerated
because she’s mad at my teasing. 

She smiles at the cashier and makes small talk
while I load the groceries onto the conveyor belt,
and the bagger flirts with her,
his lustful gaze incapable of seeing beyond her cleavage. 

She wraps her arm around mine
while we walk to the car, and
her fingers trace the veins of my forearm
before they find their home between my own.

She rests her head on my shoulder
and I watch the rise and fall of her chest,
slowly, consistently, as if she were sleeping,
and I know she is vulnerable,

and I know I am in love with her.

posted on 10/18/2014, with 4 notesreblog


You introduced me to kissing
and you stole the breath from my lungs
when your lips caressed mine
and you’re a thousand miles away again
and I can still remember how my hands
tangled in your hair
because I never wanted to stop kissing you
and I can kiss him whenever I want
but he never takes my breath away
and my heart beat doesn’t alter
and it’s a kiss
but it’s not your kiss
and I find myself craving that kind of emotion
where the world pauses for a second
and it’s just you and me and we’re connected
and we’re kissing with the urgency
of two kids who don’t know if they’re ever going
to see each other again.
I could kiss him every minute of every day
until I see you next,
and it would never compare to your kisses
because your kisses feel like the Big Bang;
as soon as your lips meet my own,
galaxies explode into my bloodstream —
I don’t see stars
because I become them.

posted on 5/28/2014, with 3 notesreblog

I’ll Remember the Flowers

I’ll remember the flowers,
their delicate petals
saturated with the colors of spring,
but I won’t remember that fountain,
or how the geysers erupted
the first time you kissed me.

I’ll remember the flowers,
like the one I put my face too close to,
and the way it made me sneeze,
but I won’t remember the amber of your eyes
swimming through an ocean of blue,
or the perpetual glimmer of excitement.

I’ll remember the flowers,
arranged in short pillars
that reminded me of sci-fi monsters,
but I won’t remember
the softness of your hands
or how they always seemed to find mine.

I’ll remember the flowers,
and their pinwheel spirals —
streaks of pastel dotting the park —
but I won’t remember the music 
floating through the air 
during our moonlit stroll through Italy.

I’ll remember the flowers,
in little baskets adrift in the water,
vibrant color splashed across beds of green,
but I won’t remember your lips
or how they caressed my own
while my fingers tangled in your hair

I’ll remember the flowers,
like the solitary crimson hyacinth,
the last of its clan along that trail,
but I won’t remember saying goodbye,
or holding onto you at the gate,
terrified I’d never see you again.

I’ll remember the flowers,
but I won’t remember
falling in love with you.

posted on 4/28/2014, with 3 notesreblog

Twleve Hours at Epcot

You caught me staring
and smiled a nervous smile
that didn’t touch your eyes
but I didn’t stop looking
because I needed to absorb
every hazel fleck in the
cornflower blue of your eyes
and I needed to memorize
the curve of your lips
and the way they felt
pressed so softly against my own

and it wasn’t until your hand
was no longer entwined with mine
and I felt the absence
vibrating through my entire body,
like little shockwaves of sorrow,
that I realized
you’ve ruined me for anyone else.

posted on 4/5/2014, with 4 notesreblog

I Want to Write about You

I want to write about
the way your hair feels like silk
and how my fingers always seem
to become entwined in the strands.

I want to write about
how my body fits so snugly against yours
and how the absence of your body heat
makes me shiver in the middle of the night.

I want to write about
your sweaty palms
and how they don’t bother me
because holding your hand makes me so happy
that I don’t even notice most of the time.

I want to write about
laying on the ground beside you
in the middle of the street
and staring up at the stars
while you told me all about the cosmos,

and I want to write about
how the sound of your voice
is actual music to my ears,
the kind of music you feel deep in your chest
and that stretches to your extremities,
the kind you crave in the silence
and think about in the dark.

I want to write about you
because you’ve sparked something in me,
something I forgot I could feel,
and I want to write it down
and show the world
and let everyone know how absolutely incredible you are,

but writing about you
would be admitting that you’re always on my mind,
and I don’t know
if that’s something I’m ready to admit

posted on 3/13/2014, with 5 notesreblog

4 AM Promises

You told me
my walls kept people out,
and I told you
that was the point.

You told me
walls couldn’t keep me
from getting hurt,
and I told you
if I never let anybody close enough,
nobody could damage me.

You told me
pain was a necessary risk,
if the outcome could be love,
and I told you
I didn’t know what love was.

Nothing I said
could scare you away,
and I tried to frighten you,
when I called you in tears
because the demons started whispering
and I wanted to slash them to pieces,

or when I told you
I still saw him in my dreams
and his hands still grabbed at my skin
and his palms still played patty-cake
with my cheeks.

You told me
you would protect me
and I told you
I didn’t need protection,

but you stood guard anyway,
a dragon protecting a princess,
and you wrapped me in warm words
and sleepy smiles
and guarantees of mornings.

You told me
you would cook for me
and tuck me in
and take care of me,
and I didn’t tell you anything
because the only way to say thank you
is to introduce your lips to mine.

posted on 2/14/2014, with 4 notesreblog

Rise & Fall

It starts with a sigh,
a pause on the lips,
an exhilation of longing

He catches the sigh mid-air,
returns it,
lips meeting in a haste,
like a child tasting candy
for the first time.

Skin flushes,
excitement shows in
shades of pink
and degrees of warmth;

hot to the touch,
small noises of need,
pleas for more,
oh gods, more

a grunt,
noises louder,
for release.

in white-

More sighs,
longer, satisfied,
hunger satiated for now.

The tendrils of sleep
wrap their wispy fingers
around her body
in a lover’s caress

and rock her gently into the abyss.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 1 notereblog


Looking through this blog,
I finally understand
how she must have felt
all those years ago
when she found out
that her best friend
had snuggled up to him
in the middle of the night

and Karma,
seeking to create a universal balance,
doesn’t forget things that happened
years ago
when you were a different person
and before you understood remorse
and doesn’t care
that you weren’t in your right mind
or that you’ve changed,
that you’ve killed off that part of yourself

She’s poisoned this relationship
with her crimson pout
and her creamy skin
and I should know better
than to try to fix something
that is so wholly broken

An equilibrium will be reached
even if someone has to get stretched
and mutilated
and even if a relationship has to wither
and die
in the process

posted on 1/24/2014, with 1 notereblog

All I Want for Christmas

Lights shine down on my skin,
reflecting reds and greens and blues
as Christmas music blares in the background.

A cup is shoved into my hand
and steam curls around
the peppermint stick floating
like a red-and-white striped straw
nestled snugly in the cocoa.

Laughter pierces the air,
deep and booming,
like thunder next to my ear,
and I know I’m meant to return the sound,
but my lips refuse to tilt upward.

Being home doesn’t mean much
when I’d rather be fourteen hundred miles away,
where the snow slides between bare branches
and kisses the pavement. 

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
is far more interesting
when the words are laced with
the lilting baritone of your voice.

I thought I’d sleep better
once I was back in my own bed,
but I need the lullaby of your sighs
to rock me into dreamland.

And when I wake up tomorrow
to shiny, tin-wrapped boxes
carefully stacked under the
pyramid of pine needles and ornaments,
my smile won’t reach my eyes
because the only thing I want for Christmas
is to be enveloped in your arms.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 0 notesreblog

The Wind

Warm whispers
among gossiping leaves
greet the afternoon
and bask in the summer sunshine. 

Fierce shrieks
howl through the night;
the leaves become frantic
as they’re ripped from their posts
and are pelted into the ground. 

The salty water
washes over the pier
in giant, tumultuous waves,
and the sand,
fearful for its life,
flees to the shelter
of the asphalt. 

Like the tiny rock sediment,
I cannot weather the storm.
When his mood shifts to volatile,
and he lashes out with words steeped in venom,
I run away and abandon him,
and I cling to the stability of isolation. 

I don’t like talking about the wind
or thinking about the wind
because the wind uses its might
to frighten,
to intimidate,
to bully;
the wind taunts and threatens the leaves
until they give in
and release their hold on

their branches, 
and then the wind laughs
when the world sighs and says
the leaves should have tried harder
to hold on.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 1 notereblog

Dear Felicia

Don’t listen to Ellie
when she talks about the euphoria
and when Andy wants to show you
her crimson loathe-lines,
turn your head.

Don’t believe Sully
when he says he cares about you;
he only cares about
running his calloused hands
over the softness of your skin
and he won’t listen
when you tell him to stop. 

Don’t prick your finger
just to see how much it hurts
because pain is a drug
and you will overdose on it.

Don’t fall for Trevor’s charm
because you’ll fall in love with him
and he’ll leave you
after promising forever.

Don’t waste your time hating yourself
because that hatred will devour you
and high doses of Prozac
and three years of extensive therapy
can’t wash away the bruised eyes
or erase the scarlet lines
tattooed into your flesh. 

Call your therapist
before you swallow that bottle of Tylenol
because you’ll regret your decision
ten minutes after the
acetaminophen enters your bloodstream. 

And eventually you’ll put down the blade,
but you’ll pick up a bottle
and discover how addictive delirium is;
listen to Jenny when she tells you to stop,
and never touch Liquid Courage again. 

But most importantly,
disregard this letter
because it’ll save you from agony
and poor decisions
and the monster of addiction,
but it’ll change who you are in the end. 

And trust me,
in the end,
you are happy.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 1 notereblog

The First Day of Autumn

Tiny droplets infused with winter’s icy breath
cleanse the burnt pavement
and wash away summer’s golden touch. 

Greying skies,
like a sunshade over the city,
signal an end to warm vitality. 

August’s independence
makes way for October’s co-dependence
as “alone” becomes “together.” 

Wind blows kisses
and weaves chilly tendrils
through hair finally released from elastic confines. 

Windows of coffee shops fog
from the lively chatter of those who’ve
forgotten night’s cold embrace. 

Summer’s embers crackle and die,
and the trees’ leaves chase after them,
drowned in autumn’s rain. 

And as Darkness
momentarily gains the advantage
in the annual battle with Light, 

I find that more than ever,
I crave your body nestled against mine,
warming me from the outside-in.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 2 notesreblog

You’re Not Welcome Here

I don’t like the stench of tobacco
that clings to your shirt
and infiltrates my sheets,

and I don’t like
the callouses on your hands
or how they feel running over my skin.

I don’t like the way my name sounds
eerily similar to a dog’s
when you tell me
to sit
to stand
to lay down.

I don’t like
how your arms are like a vice
or how I have to hold myself
to make myself feel safe.

I don’t like the way your scruff
tangles and tears my hair
as it scrapes against my scalp,

and I don’t like how your enjoyment
your comfort
your desires
take precedent over my own.

I don’t like the way you say
you know I want it,
like I’m a confused child
who needs help making a decision;
I don’t want it
and I don’t want you
in my town
in my home

in my bed.

posted on 1/24/2014, with 2 notesreblog


Abraham Lincoln
signed the Emancipation Proclamation
and freed the slaves

The Germans 
elected a dictator
and tried to take over the world

Arabs discovered the concept of zero
and so did the native tribes
across the pond

You told me I was beautiful
and you didn’t run when
I showed you my scars

but someone else came along,
someone better than me,
and suddenly I was just pretty

and my scars were markers
of my instability

and you decided you’d rather
have her

and you walked away
as easily as 
walking away from a stranger.

I shattered,
like the stupid, insecure girl I was,
and I cried

riverbanks rising, 
even as towns flooded,
until the day it stopped

as suddenly as it had started,
the water stopped
and receded

and I healed,
stitch by stitch.

She left you,
just like you left me,
and she broke you

but you don’t know how to sew
and resigned yourself to staying broken
and I took pity on you
and stitched you up.

I hated you,
but loved you,
and hated more that I loved you,

and when you came back to me,
I slammed the door in your face
but still talked to you
through an open window.

Our wounds have healed,
and scars still remain,
but don’t hurt anymore

and I’ve taken the chain off the door
and invited you in for tea,
and somehow you ended up staying the night

but you didn’t leave in the morning,
and stayed through lunch and dinner,
and slept soundlessly beside me again,

and I think that’s how history works;
it’s facts and figures and dates,
and it can’t be changed, for better or for worse,
but it can be accepted,
and learned from.

I still worry that I’ll wake up 
in the middle of the night
and the bed will be empty,
and your pillow will be cold,

but I revel in the warmth of your skin,
and in the feeling of your arm
protectively wrapped around me,

and sometimes I hear you whisper my name
in your sleep,
in a voice full of love and affection,
and, for that night at least,
I can sleep peacefully.

posted on 9/9/2013, with 1 notereblog