imajesste:

Rugrats porn. It exists. That is all.

Just type in rugrats and you’ll find it at some point bahaha.

The Hands that Prey

By Jessica Saltzman

It really touched me

When you said you were a religious man.

You really touched me.

Six years old with no one to save me,

I was too young to understand—

No one had ever touched me.

You told me not to scream, calling me baby,

Yet you screamed not to tell, not even Gran.

You really touched me.

I kept that deadly

Secret for a year, obeying your command.

I didn’t want you to touch me.

You were guilty and they set you free,

While I was caught by that long-nailed hand,

The hand that touched me.

Maybe you’re alive, but you were always dead to me.

Now I command my body—I can finally breathe.

You really touched me,

But you never broke me.

Senior Portrait

A Free Union poem by Jessica Saltzman

The portrait hung by a memory,

A lie captured by the shutter of technology.

The portrait, with its lid of glass,

Sealed his face in a casket for all to see.

The portrait nailed his body to the wall,

Forced him to face the third dimension.

The portrait, free of crease or fold,

Pressed over his faults with an iron.

The portrait with its glossy patina,

Tacked on like his mandatory smile.

The portrait told the story of a life wasted,

Rotten as the wood of its frame.

The portrait no longer hangs,

But his body does.

Of Mice and Men

A Sestina by Jessica Saltzman

These days, I feel as though I am nothing,
merely a mouse trapped in a corner.
I tell myself that I am a rusty tool of no use,
unable to mend what’s been broken.
My conscience sits casually upon my shoulder, impatiently waiting
to shatter my heart’s

reflection. And then, there’s that man who tells me to fear nothing,
to come into the spotlight and leave my insecurities in the corner,
That I have gifts of great use,
and that because I am with him, he no longer feels broken.
His clumsy fingers lace with mine, anxiously waiting
to hear the response that will rekindle his heart.

For a brief moment, I say nothing.
I glance off into the corner,
uncertain of the right words to use,
fully aware that his life could halt, a screeching brake,
if he didn’t hear the words for which he was waiting.
Yet, the silence tells him everything, igniting the final eruption of his heart.

He had expected my lips to draw close to his ear and whisper sweet nothings,
but I scurry away as if I were cornered.
Tears form as I read him like a used
book.  Thick, unbreakable

Chains pull him down like a weight.
His lost his mind in another battle of head versus heart.

“It’s nothing
Personal” I say.  And I long to crawl back to my friendly corner,
the welcoming wall being my sole companion of true use,
my only bond that can’t be broken.
Guilt begins to press upon me, a weight,
 A weapon triggering a riptide of sharp tears to head straight for my heart.

Now I am left with little more than nothing.
Stretched before me is the beautifully paved path to my corner.
The darkness beckons me to put my mind to good use,

 To feel relieved that it was I who did the breaking,
rather than allowing myself to chase after a love that, like the others, would never wait.
Never again would I fall victim to a predator so eager to sup on my heart.

He pulls away from the filthy institution,
driving until the “County Jail” sign is as blurry as her memory,
and finally mutters to the rearview mirror, “Murderer.” 

Natural Disaster

By Jessica Saltzman

I was born a natural disaster,

Nearly swallowing the earth with my very first breath.

I grew older, taller,

Until I became a tsunami,

Building an endless wall within myself.

The wall became a mountain

Whose peak was my throne.

It only took a chill to make me stumble,

And break my crown.

I fell, an avalanche,

Suffocating the meadows under my heavy white blanket.

The cold numbed the pain,

And I slept, undisturbed, on the frost-bitten ground,

Until my rude awakening.

Mother had removed my blanket,

I was exposed.

Dirt filled my mouth when I dared protest.

Rage built within me,

Congesting my lungs,

Until I finally erupted,

Coating my empty bed with liquid lies.

Thunder pounded

To the unsteady beat of my heart.           

And lightning traced its branches

In the indigo sky.

Mother’s scolding eyes peered through the branches,

Silencing my tragic melody.

She saw right through me.

My molten mess began to harden,

As my fury turned to fear.

My bones felt brittle,

And I began to shake.

The world shuddered with me,

Before collapsing under my weight.

All that remained were shards of glass,

In which I could see my shattered reflection.

A face as weathered as the expired earth.

My tears and I marched solemnly down

A road to which I knew no end.

A road of broken glass,

Slicing my flesh with every step,

So that blood became an ally to my “Tear Drop Army”.

The crimson river began to flood,

But I finally swept up the mess I made,

Built a ship of glass,

And set sail.

If only Mother could see me now.