Love is #3

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Love is

when he prefers sleeping hot

but still lets you put

 your icy hands on

his back.

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2017


OCD Dreams

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When you’re having a dream and running from some scary dudes, orange flames shooting up all around you BUT you see a huge mess so you stop to clean it up and realize even asleep you can’t escape your OCD.



My mouth weeps

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My mouth weeps for me

in crimson rivers flowing

between sealed lips

gliding down marked skin

they trace ribbons of guilt and shame

over rounded flesh

curved hips and strong thighs

until I am stained with words

not my own


my mouth weeps for me

yet the only two words my mangled tongue

has wished to scream

remain trapped behind smiling acceptance

and wary eyes

for expectations always met


my mouth weeps for me

for my silence and self-preservation

they gather into ruby puddles

curving, arcing words

form my soul’s cry

…#me too.


She caught his eye, blushed and turned away, unprepared to deal with such overwhelming temptation.

“Don’t deny me Susannah. What we have is-” He sucked in a breath and in the space of a moment desire flared. “Irresistable.”

His southern drawl skittered up and down her spine, and she drew nearer. “I shouldn’t.” But it was too late. A heady aroma enveloped her in a seductive web of hunger and want, and she ran a finger over his hot skin, her nail piercing his tender flesh.

“Maybe just a taste,” she whispered, grabbing a leg

“You won’t be disappointed. I’m finger lickin’ good.”


I don’t know why food porn today seemed appropriate, but I think it’s time for dinner.


(C) Sara Ackerman, 2017


via Daily Prompt: Deny

Inside the Mountain

Honeyed lies from mewling lips

spewing false platitudes

echo like gospel in the rafters of our minds

until after years of hearing distorted speech

we accept for fact that which is not true

(I think I can. I think I can)


Those words,

a refrain drilled

into my subconscious until the only reason

I perceive success is because of a line of text from

a child’s story,

offer no more than false hope

and empty sentiments to fuel a waning fire

twisting until the flickering life is


(I think I can. I think I can)


But at the end of the day it is still


clinging to the face of the mountain

wind howling,

arms heavy as numb fingers dig into




(I think I can. I think I can).


Because no matter how hard I try

how hard I push

“I can” is not always my reality.

My reality is waking up in the middle of the night

screaming at ghosts decades old

It’s pushing myself to

exhaustion to prove

my worth,

or coming to the startling realization no matter

how hard I try

some  peaks will remain

out of reach.

(I think I can’t. I think I can’t.)


There is no way around this, no


or through.

There is only stubborn refusal

to give in,

to  check selfish interests

and resist unlocking clenched fingers from their



to fall.


(I think I am. I think I am.)



what if the only way around was through

and the only way out was in and

a place existed where giving up

equates success while

letting go was a victory.

(I think I am. I think I am.)


When I finally hear the voice above the battering winds

and let go

I fall-

not to be crushed

but embraced,

wrapped in ropy tendrils of solid granite

absorbed into layers of ancient sediment-

blue, gold and red.

(I think I am. I think I am.)


Within the beating heart of solid stone,

no longer unyielding but supportive

not unforgiving but firm,

I find my out

by going in.

(I am. I am.)