Stephanie M. Wytovich

The January Editor's Pick Poet is

Stephanie M. Wytovich

Please feel free to email Stephanie at: wyt3319@gmail.com

CHALK OUTLINE

She wonders how she got here,
Naked, and splayed out on the ground
In an artistic display of contortion, for all to see
Because in life, she couldn’t move like that
Couldn’t bend her arms at awkward angles,
Defy the rotation of her bones,
Or twist her head in an exorcist fashion

Yet this chalk line around her
Is making her presence all the more known
And she can’t seem to open her eyes
To make contact with the police,
Nor can she recognize her surroundings,
Making her current location all the more confusing

“What happened,” she wonders
Smelling the hot, metallic scent of her blood
Feeling the indentations that are etched in her skin
Tasting the semen that is dried on her tongue
Wondering where it all came from,
And how it all started

She doesn’t remember leaving the bar
Or seeing the pill that the gentlemen slipped in her drink
She can’t remember getting in his car,
And falling asleep in the front seat

His face is lost in her memory
As well as the way he touched her
While she feigned safety in her dreams
As her life slowly slipped away,
With every cut to her flesh

She can’t remember him throwing her,
Hurling her out the window of the car,
Her back getting caught on jagged pieces of glass,
As he shoved her harder,
Letting her fall on the pavement

She doesn’t remember any pain,
For the cracks in her bones must have happened on impact
Nor could she feel the blood draining from her body,
The ground drinking it in,
As she laid there quietly,
Letting it consume her

She wishes she could tell them something,
Lead the Police in some direction,
But her pretty mouth has been cut away
And the body bag covers her vacant expression,
Leaving them with no eye witness,
Just the chalk outline of a victimized woman

CHAIR DANCE

It was a race to the top-
A sprint for a chair that
Would end up being
Toppled over anyways,
And I prayed for once
In my life, that I would not
Finish second best to you,
That I would get there
First this time,
So you couldn’t take away
The spotlight from me
When I danced
In front of the family
Tomorrow morning

ON MY TERMS

He stared at me
Eyes ablaze with
Self hatred and regret
As he stood on a patch
Of dead grass and
Crumbled leaves

“Just get the fuck away from me.”

A tear drop
Rolled down his cheek,
As he pushed me away
Bruising the only jagged piece
Of heart I had left

“I’m serious.”

I stood there in my
Black t-shirt and favorite
Ripped jeans,
Cracking my knuckles
And sliding my hands
Down my side
In that nervous way
I used to get when
I got confused

“You really want me to go?” I said.

He turned,
Started to walk away
Like I never meant
Anything to him,
But the bullet lodged in
His back stopped him
Dead in his tracks
As blood started
To trickle down
The shirt I bought him
Last Christmas

“My pleasure,” I whispered.

And then I shot him
Six more times
One for each year
That I wasted my
Life on him

“Then I guess it’s time to go,” I said.

And only then,
Did I get in my car
And drive away,
But it was on my terms.
Not his.
Because no one
Tells me to leave
Unless I’m

Stephanie M. Wytovich is an Alumni to Seton Hill University where she was a double major in English Literature and Art History. Amongst having numerous publications, the most recent being her poem “Body Suit,” she enjoys painting and playing the piano. She is currently attending graduate school to pursue her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction, and is a nominee for the Rhysling Award for her poem "The Cheater." She plans to continue in academia to get her doctorate in Gothic Literature.

You can find out more about Stephanie HERE