Guilty Pleasures
Were our two unspoken words
Unclean Hands - Linda Kowalchek
My tiny room is free of light Crescent moon alone in the sky Stained lace curtains drawn closed Radio quietly whispers on the nightstand Small town existence smothers every dream I have Of life in a city overflowing with yellow taxis and weathered brick skyscrapers Smell of chicken pot pie overwhelms my senses Someone putters pointlessly in the kitchen Reminding me I am not alone in this house I am never alone no matter how much I crave solitude At fourteen-years-old I have plans for my future A fantasy that fills my brain as I fade away to the sound of Top 40 hits Startled by the feeling of flesh on my body I am awakened by hands in the middle of the night Warm dancing digits Hands I recognize from their touch Soft, short, stocky fingers Wide palms made strong from daily chores Fingertips tentatively tracing a path toward my stomach Moving to a part of me I’m not allowed to discuss Or think about in my home If I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist It remains a figment of my imagination But something is happening I feel something pushing inside me Deep between the folds of skin And pieces of me I have always pretended weren’t there In, out, up, down, around again and again Fast and fierce feels better, but deeper fills my soul I squint my eyes tight to make myself disappear I feel every part of me getting hotter I can barely breathe Then a flash of bright white light and I can no longer see It’s over now I quickly fill with shame I blink my eyes and focus on the hands that were just inside of me The dirty appendages that committed this filthy act I know these hands Fingers covered in denial and blistered with guilt The hands of hidden dreams and hopes and schemes I know these sinful hands These hands belong to me.
© Linda Kowalchek 2025
Browsing History - Edward Swafford
WWW - DOT - HeSiTaTiOn, craning my woven head of fourteen nonelemental years, scanning the all-seeing hallway for any arid sign of sight.
It’s two or three in the morning and that blanket of night outside is suffocating. I imagine naked men all over the world in that instant; sucking, fucking, living.
It’s not my time and this knowledge excruciates, and the online ether promises much - but how do I delete the browsing history?
“Ebony and Ivory men” is the first emboldened link SO I click, shapes of cream above (and below) delicious, dark beige, fill the space between innocent irises and a future-cum-soon world.
Hundreds of images fill the screen, scrolling scrolling (doom)scrolling, more angels in stark disguise await and - WAIT, I must delete the browsing history.
The scrunched, sinewy tissues are clutched in s-h-a-k-e-n adolescent hands, yet I want a BIG finish, I want it all, in that charged moment I’m craving seconds of craven regret-rush.
And then it’s over.
The browsing history? Where is the fucking settings on this thing?! I can’t risk it, and with one freefallen release the laptop hits hardwood floor, taking my secrets to its technological grave.
© Edward Swafford 2025
Just wow. I like that these two were very different in style, and in presentation, but produced the same feelings (for me, at least). Linda you captured so many emotions in one piece. Edward, I’ve been there. Not sure if I’m ashamed or oddly proud of that 😂
Fantastic pieces, both of you. I need some holy water now.
I'm going to keep this tab open for 24 hrs. Must send a message to the Universe.