Flinches Poems | Examples

The Lie of Forgiveness

Betrayal is strange—
once you’ve done it,
you kneel for forgiveness
as if asking someone
to betray themselves
for your sake.

You want their mercy,
but mercy means bending
a rule they never thought
they’d break.

And forgiveness?
It’s a well-dressed lie.
A theater of healing
played in cracked mirrors.
You think once the word is spoken,
the weight dissolves,
that time rewinds.

But we both know—
it doesn’t.

Even the forgiver
feels the shadow.
We hold hands,
but check the grip.
We laugh,
but hear the echo.
We love,
but we measure it now.

Is it really forgiveness
if the heart still flinches
when the wind shifts?

Or maybe it’s just me—
counting how many times
I almost choose
pettiness over peace,
truth over kindness,
pride over grace.

Maybe
I’ve forgiven.
Maybe
I’ve only paused
the punishment.

Maybe
we never forgive.
We just forget
to stay angry.

Dinner Table

We sit and share blood the colour of wine
that ripples in glass on table which stretches 
stretches stretches oceans between us. You’re
there but afar and I’m here but foreign. I wonder
what question you’ll ask me; what magnolia reply
I’d gouge out of the thinning air. Your hand flinches.

Love Hurts

“Kiss me,” she says—
her eye swollen, rimmed in red.
“Hold me,”
but not like that.
Not with fear pressed
into every rib.

He doesn’t answer.
Just slams the door.

“He loves me,”
she whispers to no one,
eyes darkening with
each retreating footstep.
Years of apologies
smear her reflection.
Each bruise
a disappearing act.

“He’s just under stress,”
she murmurs,
twins curled at her breast
like unanswered prayers.
“I push him, really.
He doesn’t mean it.”

She says this
with blood on her lips.
Still kneeling.
Still hoping.

He storms in.
“You filthy whore!”
And she flinches—
but not at the words.
At the familiarity.

The fist lands.
Again.
Again.
Like punctuation
on a life not hers.

“Make love to me,”
she begs,
but her body remembers
only impact.
Only art made
from suffering.

Blood spatters.
Scars bloom.
Her body,
a reluctant canvas.

“Surprise me with kindness,”
she thinks.
But bows her head:
“If not,
then beat me—
your highness.”

Somewhere, the children sleep.
Somewhere, a door doesn’t slam.
Somewhere,
love does not hurt.

Sometimes

Sometimes he eats in silence and still sets a plate for her.
Sometimes the mirror fogs but her reflection stays.
Sometimes he opens the closet just to breathe her in.
Sometimes he flinches when her song enters the room.
Sometimes he writes letters to a mailbox six feet deep.
Sometimes he wears her favorite color like a wound.
Sometimes he cooks her favorite meal and throws it away.
Sometimes he calls her phone and answers it himself.
Sometimes he goes grocery shopping and still buys her shampoo.

Sometimes he wonders how long love is supposed to last.
Sometimes he aches to know if he’s broken or just faithful.
Sometimes he laughs and it tastes like betrayal.
Sometimes he feels haunted, sometimes devoted.

Sometimes you don’t need pulse to feel presence.
Sometimes you love harder after goodbye.

Yes, world—he is in love with a woman he can’t see,
And that love is the most alive part of him.

Prescribed Celebration

(yes, I'm serious)

Three minutes.

That’s how long it took
to name a swarming mess:
A self-appointed poet
with rogue chemicals sizzling in her nerves.
The diagnosis long and fancy—
bitter but addictive 
on my tongue,
like the gin I’ve grown fluent in.
(Is that why his voice was slurred?)

                         “…The patient flinches
                         at the morning rains in May.
                         Her ink contradicts herself…
                         …and her thoughts betray.”

                         “…Well, this is why.” He pointed at my brain.

I sighed and rest
my head against the chilly wall
painted a welcoming shade of yellow.
The nurse lit branded candles:
they reserve lavender
for calming the stormier souls—
but I blow out the flame
with laughters drumming in my rib cage—

All this time,
I’ve been stuck
in debates on who’s to blame
But finally—finally,

Printed on stapled prescription bags—
a long, fancy name.
Now we can toast 
with tablets in paper cups—
Here’s to 
finding an enemy that's not me.

Character Witness

I wouldn't bother 
alchemizing language
into golden press releases
of your own making.

It never works long anyway,
grapevines get better reception.

A dog knows who flinches.
Moss grows where one lingers,
even silence
leaves thumbprints.

Say nothing. Say too much.
Either way—
they’ll know you.

Boundaries

The man in front of me is a broken one,
and my fingers are drowning in dripping glue,
in cement,
in something meant to hold things
To hold him
To hold myself and others together.
Yet he binds himself
with puppet strings, scotch tape,
and the wet breath of drugs.
Batting at my outstretched
Hands 
Dodging the warmth of a true touch, 
He flinches.
He bleeds- visibly 
and he screams from a
starlight-lost, daydream-blinded face 
that I am wrong.
He shoves daggers into my seams,
prying at my wounds.
Burning red and pulsing in purple bruise
Image of a warrior
turned blue.
while leaking he bursts open. 
Pain seeping into my sobbing mouth 
From his unstitched scars
So easy to tear. 
He rips with his own hands 
At the both of us
When he does not cover his ears and turn his back 
To cradle in a seething silence 
Clutching with razor blade hands 
the child,
The pained,
Chained, caged pet he swallows with every breath as if I cannot 
See the lump in his throat 
Or feel the kicking in his chest. 
But I am a mountain,
capped in the blood of a hundred storms,
and I will not cave.

When Pets and Their Companions Start to Resemble Each Other

I held the leash like it was sacred,
I warned that she spooked easy.
He knelt down slowly, extended his hand
like a priest offering sacrament
to a god built from nerves and ribs.

He said good girl too fast.
She bit down to the bone,
drained the smugness from his face— 
he earned it, the wound. The scar 
would preach a gospel he'd finally believe in.

Now, when he reaches for warmth,
it's with permission. His hand flinches
even when it's safe. The nerves 
didn’t come back right, fireworks 
in reverse: a cold bloom, 
then nothing good.

Still—
there’s a kind of comfort
in knowing how easily a creature 
can taste the air and understand
they're not safe, 
sense they're being lied to. 

And now, I should say, 

Beware—
I'm a lot like that.

Charles bukowskis Autopsy

they peel back my skin
like old wallpaper,
the stink rising
as the organs, bruised and bloated,
spill out like forgotten secrets.

the saw hums,
cutting through bone like butter,
the ribs cracking open
to a cold, fluorescent light
that never flinches.

the heart, heavy, useless now,
is weighed and tossed aside,
just another lump of meat
in a world that’s always hungry
for the next hollow thing.

looking down on what's left of me,
I turn in dicust 
having to do this sll over again.

The Face of a Hero

Heroes have many faces

Despite their deathlike pallor

The sum of any soldier

Is measured by their valor

The fear they feel in battle

But never ever flinches

Is purely a reflection

Of courage in the trenches

Even with odds against them

Will still fight to their last breath

Ever stalwartly they stand

And march bravely to their death

Flinches

One touch, an uncomfortable sensation
Two touches, moving swiftly away
Three touches, begining to panic
Four touches, the flashbacks begin

When the only touches one has received
Were from the hands of abuse and assault
And the very notion of being touched
Associated with violence, anger, and selfishness

Will I ever be able to open up to love?
Will I ever be able to unlearn years of trauma?
Will I ever be able to feel my fantasies?
Will I ever be able to forget the horrors?

Their faces all flashing through my mind
Like reels on an old video player
One of them leading to the next
Enough to fill the whole slideshow

The times where the privilege of my body
Was robbed by men, simply because they were stronger
Stained into my mind, anger and sadness
Wanting revenge, or wanting to erase it all forever

These flinches are what have killed my soul

Brother Whosoever

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To a dog, an empty hand's cause 
even a well-intentioned one
flinches an involuntary jaw.. 
your neighbor's just the same.

Have you grown leery the open palm?
wearied away as your brother's keeper.
Not responsible to his good name
nor good will as guarded trustee 
over your godchildren.

No blame to you, good sir
or madam-

No right or wrong
by royal decree
monastic or fiduciary..
nor heavy handed scepter
to wield 
relinquished or relished
as monarchal beneficiary.

Just the same, I 
in fealty or name
skeptically question  
right from wrong.. 
guilty as charged
all the day long. 

Often what I read and I see, 
some people scare me
put in my brother's shoes
I probably would too.

Jadaya and Peroxide Sunday

peroxide time
little jadaya skinned her knee
there are a few tears
there are a couple of 'ow's
there are even a few jumpy flinches
once the feeling passes, however, the kneepads go on, and it is back to it
i become a smiling hater and wish that i still had jadaya's energy
nevertheless, i had my time, and now it is her turn
i like my era of childhood better anyway
one day jadaya will say the same
in the meantime, i just shake my head, smile, and keep my ears and eyes open
oh, and the peroxide, along with the old school band aids, will be waiting alongside me

Mercurial Gemini Woman

We are a mercurial Gemini women.
Yes, you read this correctly.
We are so many personalities.
It might seem nutty to a Capricorn or Aries woman.
But we are at least six, maybe seven women
in one body that used to be tiny.

My husband of fifty years flinches when we walk toward him
in the morning.
He never knows if he is getting an upper cut to his chin
or a sexy kiss.
Our hazel eyes flash with happiness as we read his scared little mind.
We love this!

Graces Goldfinches-

Why aren't any graceful gracious go flinches going to the glorious grassy groves~


8/22/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020

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