with blurry fingers
and white shadows
she beckons me
to her
mirrored hall
of
—- madness
————
–I won’t go
no, I won’t go–
but you are always in my eyes
spinning shadows
into
fire
underneath your
bloody rose
“What it is to be Red” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Rouge Illusion by Elle Hanley
I am here–
No hands to grasp
the prickly air
or
limbs that long
for impossible
love–
But
I
am
here
— a face stuffed
with pale, white
mud
–so that the world
will never get in
or out
of me.
-“Where I am Today” Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
My gaze–
brown and hard–
poses on
your
tiny
back,
piercing holes
into those
that you
do not
wish
to face.
“Safe” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Immunity by Filmout
At 12 I didn’t have that
homoerotic
best friendship that I’ve
seen in movies–
I never eased my sweaty
palm into yours
and we never
shared powdery-pink
kisses during sleepovers
just for practice.
I always slept on my side
clinging to a small square of
purple sheet
instead of with you
forehead
to forehead
in a sea of plush blankets
You were always different.
Sometimes Lisa
sometimes Brie
Jenny, Mia, Amy
and those faces in between.
and I always felt alone with you
because we never touched.
–all of you so far away
and me too
smart to reach.
But
I choose to have
your girlish warmth–
—lipstick—
— secrets—
youth
A mirage of adolescent love
to make myself
feel
whole
by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
the sting of her
flickers
in my sleepy
heart
for days.
— eyelashes
batting slowly
— golden collarbones
rising
and resting—–
like
bright,
blinking
blurs of
what Life
————--should be
– ” The Day After Samantha” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Native Elephant by Cassidy Rae Limbach
The women
are made of
heaven’s ruby lips
and honey-colored stares–
——–They are
those
chills
that prickle covered arms
in the brisk night air-
and
——— those
mysterious
flirtations
that warm dead fingers
with the electricity
of
promise.
but deep
in the bones of their pretty feet
—–deep
in the pits
of their brown bellies
is a passion sickened
and pale.
-Too old and beaten
to come
to life
for me.
-Angie Hoover -Hillhouse
the spirit of her
chaste
young
body
rests behind my slanted eyes—
a geisha
with
porcelain skin
and a heart painted onto
her
voiceless mouth.–
so graceful
as she
dances with paper fans
in silky robes.
—sleep —
—sleep—
For I am strong.
A woman
with feet unbound.
Legs bare
hands free.
And she
is
–a face
weak
and wading
in the milky water
Sunday Morning by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: The Porcelain Mist by Elle Hanley Photography
buried in fever
buried in pain
dragging her feet through the mud
—–in the rain
her toes digging slowly
hands shrouded in shame
while the hum of
humanity
dulls in her veins
–flesh peeling
flesh crying
flesh tired and stiff
and a still-beating heart
black and hungry
for death
Undead by Angie Hoover- Hillhouse
Artwork: Smoke by Jumpstick
The Show Tell Project 
