getting rid of inhibitionsI peel off my skin; unrestrained.
crooked kissesAn old man sits at a bus stop,his ragged clothes soakedthrough to his creaky bones.He grips his beggars cuptightly, but instead of coins itoverflows with rain water.Passersby pass by withoutgiving a second glance, briefcases clenched in swinginghands, Bluetooth plugged intotheir ears. A little girl dressedin pink polka dots prancesto his side. Her mouth movesquickly and his takes time toform words. She giggles,drops coins into his cup, andgives him a kiss on the cheek.He laughs a crooked grin.
a sliver of the galaxyto the star girl on the edge of my tongue:your hair dye is fading; you are a patch workquilt comprised of sleepless nights andrestless days.the world around you romanticizesthe sadness that fills you like a broken well,but you know they’re wrong --having a darkness that threatensto overwhelm you every single momentisn’t glamorous at all.you’ve started to trace your skinwith a knife again, itching to pressa little harder, to draw on your bodythe only way you know how.but you won’t.because that will meanthat you’re just as far goneas they think you are.and there’s still a sliver inside of youthat doesn’t want to let go.--the girl on the other side of your mirror
Midnight Dancea necklace of clouds adorns the moon,silken strands supporting its weight.you are a streak of light tearingthrough the sky, swallowing everystar you blot out. you store themin your evanescent eyes, makingthem a beacon on the darkest night.your lips are coldwhen they meet my lips,and your skintastes ofcopper and adventure.the sun sits in the hollowof your throat as you swayto the music drifting throughsickly sweet air.your feet are heavy on mine --the tug of the ocean,drowning me in yourmetallic curves.our quicksilver tango cutsthrough the night, leaving a trailof acidic pleasure andelated misery.i believed you were human but you haveg e a rswhirring instead of a heart.your hum is soft,mechanical,as i teach you to danceunder midnight's glow.
Life Support (FFM Day 2)I barely have a chance to hang up my coat before a rushed ER doctor hands me a patient file to input in the computer. Opening the folder, I skip to the page detailing the patient's injuries. Car crash: multiple hemorrhages, broken ribs, cracked skull, possible brain trauma. Shuddering, I pull out the drivers license and my heart jumps into my throat. Marcia Jones, 5'9", blue eyes, organ donor. My sister.Glancing at her room number, I pocket her license and dash down the hall to the elevator, pounding on the UP button until the doors slide open and then close behind me. The sound of my tapping foot echoes off the elevator walls and drowns out the Muzak. It seems like an eternity before the doors ding open again. I squeeze through their small gap before they can open fully and weave my way through the people walking down the corridor.Her room door is ajar, but the lights are off. I cautiously push it open and take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. When they do, I gasp and
Rings of SaturnBlinding light pierces my eyelidsas I awaken from acriddreams; and the truth from me has hidall I undid, all I undid.You said I would never find youbut then I broke through the preview.Though I wish I could renewall that you knew, all that you knew.Please hold me close and watch me burnjust like the rings around Saturn.I’ll let you go: pseudomodernwords in pattern, words in pattern.
Winter Wanderlust i.Last winter you held meunder the light of yourfavorite constellation;our entwined "I Do's"floated up to becomediamondslodged in the sky.Every morning I woketo a warm cup of Earl Greyand a passionate kisson the counter top,hoping the marred woodwouldn't give way beneath me.I even let you lookover my shoulderas I poured my soulonto a piece of paper,handwritten memoriestinged with sepiaand wanderlust. ii.A whirlwind of postcards andnewspaper clippings.That's what you called me. iii.Our wallswere paintedwith verses ofmy favorite poets.From Eliot'swastelandto the simple,beautifullines from thethreadbare manwe meton St Rosebridge.I taped his poem abovethe bathroom mirror. I still rememberthe way his face lit up when youhanded him that hundred dollar bill.He thanked us with his written words. iv.We never did come homefrom our honeymoon, did we?Whenever you kissed my paper cutfingers, my spine sang with
in terminusyou say my timeline is infinitesimalwhen compared to your hourglassanatomy; a never ending cycle tickingtime away like a metronome, andagain gravity refuses to bend for me;i cannot see the fault lines in our skiesany longer. my crystal ball is cloudy,filled to the brink of destruction --your broken words and the obscuremisology that is to be our fate.
augustyou tear apartevery aspect of me,and i lie on the ground.dissected;still not whole.
Childhood Thoughts...Always a houseNever a home...
Bad DecisionsNote to Self:Naked Jogging?Illegal.
Misunderstanding“I thought you meant forever.” “Oh...”
A Sip of Alzheimer'sHe only forgot how to remember.
The Waste WorldShe said create the world, so I did. I made it dark and dusty, coughed up from my own black lungs. I gave the trees an ashen hue and the ground a color to match the starless sky. The creatures were murmuring oozes, globs of drying acrylic that inked across the orb of my bubbling imagination.Repulsing, it was in fact the product of an industrial mind. I was born from man's smog goddess and, if memory serves me, her breath was laced in exhaust which I inhaled nightly with her songs. She was soothing and complacent, her voice smokey like a hazy bar. No one could deny her features were hideous beyond belief. Her skin dripped pollution like morphine into veins, into deep red rivers to turn them ebony and clogged. Her eyes glistened obsidian, sharp and cold if you didn't know her at all. I knew she was lost and ashamed, as her mother, my grandmother, would often remind her of the destruction her presence caused. I loved her like grandmother nature never could.Grandmother was ,indeed, a gra
Best Served ColdIf there was one thing the children of Lancaster knew for sure it was that where one Allerdice went, another soon followed. So perhaps Bonnie Peterson should have known better than to push Roland Allerdice into the mud one summer afternoon. She smirked at the little boy, hands on her hips, while he glared up at her from the filth. A humiliated blush spread from his cheeks down to his collarbone, and while he didn’t appreciate being embarrassed in front of Bonnie and her entire circle of friends his main worry was the scolding he’d receive from his mother when she saw the state of his clothes. The laughing ceased with a collective gasp from Bonnie’s friends, as though they were trying to suck the laughter back into their lungs, and Bonnie whirled around. Thora Allerdice stood between them, completely still aside from the curls of her red hair which were caught in the breeze, and stared. There was nothing threatening in either her stance or h
GravityAcorn strikes Chicken.Little misunderstanding ensues.
InstitutionalisedEmbrace my wrists, take me home.
Your secretT'was you, that couldn't keep quiet.
I Looked Everywhere!The keys werein.my.hand.
Last WordsLast words are wonderful first impressions.
SWS: alone in a crowdAmidst the crowd,I am alone...•—–——————•this is my first six-word-story! Please tell what you think!
Tattoo RemovalI wish love had outlasted ink.
LimboHe stumbled between life and death.
At the TheatreHis hand clapped alone.Encore unheard.
Good Evening, OfficerOh, your name isn't Officer Handsome?
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