So so so. In light of all the recent events, the me has decided to try an anon challenge. The rules are simple and you’ll are awesome, so make my job difficult.
The topic is basically to write anything off ‘His hands’. Prose or poetry. Make it dark, dirty, happy or funny. Don’t limit your imagination. This is definitely for the boys out there as well. I hate to cage your creativity, but it has to fit in my ask box, and it has to be anonymous. The challenge will close at 23:59 IST onSUNDAY (the 1st) But if you guys be all stubborn and don’t participate I’ll probably extend the deadline.
As for the prizes, I don’t know if me writing you something is good enough an offer, but we can work all that out when we’re done and good. There will be a 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place, along with two honourable mentions (and honourable will be spelled with a u).
You guys can submit a maximum of two pieces each, cause otherwise it’s likely that one person will just take all the gold (regardless of the fact that there is no gold). Obviously, this is based merely on a trust thing, cause there’s no way for me to tell. Be good.
I’d really appreciate it if anyone reblogs this so I get more people in here.
And remember, your chances of winning increase exponentially if you participate.
I love his stories. The way his eyelashes stick to his skin when he doesn’t wipe away the tears. How his lip twitches each time he echoes the word ‘murder,’ while he holds his own hands. And from 5 feet away I can taste the bitterness in his veins — pumping flow that stops and startles him when the second hand ticks at 12.
I love her stories. The way her teeth grind and chip when she lets silence settle in between her lap. How her cheeks burn each time she remembers the slip of his cock waking her up when his wife didn’t scream for him. And though she’s burrowed in my shoulder I sense nothing but numbness in her soul — molding her into a cracked stone that hinders her from knowing what true love is.
I love his and her stories. The way they pollute my brain from my own spills and scars. Painting pictures in my eyes to foresee and empathize — knowing I won’t gape my mouth to even breathe. How they manipulate my memory and hypnotize my acknowledgement that I have problems, too.
I love fulfilling my life with others, so I can forget that I have my own burdens.
“There was once a little girl who stared at herself so long in the mirror that she turned into a rose.”
My mom told me this once when I was a child after she had caught me admiring myself in the mirror. There was no story, just that simple warning. I was only five years old though and my imagination worked wonders. In my mind bloomed the image of a young princess very similar in appearance to myself who stared at her self in the mirror for days. Her palm gently cupped her face as she looked into her eyes searching their depths. Little by little, starting from her bare feet, her skin grew geen and her hair fell into crimson petals that framed her little face. The gentle palm became a broad leaf and thorns began to stick themselves out of her sides. Until the last moment she stared into her own eyes. Even as she was choked and overwhelmed by the crimson petals that had swarmed from her hair. For a while I grew wary of looking at myself in the mirror too long. At least when my mom was around. I was a stubborn child. Vanity, most people would agree is my greatest flaw. Even now the mirror in my room is enshrined with products to make my skin glow and my hair shine. I have yet to turn into a rose.
Autumn is about puddles, leaves, and loving a girl while walking in both.
The sky was blue. That was the least important thing in the decor. The trees were orange, and the leaves had fallen everywhere. In puddles. Wet leaves. And we walked on these leaves, with smiles on our faces. Her eyes squinted while she laughed. I made her laugh. I would grin. My smile is an idiosyncrasy.
We played the games lovers play. These silly games we all know but we must keep secret. Those ignorant of these games could not picture them anyways. The trees were dark. The woods were bountiful. Leaves a plenty.
There was nothing but Autumn. Sometimes you have to say this, like this. There is nothing but Autumn. We dwelt in the purity of the moment. Fool’s in love. Dead leaves. The darkness of trees. When you look at a painting you see it. This is what the world saw this day as we played. Our kisses, our glances, our embraces, but the details of the painting.
I always wonder whether people really care when I talk to them about this, like this. I think of perfection a lot. I’m a real person. You can’t deny that from me. And I feel this Autumn. Perhaps you feel it to. We all share seasons. We’re all witnesses. To the orange leaves. To the puddles. We were all there.
I will go from here leaving paintings in my wake. Acrylic finger painted canvas and your body. Forever imprinted in your pores memory. Water based but my hands don’t wash away easily. You’ll remember me, when it comes that time to look back.
You’ll be void of regret and know that we were only just passing through each other, and our lives weren’t meant to stay attached for long. We’ll remember those songs, our laughs and the chemicals that sparked at a mere glance.
Happy to have met the other, sad to see us go but satisfied with the fond memories we’ll keep. Though I may never see your sunset again, an artist never forgets a muse.
i believe that if i stand in a library i should be able to take any book off the shelf and be amazed by staggering insight and originality or that if i go to a movie theater i should be able to sit down and see a passionate re-imagining or reflection of humanity
but that isn’t reality most everything is filled with stale, tired, pre-calculated content made by fearful people
i’ve seen brilliance in the eyes of cashiers and janitors
There are times I feel I’ve lost faith in a lot of things. In a way, it’s a normal part of growing up I suppose. I just wish I could feel inspired and passionate about something or someone in my life. I’m adept at being the strong, independent type, but I get a little weary like any other woman my age. Even girls like me gravitate towards love. The tug is almost as inevitable as the tides to the moon. Love reigns over all things in humanity, despite how hard we endeavor to prove this notion wrong. no matter how badly one person wants to run off like a lone wolf and fend for themselves in the wilderness of their own heart, they will eventually crave the company of another person. How do I know this? Once upon a time, ladies and/or gentlemen, I was a hardened disbeliever, willing to preach my pessimistic views to anyone that would listen. What changed? Everything that possibly could. At my age, I have loved a time or two and been hurt ten times more. Despite all my pain, my continued desire to be loved has endured and only grown as my heart has healed. With all that I have seen and felt, there’s no room in my heart for that bitter pessimist. There is only room for time, hope and the faith and trust that will come with the next glimpse of love. The hopeless romantic within me can hardly wait for that day.
Three am sounds like breathing, soft and steady, inhales and exhales, as the air laps like waves against the shore of ones lips. It sounds like crickets, chirping, stringing their tired legs like fingers on violins, and waiting for the moon to reply with applaud. It’s sounds like a hum, and click-click of a fan beating the late night heat, the echo of false winds hitting bedroom walls. It sounds like sighs, like the tiny wishes that hands make when they seek warmth in empty beds, and it sounds like yawning eyes, the slow blinking of anchors on eyelashes and the lull of sleep.
You are a curious thing, she says, kissing the undersides of my knees and planting soft seeds of love on every little groove of my spine. She dots constellations on my back with the tip of her nose as she makes her way to my shoulder blades. Her lashes dust my collarbones, caressing gently and when she leaves, I pick one up and make a little wish.
Don’t be fooled by the intellectual sugar that I preach by day, or the way my stylist takes my curls in her hands and calls them “kinky.” Don’t be fooled when you ask me about my heritage and I say I am one eighth Abenaki. Don’t be fooled by the poets I like and the books I read and the people I’ve slept with because they were never fooled. They knew that at the end of the night when I turned out the light and I hid these scars that traced across skin, skin I called olive, I was still, white. I was still a racist.
But that is not to say that I don’t wish that weren’t the case, that I could cover this skin in permanent paint and speak through the megaphone of understanding but I can’t. Because every word I say about race, every thing I do to pretend that I know what is best for you is only going to cut you. It is only going to push me away from you— don’t be fooled. I can only see the world through these eyes, and I will always try to see the world that you see, I will try, but I don’t even know what the color blue looks through those eyes. Close those eyes, so you won’t see that I am a racist.
And I laughed and looked away when you called me half-Japanese and I sat silent against your mocking Mandarin drunk talk ching chang chong because I couldn’t make you hear the beauty from every morning when I asked Yang Xu, “Ni jin qian hao ma,” but beauty was all I could see in it because I didn’t hear the syllables in the back of my mind like she did and all I could do was pretend. All I could do was pretend and hear the words “Asian fetish” when I went on a date with Kelly Cho, and she asked me where I wanted to go. And she asked me what I wanted to do. And she said she would do whatever I wanted. And I looked away, because she had showed me the self I had never wanted to be.
I am a racist, and it terrifies me. I sing Angela Davis through your bites of lunchtime sandwich meat and see the master’s tools in my hands even while I try to tear down your house because I was the first one out and my friends have yet to tell me what this fight is about. And I know it is about more. I know it is about more than me. It is about more than bleeding in alleyways and falling in front of trains. It is about more than the relentless lists of names. It is about more than AIDS victim candle flames held in shaking hands in the snow I know, I know it is about more.
But at night. When I am alone. When I stop and think about the suffering of my day, when I think about the rapes in alleyways and the illness that is eating me away and the way he always says that I will never be feminine enough for him to see me, and the way I can’t hide these scars and I fight so that they won’t define me, and I think about all of the things and all of the people that have been lost to me, the endless lists of names stitched into quilts because we all want to feel a part of something, and when we are suffering we feel we are compassionate.
But when my mind wanders those dark alleyways, the places where dark is scary and fair is good, and I fear my suffering and I fear my past and I reach out to hold your hand, I still flinch, because I fear the dark, I don’t feel safe in this neighborhood. I am still a racist.
Sadness underlined each of his forged emotions. Tightly quenching his fists he bashed the walls, threw lifeless objects. It was if they’d done something so intolerable, each became a victim. The violence had festered for some time and any obstacle he could touch he would destroy. He turned his back slid down the wall and aimlessly stared onward; he was lost in a labyrinth. He placed his red knuckles soon to bruise on his head, pressing against his temples ensuring his head wouldn’t disperse in the excruciating thoughts.
A flood of tears streamed from his eyes, and then a noise came, so haunting and eerie. It was a helpless cry, the kind of cry if another witnessed, they would immediately feel his despair. No one heard no one ever realized that he was filled with remorse and sadness. He never understood why he felt that way but he couldn’t continue on the devastating cycle. He molded himself into a ball and then suddenly unfolded each limb and rose up. He looked into the cracked mirror at his distorted reflection and walked out of the wreckage. Outside he sat on the bench, lit a cigarette, and wandered over to the road, and began to walk across as if no cars were coming.
She was a glass menagerie disguised as a garden of diamonds. Her lips were kissed with permanent smiles of expectation. She expected everything she touched to become light and beautiful. To change and rearrange into things that could never hurt her. Hope rose as breath and steam from deep within where her life originated, billowing out in disillusioned plumes. But, everything she touched, every thing she planted sweet kisses onto, turned to fire and venom, cracking her shell. Despite her value, despite her fragility, she just could not stop reaching into the snake pit, and bringing out writhing vipers of flame. They scorched her hands, and sank fangs deep into her delicate features. And she became a broken, cracked thing. Leaking out hope and pity and the stink of kindness from every site of damage. Yet still she churned out optimism in waves. Hoping, always hoping, that the next thing she caressed would become something radiant and lovely. Hoping, that the next thing she held in her hand would be something that loved her. Something that will heal her fractured features, and make her whole again. But, that could never happen. Glass menageries are not meant to last. They are temporary fixtures, that when stressed and chipped, eventually fall apart. She, the hopeful, breakable thing she was, fell apart splendidly - a volatile burst of hope followed by a shower of shimmering shards.
She hated him, and he knew nothing of it. He cared for her, but not nearly as much as she cared for him. It was a strenuous battle; always playing itself out in her head.
He had a way with sentences; he could move people with the weaving of his verbs and adjectives. She had a similar influence with her smiles, except for when he spoke. His words were like thorns in her blood. Cutting her veins down the middle, working towards her tender heart.
Now, as she stomped across his perfectly mowed lawn, she created a sentence of her own. She spat it into her frail little fingers, and wadded it up into a frenzied cluster of nonsense. Then she flooded her lungs as she reeled her arms back as far as she could.
She threw that sentence at him, and it flew through the air, flaming and freezing. At one point, it seemed suspended as a permanent jettison, accentuating the deep tones of the navy sky. But then it fell, toppled, and landed as shackles at his feet. There, the words scrambled themselves into their original form. They read:
You were never there for me; you never listened.
His face rose, and he saw her storming back into her house across the street. She didn’t turn to see him one last time. But her door banged shut, and sent a resounding echo through his bones. She didn’t turn to him one last time as his eyes bled vermilion: the color of her soul.
There are these moments, brief lapses in judgment when I begin to miss you uncontrollably. When my mind leans toward better days. When I recall waking in anticipation of another moment to know you better. When I smile upon remembering a joke you made, or the way your hair looks when it is a mess and mingled with the night air. When I recollect the warmth I found in your arms, or the way you stood as you watched me get into my car, knowing that I didn’t want to leave. These memories come rushing toward me like tsunami waves. These are the memories that used to conjure silent sobs on lonely nights. I did love you. But, just when I have remembered enough to make me want to reach out to you, the other memories come. The not-so-friendly recollections. How you found ease in ignoring me. How I sent you countless messages that went unanswered. How I poured my heart out almost daily and how you stepped over my spilled emotions. How I was willing to go back to being just friends, and how you wouldn’t even allow that. How you forgot that I exist. How you pushed me away with silence, and how you closed the door on us. I never wanted to walk away, but you left me no choice. I couldn’t sit in darkness forever, at some point, I was bound to see the light.
I tried an old English remedy tonight— well, kind of. Traded the black for chai; I clung to that cup of tea as if I’d fall apart if I were to set it down. Borrowed the idea from an old friend of mine—she was always drinking tea. Sat on my stoop, completely unaware of what time of the year it was. Inhaled the scent of laundry detergent, Studied carefully litter strewn across the curb; Watched a man stand on the corner, another carry his bike up his stairs, and one more with a guitar in its case. He hit a button and his car made the beep-beep noise. There were cherry blossom trees in bloom, the only reminder of spring for miles. A police car rolled by. An old lady in red with a suitcase. And there I was, a young woman in a leather jacket, clinging to a cup of tea and waiting. That’s all life feels like, sometimes—we’re waiting for something to happen. Those moments where we can’t make anything happen for ourselves, because we’ve already done the day and it’s too dark outside, Because sometimes life goes by in slow motion, and we’ve watched too many sitcoms, We’ve ran too many miles, devoured food and now we’re full; when there’s nothing left to do, Nothing left to do but wait for sunrise, to sip a cup of tea and watch the world unravel, Nothing left to do but feel the wind blow and to Crave a reason to hop in our car and drive away.
How the woods seem to swoop by car windows. Raindrops pelt the earth and the glass and I let my breath halt with their gentle touches. Smooth and clear like tears I haven’t cried in years They streak down and fly up off their gravel grave. And I can’t help it anymore and I don’t want to anymore I only want to see the stars I burned up in into you in you. I can’t feel as warm as I ever did again, not anymore ever I can’t feel you any longer, I can’t think of you forever more. You should be able to fit in my pocket and I in a locket But that will never be the case and I may always have to chase The moments you gave to me and I tried to share with you. I hope you liked the feelings of my lips because I can’t forget How yours taste and how your skin grew bumps when I breathed. I can still feel your hand in mine when it’s silent and the silence Is calming and comfortable now that I could spend it with you. I’ll always hear the slight sounds of breathing and the scratch Of dry lipped brushes in the dark in the front seat of cars, And maybe I’m just a fool over you and I fell into you Into mysteries and cynical thoughts and slight smiles, Perking corners of lips to tease another as you shy away. And I quit being shy around you because I just didn’t want to be I was in control and losing it all and I’d rather have it no other way. I still can’t describe how you poisoned me but I can show you where. When I look at the stars tonight maybe you’ll be looking too And we can see each other burning in the atmosphere, We can meet each other in the sky for one last night.
Because I’m going to die and nothing will be left of me. Memories will fade, pictures will crumble, even my tombstone will be erased of my name. So fill their heads, fill their hearts, fill their lives with my thoughts, my ideas, my once-existence. I am mortal but my creations will be forever and so will I.
I stared at him, heart in my head, as he leaned over the subway bench— Piss drenched pants covered in all the fucks he gave, shaking his body with a violent shiver the lining of his olive parka pulled against him the stuffing giving way to the warm, lustful air of this whorehouse of a train car
It is dark and devastating. Coming full force like the winds of a tornado ravaging the land, but instead of the winds, it is your words that pierce and shred. You have me shackled, chained to the head board that cracks time and again when my back is slammed against it. Your hands are clever soft and unyielding—-agents of trickery that pull the veil over my body so that I believe that what you do to me is sacred.
And it is, lover mine because your eyes are deceiving and the words that you speak are candied lies that flow so easily by you and I can’t help to believe in them, so false and beautiful.
Because there is truth in my claimed condition. The bruises are visible for all to see and I exalt in being marked. There are stories waiting to be told in the scars you leave, and there are poems yet to be writ that arise from kisses placed on lips other than mine.
At an in-the-flesh poetry slam, all poems are judged on a numerical scale by five randomly selected judges. Your performances will be judged by a secret panel assembled by Amy and Solange and it’s a secret.
The use of props, costumes, or music is forbidden. You will be disqualified if you use any of those things.
This is an open competition. Anyone is allowed to perform, in whatever style you choose. But remember that you are being judged on your performance as well as on your poem!
Post your performance as a video and tag it with #tumblrpoetryslam
Those rules are actually way less intimidating than they sound. Just get out there and give it your best shot because everyone is cheering you on!
She laid with eyes leaking, His kiss never had meaning, Dropping from the coal lashes Each lie was a blessing. Onto those eyebrows that felt He had created a part of her, As though they had been lifting Then ripped it away (again) Weights from her soul forever. Before she could inhale the glue. Time (It was only backwards Stood When the tilting became So still Dangerous to dare.) And stones fell from the moon, Birds reminded her of music, So fiercely they glowed, Forcing the dying screams away, Pouring interruptions of red upon her lids Those weak cries Before realization of emptiness crashed, Dying with the sun. Splintering her sternum and setting fire to her lungs. On his path, she’ll go, Killing memories with green, Forging hope from guilt.
maybe we could be more than just you and me why shouldn’t we explore the idea of what could be? is it fear that it will not be everything we thought it would be? or is it fear that the merging of you and me into ‘we’ will damage the friendship we protect so adamantly?
You were the one I always loved. I think you’ll be the last I love with such fervour; such overwhelming immensity of inexplicable emotions that rush through my tired form. You enlighten me, and illuminate the darkened halls of my uninspired mind. I think I won’t ever love someone as much as I love you.
i’ll always be in the mood for you to love me where the only conversation is between our mouths — our tongues doing all the talking — my hands finding their way to your most delicate places — my lips leaving behind little notes for you to remember
Her wrist always hurt when she played piano and she swore on Mozart’s grave that it was because her bones ached for all those wasted hours spent playing music that was not alive the way he was alive, because even after the rheumatic fever took his breath from his lungs and his fingers were buried in the dirt, his genius lived on with a haunting optimism she could never understand nor imitate and with every jarring chord she played she would wince in pain because even her body could understand that it was killing something beautiful.
I haven’t been held together this long, ever. Little bits of me are always threatening to fall away and I am always fumbling to catch them before they do.
This makeshift, body of mine. Walking casket, iron casing for my soul. This battered aluminum shed full of garden tools, swaying with the wind, is usually close to crumbling.
I am so ready for implosion, that I don’t bother to plan for the future. I don’t even bother with worrying for the chain link called family to grieve for me. It’s inevitable. One day, I’ll be a grinning stain on their memory. And for this reason alone I try to love them furiously.
But there is something about today, something that I am noticing. I haven’t been noticing my fault lines. I haven’t been much worried about the earthquakes that threaten to break me apart. I have been mending. I have been standing, on solid ground, and not the quick sand that I am used too.
It’s a rather peculiar sensation that I am trying not to shove in my pockets and forget about like lint.
Its in the salt and water The terror that it brings All these voices talking Of childhood and things That hurt our hearts and souls I feel tension around me I’d smoke a couple bowls To wane the pain I see Blue fabric, padded chairs Feel rough beneath my skin Talking to the group, to me Is a blatant, selfish sin I do not know where past is going Or where my future went I feel as though this is the end My life has all been spent I do not like the sound of my Voice in crowded space Sweat begins to soak my hands And the heart begins to race Plush animals of bulls and bears Reminds me of a song “She’s sinking, she’s sinking!” My mind strums along This circle of chairs makes me sick Can’t talk me back in shape I will not say what’s on my mind My thoughts they shall not rape
every time we fucked you traced my scars fingers stinging like seeing a match burn twice and i’d compare you to the holy fucking trinity
but now there’s just disgust broken bottles littering ash trays a drink too many, out of cigarettes burning matches and holy trinities, forgotten
i tried a stint of self depreciation mucking myself up, looking for a way to break muddy waters for you to lose yourself in but you just traced my scars lingering on what seemed new i was becoming foreign
we still fucked
no holy fucking trinity, just fingernails on a chalkboard ripping apart my ears so i couldn’t hear you mutter the words i didn’t want to hear
It’s springtime and I realize I’m not looking at the trees and the flowers and the buds like I used to. I remember last summer, you in the drivers seat of my car. Windows rolled down, hot summer air stinging my face causing tears to roll down my cheeks. My hair was long and so was yours. You asked me to pack a bowl, so I did. I’d always sit there with it in my hands, until you’d ask if I was going to sit there and admire it or smoke it. I’d take a hit and pass it to you, then put my feet up on the dash, realizing how badly I needed to cut my toe nails. Sometimes we’d do this with no music on, just the sound of the wind blasting through my car, and the random giggles that would come up from my throat for no reason at all. You’d look at me and smile, not with your mouth but with your eyes. They always had a way of doing that. Your eyes could stop me mid sentence, mid stride. Sometimes they would scare me, and other times they would comfort me. I miss your eyes the most I think.
I regret tomorrow for the things I will not do which I should for the sake of my heart and mind, and the things that I will do that will pain me for the rest of time;
I regret tomorrow for the words I will not say, and I regret tomorrow for the chances I won’t take. I regret tomorrow for the what-if’s, the should’ve beens, the would’ve dones, the I couldn’t say; I regret tomorrow, and tomorrow I will regret today.
i find beauty in death like no other it’s a fragility that unleashes itself upon anyone — who dares to brush against it the body ceases to pump blood, the heart stops beating 72 beats per minute the lungs are expunged by the mere thought of breathing in oxygen lips become blue like a clear night’s sky the bones brittle crack and turn into ‘remains’ the skin becomes specks of dust leaving grains of a beautiful mind
the soul lingers waiting for another vessel to fill
Blade in one hand, Light in the other, She pretends to be asleep, So she doesn’t frighten her mother. All these days mean next to none, And in her head the animals have fun. They slip and slide and jump around, Before the realise it’s to late and fall to the ground. There they will stay until the dawn does come, Shall they then pick up their troubles and start to run. Run turns to sprint and sprints to fly, Just so they don’t have to look their mother in the eye. The next day will come and they’ll hang their heads in sorrow, Walk slowly straight back into the head of the burrow. Awaiting patiently does their mother stay, hoping that they will not move away. “Open your eyes” a new day calls, as the realization sinks in, she stretches on all fours. Out of bed she gets and infront of he mirror and thinks only one thought “fuck, I’m not getting thinner” The food she won’t eat gets chucked in the bin and the continuous thought that I must get thin. Day by day, the weeks pass by, No one would even look her in the eye. Feelings of replacement slowly sink in, so she drowns herself in sorrows for what the next day will bring. Back at ‘home’ where it all gets worse must she face those she fears the most. Insults flung and threats given, she runs to her room, hoping to be forgiven. Weakness comes over and the blade pops out, “Now I’ll be free” she says with no doubt.
Side Note: I think what caught my eye about this piece was how raw it was. Each line is utterly hollow. It makes me feel nostalgic and pain so deep it is almost not there at all. It feels as if it has gone through me. Empty.
Thanks for reblogging my piece :) I'd originally intended that one to go with the bucket list series, but it turned into something else as I wrote (as prose often does.) Thanks again, I just wanted to show my appreciation for what you guys are doing here.
Things were different when all I had to worry about were the bones poking out from underneath my skin, pulled tight over ribs and hips, put on display so everyone could see my harrowing sense of self-control.
“I know it. I hate it too. I hate myself.” “I’m sorry.”
like everything we say after this, my words are nothing. only empty words echoing an an empty person, the gaping holes our hearts have become. we are empty, drained of each other. my heart is a wound in the shape of her.
“it’s not your fault.” she throws into the vacuum we have become. like everything else it gets sucked into the void. empty words have no weight. we say things to fill up this chasm for fear of falling in too.
we are alone, and we feel this now more than ever. the weight of the world pushing us into the hole. pressing down on us like a lover’s body.
early morning, it’s been a long night, cloudy head maybe some things are better left unsaid the water collects in these caves, runoff left over from oily exhaust of the rivers that carry dirt and dead things, that run down the street and purge themselves in the ocean eternally enchanted
a look and a few words and a moment of dark hurt, then the comfort of my hardening heart the self-sufficiency of introversion a protective shell around my emotions, a reminder of what happens when that shell breaks
traveling again, turning into machines, cogs and bolts evident intent, the landscape shifts almost imperceptibly, the hills and pockets intensify small earth quakes of puzzles and camouflaged colors
what seeps through the cracks the soil left?
light steps in the darkening sun, a savior, hello snails, hello spiders sixteen, i count them, and return them to the dirt and web
I clutched the arms of the chair I was sitting on and held it firmly beneath my grasp. I couldn’t see straight, the walls blurry and the figurines and statues occupying the store’s vacant lots mixed up— I couldn’t tell an angel from a flower. I looked past the plant by the window that seemed to flow like vines and at the man standing in the doorway. He could’ve been someone I knew but I couldn’t tell because everything was just spinning. My temples were throbbing, and my face was covered in a veil of tears.
The figure in the doorway rushed up to me and took me by the shoulders. He kept shaking me, as if trying to bring back the dead in a funeral mourning session before the body be buried. I grew more dizzy, and everything started to slip away. I was sweating, the nape of my neck itchy and my temples throbbing. My lids kept fluttering like butterfly wings but they felt the least of it. My eyebrows remained furrowed for the long haul and the bridge of my nose felt like it’s been weighed down with a thousand pounds of concrete bricks. I felt sick too. Like, I wanted to throw up then and there but the man was in front of me. Stop shaking me for Pete’s sake, dammit. He kept shaking me still, either because he didn’t hear my remark or because I didn’t make a remark at all. Nevertheless, he’s only making things worse.
Riding in a car Looking back at the sea The black, churning sea The cold, flowing sea The calming crash of the waves onto shore Greeting the rocks a warm hello A moment in passing, And again it is time to say goodbye.
Goodbye, sweet sea. Flow through my hair, my lips, my soul Take all Leave none
//just got back from staring at the sea for 4 hours.