Side note: Gorgeous imagery.
silence, inflating cotton crushing
white painted drywall; leaks into my ears and
leaks into my joints, creasing my skin
and reverberating in my ribcage like a birdcage
with a lemon canary in a church corridor,
silence beating, beating so fleetingly
as my pale white hands tremble, beating,
so fleetingly like a martyr’s heartbeat —
— then there is the sound of cracking
toothpick bones, of splintering sanity and
there is a girl of seven, with snow white blond
drifting off angular shoulders, thunder shakes
the distance and standing, an ice statue enclosed
in typhoon shadows and rainstorm pupils —
rings, beating fleetingly, beating the heated air,
the sound of death echoes, echoes
through acrid flesh and blood oranges, echoes
in the pale strands of silky braids
running parallel to her spine —
innocent rose lips twist, gleaming smirk
twists porcelain cheekbones into bleeding sunrise
and softly smiles as she wipes her hands on the skirt
of her fine threaded floral dress and
roses blossom from her cuticles and trail
up to her collarbones, draws a thin line from ear to ear
and her fingertips stain her pretty dress
with dirty grimy fingerprints, seep her mother’s blood
into the short skirt and i watch it drip,
drip down her thighs, droplets slide, drip
down her innocent nude pantyhose, drip
into a rain puddle wallowing in her ballet flats
and her lips shine, soft smile.
side note: lovely.
pulling through moonbeams and weaving our tongues through thick words, wandering through moments of silence and sideways glances. there is the drumming of his pulse that fills the air like the smell of the atmosphere moments before the rain, i can practically taste him on the tip of my tongue.
if i could i would wrap myself around him so tightly that i would disappear into the creases of his shirt, into the cupid’s bow of his lips, the cliff faces of his fingerprints. i would blend into the pine needles of his eyes, and i would disappear into the sound waves of his voice. somedays i think i already have. sometimes i think he knows.
the sound of my beating heart matches the march of my feet. leftright, leftright, lef-leftright—steady yourself, foolish girl. the moment you can’t trust your own footing is the moment you must remember how to run.
I woke up this morning to cry because this house is empty and all I want to see is someone else smile with me. It’s a cold midnight inside, even at high noon the ice around my eyes has yet to melt and I see with numbness. I feel with numbness. I touch with numbness. Even what I can’t feel begins to hurt and warm pin pricks jab my skin, a million tiny vibrations with sharp edges rippling from head to toe and suddenly there’s a fire burning inside my chest but how do I put out flames I can’t see?
All I know is this pain, and I can’t see.
All I know is this pain, and it’s become me.
Side note: This sounds like my life a while back.
At random moments when Im just sitting and have nothing to do, I ask myself, literally out loud, what do I do with my life now?
I look at my prospects and it all seems grey, drab, melting at its edges and will surely fall in itself, like Einstein’s theory? The Universe can do either of two things, carry on slowly expanding, or fill itself with so much matter, exploding stars and cold planets, it could curve and collapse.
What if I allow myself to go on living like this, wake up, do the routine, come home, work, write away in a closed notebook and then sleep, only to do the same tomorrow.
Can someone please take me away, show me the world and fill me with exciting moments.
Side note: This is beautiful.
Etched into the soles of our feet, there are the imprints of four leaf clovers and dandelion spheres, stenciled there from when we were small and the world was a garden. Our mothers would rinse our skin raw with rain water and scrub at the roots of our hair (we sprinkled them with dirt and fed the sunlight, but we never grew into trees). Even then, our palms itched like mosquito kisses to wander through city streets and rain forests, to feel the summer rain on sticky shoulders and to find a heart and call it home.
Side note: Simple and beautiful.
You’re a collector
with rows of boxes
of stolen moments
when we mere humans
tried in vain
to do the impossible
Staff Note: This is quite a lovely piece.
Painted portraits and tainted windows—
dreams peer through vintage glass that is
lined with pictures of Mary and baby Jesus.
But a story lies in
the cracks and seams
that once split and burst
apart; a little girl’s hands mended
that very glass. It carries the
imprint of her finger tips ;
the subtle vapour of her
foggy breath which is
still crystallized on
the same o’ glass
that was recently wiped spotless
of centuries of dust particles that
left after reluctant hours of relentless scrubbing.
But I can still see the girl’s hazel
eyes wide and distorted, still
caught in the shadows of
past, still caught in that
rusty ol’ glass;a look
of resigned seclusion
and acceptance come to
pass behind the high planes of
her cheeks and behind the downward
curve of her smile. She looks on, trying to
find out who she was, but if only were there any
answers in glass painted windows, we’d all willingly go
to Sunday mass.
Staff Note: Oh this I love. This this yes, this is wonderful. It is quite simple to describe such things as the rain, but to take it to a deeper level like this is brilliant. Such a lovely read this is.
The water on this windowsill creeps slowly toward its edges. In an instant, gravity takes hold, spiraling rainwater down, slowly and quietly compared to the downpour around it. The warm pavement below absorbs the drops as they fall, darkening and softening it’s composure. It receives its new guest and welcomes it like a long lost relative, like a ghost it once knew. But just as quickly as this newly found friend arrives, it must depart. It fades with time and dries with the sun. Memories remain, but you can never seem to grasp them. The rain. It’s like me in that way..
Staff Note: Deliciously dark. Love it.
let the vultures screech
for the flesh of your remains
as they plunge towards the
sanguine rivers soaked in the
fluids that ooze from the mouth
of your wounds like open lips
hungry to be saved - but no!
your limbs are torn, the bones
fractured, broken, mangled -
lain along gravelly stones whose
jagged edges, like hands,
clutch at the strings of your flesh
with no mercy and desire of letting go
and please let these cacophonous sounds
echo across the blood splattered skies
as these ravenous creatures feast
upon the golden prize beneath the
shattered ribs that jut out of your
chest like steel swords yearning to protect
the last, unharmed fragment of your being.
but these creatures beneath night’s command
choose to snatch the fist-sized
organ from the cage of your ribbed bones instead
and take flight, your heart dangling
from one’s devilish beak,
your severed head by another’s.