+ Sep 15th
He had been blind for so long, he couldn’t remember how others could see. He forgot all the little constant cog motions, the little ticks to tocks, the little sounds of grinding to the slow chug. There was always something unsettling, he thinks, about a guy that can’t remember that a punchline needs a smile.
It was really hard to reassure someone now—his face forgot the “worry” signs that go along with sympathy, his eyes lost the shine of concern. It felt like pretend and it was pretend. So he covered her eyes, and told her, “Breathe deeply. You can still cry, that’s okay, get it out, just breathe. Remember yourself. You are solid, you are real, your fears are important, but not as important as you. You need to keep yourself together. So are you okay?”
She was like an assemblage of flour, he felt like. Put into a makeshift cast, but with a prod, it would all billow out. So he would keep her together until she could do it herself.
+ Aug 30th
I die a million small tiny deaths whenever I admit the pieces don’t fit.
“It’s enough, it’s enough,” but it’s in shambles, I’m in shambles.
Find me a lover that’ll clean up my mess, wash out the stains before they set.
I swear I’ll treat him true, I’ll love him dear, I’ll mend for all the wear and tear.
I’m a silly girl; silly and sad.
I’ll love him too little and then too much, and he will let me down gently, because hurting me’s too bad.
I’m more fragile than I thought, than they thought, than he will think, and that’s okay.
Breaking into a million tiny pieces is a worthwhile price to pay.
(no it isn’t, I just can’t think of the right way right now.)
Heart wrecker so divine,
won’t you ever leave my mind,
give me some sort of peace
so I might breathe?
Because it’s taking all my time,
every handhold, any sign,
Won’t you cancel your lease
and leave my heart?
I hold you ever so dear,
but the damage that I fear
may conquer me and leave me
It’s getting harder to hear
all your sorries for my tears,
since it’s my fault that I see
that you stay.
Leaving you feels like a sin,
for stories yet to begin,
but those pages are ones you deem
In the end, to my chagrin,
the only story left to spin,
is for me to wake from this dream
+ Jul 06th
“Kill your friends and make only enemies,” he says. “It’s simpler and easier for you. You’ll see that someday.” He cleans off a glass at the bar and pours his own liquor in, “Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter so much though, seeing as you’ll outlive them all.” A sip.
“I want to drown the world because there is not enough space on it for us.” he breathed, eyes closed tenderly.
There was a careful distance between them, enough for him to reach out, if he wanted to. But the whole trick was to not touch, give a choice.
“I would drown the world for you, and only you, my dear, because you drive me to such…madness. I would watch them succumb to the waves and ghouls,
only for you.” The distance between the two felt larger and larger, and he couldn’t help but try to fill it with words. “Do you get it? This world can be ours while we watch them fight the natural impulse to drop for those clinging to fall away, to drown brother and child. I would too.”
A hand is clenched that he purposely stretches out. Examines the lines in his palm, wonders about fate lines and calluses. Enough was enough. His voice is rough, just like his plea. “Just screw the world, please. Screw the world and stay with me.”
There is a moment of precious, precious wonder before a bitter smile. “The world doesn’t have room for me.”
And then smoke rises away.
There’s a room where flies linger, and feelings gather like ants on a honeyed saucer. It’s a place that never calls, but all paths lead to, and on whimsy they march. I can never think of words to call it, never think of the proper definition that can fit like a key to this niche. It just rots and gathers gravity.
It sat in the corner of an abandoned building at the end of a no outlet street kids used to play on. They would always avoid it, told so by worried mothers and half-false superstition. Treated with apathy and towel wringing, it just sat on the corner, yawning musty under pale, clouded light.
One day, its breadth stretched its legs a bit further out and a boy tripped into its yard, chasing a stray cat.
He was small, easy to miss, one of many siblings and bright eyes in a shadowed face. Details of this yard flew like iron filings to a magnet, all staccato motion—patches of chalky dirt—three story arts and craft—every window with plum curtains—basement window open. The cat was forgotten, a messenger cut loose of its message. The boy palmed the rail up strangely even steps, smooth dry wood at hand. The porch was strangely wide, used to many people, the stage to the wooden masterpiece of the door. This was lost on the boy, who absorbed only the rich cherry lacquer and the door knocker, a goat with a ring in its mouth.
There is somewhere a hidden museum of stories untold, snippets still attached to fallen texts, drabbles still messily written and indecipherable on the edges of notes for English class. A mausoleum for all of these forgotten, decrepit words that lies in this patch beyond.
You roll the phrases you remember around, but they don’t fall into the right quarter/nickel/dime/penny slots. They don’t make the right sound, they don’t fit right, they don’t feel right.
Instead of clearing the history and trying anew, their epithets sing on in your head.
And dance past your lips.