walking on poprocks, berry blue sparks in the concrete
fragments of camp like a kaleidescope in an orange slice
searching for a summer sun as it slips across the ice
hazy mesh and flowing fabric, flowers growing over my shoulder
skipping stones on liquid light, crows and seagulls squabbling over corn chips
hollow tapping on a brick wall between the ivy
paint across cheeks and knobby knees
musty clothes left with whisps of perfume
leather jeans on cordouroy jumpers
sticky strawberry fingers in curly brown hair
guitar unplayed, fingers laced
cherry red kisses in the back seat of a car
crescent moon smiles and idle whispers in a sunlight room
airplanes in the sky above my outstretched hand
forget me not
overpriced lotion/ dripping down paper-tattered wrists
with watercolor and peach juice//
cicadas in the hills beyond the whistling dunes
/whisper with the thrum of engines/
and the sharp scent of gasoline
the whistful snap of a charcoal flip phone
and the understanding that boys can only stay in love for so long
the city screams
no matter how still the night the electricity still thrums in my heart rattling down my veins into restless fingers like tin cans filled with pennies. I wish I could sleep soundly and speak of the dawn without the hushed desperation of seeing the world reset without me through a window streaked with dispair and stained with a faint future.
the neon lights yell and I lean into a back alley with all its hushed brick and listless garbage, fluttering helplessly against the damp stones as the rain continues to plaster them to the ground. The city screams and I am still its prophet bathed in rose light and filthy smoke, a baptism of understanding that the world will never be what we want and a blessing in knowing that ultimately we are insignificant amidst the steel towers and swarming crowds. we are freed from simple goals and futile existence content in knowing we are just a blip in a vast unforgiving universe.
we’llsurvivethiswe’llsurvivethiswe’llsurvivethis I whisper under my breath with rubber lips and sunken eyes as dark as the water rushing underneath my feet swirling with filth and corpses. a grimace like palms clasped together raised to the sky, futile prayers in broken eyes. set it down. I mumble. she’s insignificant. this moment is nothing and we’ll survive this. and we do.
I don my Sunday best, shimmering leather jeans, blood-spattered combat boots that smell of cologne, a thick racing jacket cuffed with shredded paper and spray paint, and thick oil in stripes on my cheeks. I grin and my bloody lip splits, dripping down my chin and onto the pavement. My hair is shorn and in its place are thorns piercing my skin wrapped behind my ears and out through my nape. the night is cold and my breath spirals into the sky through pierced lips, blood swirling under my tongue. my steps on the pavement crash into the ground like a body breaking through a sheet of ice sinking into the deep blue, snow landing gently on the surface. the fire escape is rickety, the breaking of a voice before furious tears and bloody knuckles it leaves my hands a dusty orange. The city screams and as I climb onto the roof panting I scream with it. brilliant lights flash far beneath me, so very far that it’s a haze through the clouds. I yell, voice raw, hands splayed to the heavens, and I laugh. because no matter the insignificance of this dying city, I am even less so.
I swing my legs over the edge and take in the view, the height making me sway, a delightful sort of giddiness that only comes from looking Death in the eye.
you’re nothing, I tell Them.
I stretch my hand out to the dark silhouettes of the skyline and I wonder what it would be like to fall. I wonder what it would be like to fly
I laugh softly, and step back onto the roof. The city screams. I wipe the blood off my lip and speak.
I can hear you. I don’t know how the hell you expect me to fix everything, but I mean, I guess I can’t fuck it up any more than it already is. Can you maybe, stop dying so I can get a few hours of sleep?
I sigh softly and lie down on the roof, feet numb and head pulsing.
Well, goodnight, I guess.
maybe seeing frogs isn’t such a bad thing
/sometimes all it takes is staring up at the light bulb riddled sky// pulling through the intersection and seeing the pale moon in the middle of a lilac sky reflecting off the pearly sheen of my windshield & i look to the passenger seat cold and empty/ the cows wander past my car, wide eyes and shaggy fur standing feet from my window and i could/ almost/ reach out and touch them. i want to stop and take a picture but i don’t. their eyes follow me as i drive past. Peach tea and brown rock sugar on marble countertops, knocking along the grain. Choppy waves and bitter rain hit my face. Do you need me? you ask and i say no. But as i walk with tears streaming down my face and wind pulling me into the murky grey waters// i replay you singing /over/ and /over/ and /over/ & when the message finally comes through i stop in the trail & let myself sob, a loud fragile joy breaking through my lips. /maybe things aren’t as great as i’d thought then//
but at least i have you
when taking back roads
thick smog leaving its filthy fingers across every surface/ a heavy weight pushing us down to the pavement/ drawing our shoulders downward and our fingers tightening on the wheel// remember gravity?// it asks. look up and remember you are hanging upside down, holding onto the face of this planet with nothing but threads. //dark shapes of barns and houses/ tall fences and machinery. to keep us out, or something else in? We turn away and press our foot on the gas. s/trange movements of weeds and animals/ something that is almost a cat peers from behind the creek bend/ narrow eyes glinting in the headlights/
anxious car, creeping between looming trees and speeding over bridges drowned in shadows. The fog lights do not share its secrets. We do not look.
the temperature is flat, an uncomfortable lack of feeling like a chill in our bones. the ac does little to keep it from seeping between the cracks in the window// vehement wind, dragging the car toward the endless fields. the haze is relentless. We do not know how far it goes. We do not want to know.
it is too quiet/ the radio seems to fade in and out of our ears/ swallowed by the dark.
the world is empty, only swaying wheat and broken fence. like We’re the only ones alive, passenger seat empty and cold. the sky is orange tinged, and the heavy pollution makes it easy to believe that everything ended. not with a bang, but the collective choking of burning throats and dirty lungs.
and yet we keep driving,
the road keeps yawning ahead of us,
and the the sky stays the same strange dusky grey,
even though it’s three am and it should be a deep, inky violet with brilliant stars telling
their stories in the sky;
cicadas singing softly and tire swings groaning on gentle oak limbs.
This is just a random word flow idk if it even made sense I just need to publish something haha
fiction-tangerine dawns and ginger sunsets
Legs tangled in a mess of linen sheets
the night is hot and humid, settling on our lips
a kiss from the looming palm trees and waxy plants
outside is a symphony, the birds in the trees and the chickens in the coop
the white paint on the stairs peels away, leaving behind damp wood
for once, you're fast asleep, breath whistling lightly through the gap in your teeth.
short cropped hair brushing a freckled nose, red from work in the backyard, along with your shoulders and collarbone, traced by the moonlight peeking through gauzy curtains
I stop myself from brushing it behind your ear, instead smiling at how peaceful you look when you’re truly asleep.
there’s still some paint on your cheek, and you smelt faintly of gasoline
thanks love, you say, taking the lemonade from my hand, and wiping the sweat from your forehead, it’s starting to come together, isn’t it? I look at the shed, empty of its contents, groaning softly. yeah, I say, as I lean to pick up a can of paint. it sure is.
I press my nose against your forehead and you lean into my shoulder, skin sticky despite the desperate attempts of the swamp cooler. my eyes are tired, but my mind is not. I sigh softly, and you shift closer, even in subconcious, you fight to take care of me.
the sun has begun to peek over the horizon, and the floorboards grow warm in its light. I close my eyes for you, so that as you fix the rotting floorboards for my pottery studio, I can make you asparagus and scrambled eggs on toast as the waves crash against the coast in the distance and you sing along to the songs on the radio that i can’t stand (most of the time)
but for now, I lay with you, and wait for some form of sleep as the sun rises ever so slowly.
Rain seeps in the floorboards, the gentle footfalls of unkown creatures in the streets. Peering through the window, wrapped in itchy wool, the elfin move with jumpy, slight movements like deer. Their golden eyes land on me, quiet but curious. This one is shorter than the others, with a dark cape and wooden amulet hung with twine. It chirps quietly, and a dark finger taps the window frame three times.
I pull the curtain back and lean against a damp post. It takes a moment for my eyes to refocus, the barn has no light except for the candle at my side, nearing the end of its string. There’s a rat hole near the door, hastily tacked up with hide, now falling to the side, exposing the street. I don’t bother to fix it, the elfin had never bothered me before. As I considered climbing to the loft, to rest for the night, a loud crack resounded off the far wall of the barn. I climbed on all fours, peering through the drain, trying to get a look. I grumbled and walked to the door. Damn paranoid farmer had covered the opening with a box.
A few of the slim creatures clicked their, what I assume was their lips, in rapid succession, jumping away. An oak tree had been struck by lightning and fallen onto the side of the barn. Fortunately the wall was largely stone, so it hadn’t broken through.
I pick up my well worn satchel and my dagger in its sheath, and snuff the candle before closing the door behind me. Being lynched for witchcraft wasn’t on the agenda, tonight at least. I shake my head, laughing softly. These bastard villagers haven’t the slightest idea of the real issues. Not witches and elfin, no, we were largely useless and unintimidating folk.
The gatekeeper shouted at me nervously from inside his station, “Boy! What’re ye doing out? Can’t ye see the fae are about?” Another annoying thing about humans. They just can’t mind their own damn business. I pull my hood over my head, a bit of an ordeal with the large amounts of black curls, but I’ve managed to accomplish it without looking like a complete buffoon.
“Oi, are ye listenin ta me?”
“Just open the bloody gate!”
“I can’t let ye out, ya stupid boy, ye could be on’ve em.”
I mutter about his mother under my breath and draw a quick rune in the air. He doesn’t notice at first, nice thing about my runes, they don’t glow and spark like performers in the greater kingdom. A nice pale grey, faintly light so I can see it.
The lever rockets down and the man yelps, scurrying back on his rear.
“You poor, poor bastard.” I say, tightening my cloak. “You don’t even realize what you need to be looking for.”
The portcullis finished rising, a surprisingly lavish safegaurd for such a small village. I reached the other side- it should be noticed the guard was still screaming, and I snapped my fingers, sending it rocketing into the mud.
I waved a hand lazily, and cut into the forest, away from the main path, where search parties with torches and cholera would be killing anything that moved once dawn broke or the rain finished, whichever came first.
We empathize with other’s pains,
violent hands clawing into heavy hearts, cries unheard by the heavens
Sobs of a cold body curled on the floor, heaving cold bile soaked in blood and alchohol
Shower water turning pink as it hits the tile, cuts that seem to never stop bleeding
Whispers compounding to screams echoing in the brain, profanities and cruel smirks tucked tightly against broken hearts, insults taken like revelations
vile potions and thin shaking fingers down the throat, teeth dissolving by unforgiving acids
We hug the victims, cover their ears and hide them from the slamming doors, because it reminds them of Vietnam, of their abusive exes
we avoid looking into their hollow broken eyes, sunken in morphine-tinged skin as we disinfect their wounds
I have seen a lot, felt a lot. The mind-to-mind communication does that. and yet, there was just something so particularly tragic about how empty your mind was, like the framework of a fire-ravanged home.
as you saw me looking, you smiled, and I felt your empathy for me tenfold
I cried and you hugged me tightly, but yet, your mind continued running on empty, occasionally so violently empty that the connection fuzzed and snapped and I wondered, for the first time since this job, just what was going on inside your head?