Skip to main content

a pOssible good death

Sometimes you are shell-shocked by the feel of a letter curved under the wrinkly skin where your fingers meet your palm. There is a tangy chew to the rounded edges of an O perfectly positioned three-sevenths of the way down a stack of letters, precariously close to the sharpened vertex of an S. At dark hours when there are only your thoughts and the weight of silence on your eyelids, you even think that you could die--right then and there--if you might only find a way to string together the perfect sentence with the exact proportion of words and letters clasped snugly around your throat.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Unburdening

Too many things lie between us, quivering, quaking in darkness like silence, or a laugh being shoved back down your throat. I press my cheek against the top of your head, your hair burning with the fidgeting fingers of the sun, listening to words that have no shape, or sound, or feel, just words that sit like fat potatoes between me and you, words that build up like gum under school desks and surround you. Tendrils, thin wispy letters, dig their way through your skin, overgrown bean plants. Everytime I try to pull one down, they rip at your skin and you cry out. Your silence floats like a feather, suspended below my mouth; when I speak it flutters with the fluctuations of my voice. Too many things hold us at a distance, two lone figures across each other, toes at the edge of a seemingly uncrossable gap. I heave stones into the darkness, my hand tight around yours, placing trust and love and faith and understanding like stepst...
Post a Comment
Read more

After You

we buried the treasure box together- two dusty heads bobbing in the dirt hands scratching at earth and grime-caked nails, one for one and two for two: forgetting which fingers belonged to me shiny faces watching earnestly as the metal box slowly disappeared- rocks and grit skittering across the surface- you grabbed my hand and I touched the oozing soil around our treasure, the easy product of a six year old girl and boy who swore forever and ever * turning it over so that every scratched scar matches the wrinkles etched in my palms, not a more perfect fit than the way tears mold themselves to the withered lines down  my cheek alone I stand amid fresh laid earth I think to sit and tumble to knees hands catching fingers sinking nails deep- begin to claw through the tears until the treasure box falls deep within the tomb alone, one not two, sweeping dust over the metal lid- crooked back and withered frame time lost but time lost wi...
Post a Comment
Read more

Daydream

Back of the classroom is a shadowy place, flickering edges and flimsy images- one, two, three, four, gone again. Five, six, seven, eight, fingers digging deeper, harder, tracing angelically- angel’s bruises. Chanting, what you don’t know will never hurt you, what you know stays forever, a lie, a fat, goose plump lie A hundred ways to say NO gather force, while fingers press harshly, rib after rib.
Post a Comment
Read more