[x]

i really do believe it.Maybe I will write something sweet.

Maybe I will kiss your slumbering mouth, touch tongue to lip and sing of the taste of honey. It would be light as air – cotton sheets and bare feet. It would be nectar to aching tongues and water to the disbelieving. I would spin sugar into words and paint meadows on naked chests. I would dip my fingers into wading pools of hope and wash them over blank canvas, let the dripping acrylic tell stories of tomorrows with eternal sunshine. I would take molds of happiness and press my laughing mouth against the fold of the envelope as I send it onward into the great beyond.

Maybe I will write something bitt

time withers (but i will not break)they say time withers, but that we would never bend. now, i'm not so sure. friendship once forged in fire is growing weak at the base and arthritic at the joints. love cast in steel is now rusted and stained, dissolving at the mere sight of the sun. i trusted you. i did. i wore my heart on my sleeve and bled my tongue from my mouth just to show you the truth of the matter. i swallowed the guilt until it threatened to chew away at the strings holding me up; until i woke up screaming, my lungs giving out in protest as i writhed between cotton sheets, teeth biting the pillow to suppress the next anguished cry threatening to rip from my throat. i

writing for me.What if today I chose to write for myself?

What if I didn’t pick metaphors that would pull the heartstrings of readers or make sense to sensible minds? If I did choose to write for me, and me alone, I think that I would talk about how cold pools always make me feel sad. I would say that chlorine reminds me of tears because both always manage to sting your eyes. But I wouldn’t talk about the day when I was seventeen with my feet dipping into the side. I wouldn’t talk about how my dog walked up next to me and was licking my face when I was told that she had died. How I couldn’t think of anything but the shriveled skin o

then i changed.Home used to be a place.

It used to mean quiet mornings with loud sibling voices, sunlight streaming through the dust speckled windows to paint the room with summer. I remember being seven and waking up to my parent's laughter, stumbling into the kitchen of oak to watch them leaning into one another over the coffee table. The tile on the floor was cold, but I remember thinking that the house was warm.

Home was a place of safety during the storms, where rain could batter but could never get in. It was the cream colored carpet and the fire blazing during the winter months. It was where I chased the small lop-eared puppy up the stairs and wher

the impossibility of apollo.sometimes, it is like i am silent and i am just trying to find my voice. it's like praying in an empty room and choking on the echoes, like singing underwater and trying to untangle myself in the ripples. most of all - oh, most of all - it is like finding a truth that i just can't understand. a truth that wakes with the first morning light, stretches with the dawn. a truth that is part of the earth and yet not of it - one of stars and constellations. one spit from the heavens and yet lying patiently on my front lawn.

this is the truth that i have found. this is the truth that i have swallowed and felt warm in the pit of my belly. it is the t

i begin and end with you.How do you go about explaining love to someone who has never felt it? How do you put into words the sweetness of the first kiss or the bitterness of the first goodbye or the hundred pinpricks of emotion you feel each and every time lip parts lip? If I were to try, I wouldn't start with the first embrace or the first touch or the first time your tongue swept the top of your mouth and you breathed my name. I wouldn't start with the first time nail bit into hip or teeth into shoulder or the first time you cried my name and I cried yours. I wouldn't talk about the first time that we held hands under the branches of the willow, limbs interlaced as

matchstick heart.the tree outside my window is starting to blossom and sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I touch cotton sheets, the grass, my skin, but don't feel a thing. it's not that I think I'm dead inside, but I can't help but imagine that my ribs are kindle and my heart's a match. you see, I have this feeling that one day I'm going to forget to watch my feet, trip and start a wildfire. start an inferno. burn the stars out of the sky until the world is aflame and the heavens are naught but smoke. oh, but I can't stand the thought of burning you down. I can't stand the thought of watching this home you've so carefully built turn back to ash: sandcastle t

wait and write to me then.don't tell me about the best way to capture the ocean in your mouth. don't whisper to me late at night about the salt crescent moons behind the bend of your elbows or the way that the breeze is tangling my hair around your ears until you're deaf from the wind. don't, for you see it's easy to whisper poetry when the starlit sky is a cliche over the slumbering world; it's easy to be a poet when the ground is rising up to cradle your shoulder blades and the earth is whispering love notes to you in your sleep. this is when it's easy.

so don't write to me then.

instead, wait until the world is rejecting you from her breast and leaving you breath

old and time-weathered soul.Emily liked to imagine that she was from a different time.

She’d sit on her bed and smooth out the covers, fold the sheets with crisp lines and perfect, symmetrical shapes. She’d place the chipped tea cup on the bookshelf and push back the linen curtains. But she would never open her eyes. No, you see, because if she did, she would have to see the traffic that buzzed like summer bees below her and the water stain dripping down the side of her window. She’d have to admit that outside, reality was not what she wished, and, frankly, she wasn’t ready to stop pretending.

So, instead, she closed her eyes and pressed her fo

heart of my heart.when the sky is high and the ocean is deep; when the wind is singing and the stars are sighing; when the trees are whispering secrets of life into open ears and when the soil is warming under the waking sun: these are the moments in which i know. these are the moments in which i can tell. it is the moment between the silence and the breath between the words. it is the moment when time suspends and the pencil stills and the sentences don't flow, but rather clog and jam and fold unto themselves so that they are impossible to pick apart and understand.

these are the moments in which i know.

it is the moment when you first wake and your first m

we love - i dreamwe are swimming in the ocean and our lungs are turned inside out. we are creating black holes with the tips of our fingers and pushing in our doubts into the center of the void. we know that truth isn't a truth so much as a guess and we are therefore given the liberty to create our own. we are the truth. love is the truth. we can stand in fields and hold the falling sky on our shoulders and call spring our truth. because  

love is a spear and it is bracing my spine from yielding. my mouth is stumbling on the words i have always known and i am teaching the phrases to my lips once more. your palms are resting on the skulls of resti

you missed a spot.sometimes i wonder if you like to shoot your gun just because you like the sound of the bullet.

other times, i am left to wonder if it's the heavy metal in your hand or the metallic taste left singeing your tongue. cruelty of a child wrapped in the gilded tongue of a liar, the pettiness of eve's snake, the deceitfulness of an ocean hit by the first storm. you are all smoke and mirrors - dragging the earth down with your fingertips simply because you no longer can feel the sun.

still, even when soaked in my thoughts and rooted in my wonder, i am dragged to surface. i am pulled forcefully back to reality (an artist's work must be enjoyed and

winter heart.maybe it's the weather. maybe it's the steam in the morning and the fog in my lungs that brings these words to life. i can feel them stirring under my breath like a second life; i can taste them in the december air that teases nostalgia from the pitter patter of my winter heart.

it's like life is a faded photograph. its like time is a frozen lake. it's like i'm sitting on porches wearing oversized sweaters and holding cups that burn the tips of my numb fingertips. it's like i'm in a forest and it's damp. it's dark. it tastes like a memory and the rain looks the way it did two years ago when i was broken. it's like remembering something perfe

you call me an angelyou call me an angel
in spite of the bruises left on the fronts of my knees
stains of sin left on my skin;

the knots in my back,
you liken to the wings soon to burst from my shoulders
&tell me you can feel no sadness
when looking at my face-

eyes you analyse
into paints of the colour wheel,
several shades i have yet to see;
my smile,
despite its crooked nature
&peeling lips,
thinning enamel from my sickness-
you still find me amongst the heavens.

&sometimes,
as this once,
i kissed you to shut you up.

my skin is removing itself after my clothes
in the winter,
cold &dark,
too unlike the white night of russian summers.

i kissed you &it was

Inexhaustible.Sometimes, I long for the breath of sorrow that once guided me.

No longer is the twisting wind and the gnashing teeth of mourning cries guiding my fingers to my pen and my heart to the beat. No longer does my spine twist at dusk – tying upon itself as my hands press against the small of my back, pushing my pelvis forward as I arch back, back, back into the great beyond of darkness and light. No longer is my sleep punctuated with awakeness and my days punctuated with sleep. I no longer am curled into the shadow of myself and plucking words from heartstrings that have long since bled dry.

Still, on nights where the moon is hollowed again

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reality is a grave.the walls are too clean.

it's wrong how clean the walls are, how even the air is sterile. it seems almost cruel to make such a place so hollow and vacant only to have you realize it's just making room. room for muffled sobs and choked-on tears and emotions so thick that if they were to allow any dust there wouldn't be room to breathe at all. it's allowing room for stifled emotional breakdowns shuddering down your spine and smiles quivering precariously on the tip of your lips.

it's not cruel, it's just practical.

and you're looking down on wax-paper skin and glassy eyes and a voice so chipper it hurts to hear. a voice that rambles like som

don't let me run.i'm scared.

the fears are pressing anxious palms on my shoulder blades and slipping through my skin to ride trembling waves through my veins. they're biting at my ankles and tearing up my dreams, present wherever i look, because no matter how hard i try, i can't run away from you. i'm shaking and clacking and falling to my knees before springing to my feet and running until my pulse is just a canyon wall echo.

please, forgive me for running. forgive me if you find me hiding and sobbing in the corner with my head buried between my knees and my fingers buried in the mud and my heart buried behind the rosebush. try to understand that i want to

third degree lie burn.i told myself i wouldn't write this.

i sat in the chair that smells nothing like you and stared at the wall with the pictures you were never in, and told myself in a hundred [that's a lie; it was only ten] different ways that this piece would never come to be. the bruised words would die in the back of my mind next to the cobwebbed dreams and whimsical wishes of years past. quarantined [such poison should never permeate the cracked veneer of faded dreams], but left to decay all the same.

alas! my disobedient fingers are rebellious and they dragged them out. they threw their cursing, blinking, protesting forms in the sunlight and left them t

first-class funeral cheers.stick a post-it note on my head and stick me in a drawer as if you'll remember me in the morning. but you won't. not unless i cry, not unless i scream, not unless i throw my words against the walls until you hear the pulse, hear the beat of millions of phrases and definitions and images as wild as jungle throats and murdered lemons.

beautiful and tragic, gorgeous and oh, my word, isn't she a genius? but they all boil down to one thing: you're gone. you aren't here. your absence is everywhere. i've erased the ends of my fingertips because they look lonely; i've shoved my hands in the garbage disposal because that's all i am. it's not pathetic

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it won't, i know that.

by =corina90, Jan 21, 2013, 8:56:54 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.

It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have nothing but chaos to offer. Now I just have memories – do you want to take them?

But you won’t. I know that. I paid the price and life paid me. Whatever I once had is gone and it’s been replaced with this shaking emptiness. I can no longer get drunk. I just get sad. I sit at broken pianos and think about the music they used to make, like the words I used to cry. I hold empty bottles to my fractured ribs and wish that the heat would inspire more than sorrow. Wish I could stumble back into the stumbling incoherency and find my voice in the tornado of silence. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead I just sit there quietly.

It was once attractive – remember that? Now it’s just sad. Now it’s just dirty hair and hallowed cheeks and anxiety that rips through limbs like an earthquake on the veranda. I’m holding my knees to my chest at night but I’m not counting stars, I’m counting moments and veins and the way that they tie together. I’m pressing my chapped lips to the scarred patch of skin on my thigh and wishing I could make it go away. Make you go away. Make the order fall away like the scales from the eyes of the unbelieving. Make my life come back in dribbles and splatters and bleed into my husked out body like the ocean into a tide pool.

(But it won’t, I know that. It can’t.)

it won't, i know that.by =corina90

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

{"showers pounding out a new beat
I trade my old shoes for new feet
I grab a new seat
I don't like the one I got
the fabric's wearing through
and it's wearing me out"
--tegan and sara

writing exercise - pencil to paper and don't stop.
i'm not sure i like the result, but at least there is one.