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Literature Text
Every day she still dons a dress of asphalt
& a string of pearls shining like wolves teeth,
though she sees only bones and butterflies
behind her skin, nervous wings fluttering
against the ivory of her skeleton.
As she pulls up the silver spine
of her black dress,
her fingers tremble like
hollow reeds in the wind.
With mascara lashes sticky and dark,
she gives butterfly kisses to the air,
blinks back a memory
and bites a flesh-red lip.
She fights back the instinct to run
and instead tightens sinews in her shoulders
like the string of a bow.
Today,
she'll think she sees his face
in the mask of a stranger on the subway
and feel as if her ribs are folding inwards
like the wet wings of a swallowtail,
imagining she still senses
the razor-blade of his smile
against her neck.
She's haunted by a ghost.
Any real danger is gone;
all that remains is fear
and the echo of wings in the night.
She braces herself for the blow
that never comes, that will never come.
Tonight,
(as stars burn on
merciless as cigarettes)
she'll dream of old bruises
blossoming blue on her arms
like forget-me-nots.
She'll relive
him softly humming
I love you, darling, I love you-
as he already curls his fists,
those hands which always reminded her
of catching monarchs as a child,
when golden scales stuck
to her fingers for days.
(She suffocated every one
with greedy fingers so well intentioned
they didn't understand
the delicacy of gossamer wings.)
Yet every morning she wakes to stare
into the butterflies behind her eyes,
leaps off the doorstep and into the universe
with fear folded up like a love note
and tucked inside the heel of her shoe.
Those same shoes
click coolly on the pavement.
Her gaze glints straight ahead
as she hums like a dragonfly,
shining and defiant.
The world rotates towards her
as she moves in place,
so effortless seems the grace of her step.
And sometimes in the sun
she stretches out her arms like branches
of a magnolia tree
and imagines herself dissolving
into three hundred butterflies
which kiss the faces
of the first blooms
of March.
& a string of pearls shining like wolves teeth,
though she sees only bones and butterflies
behind her skin, nervous wings fluttering
against the ivory of her skeleton.
As she pulls up the silver spine
of her black dress,
her fingers tremble like
hollow reeds in the wind.
With mascara lashes sticky and dark,
she gives butterfly kisses to the air,
blinks back a memory
and bites a flesh-red lip.
She fights back the instinct to run
and instead tightens sinews in her shoulders
like the string of a bow.
Today,
she'll think she sees his face
in the mask of a stranger on the subway
and feel as if her ribs are folding inwards
like the wet wings of a swallowtail,
imagining she still senses
the razor-blade of his smile
against her neck.
She's haunted by a ghost.
Any real danger is gone;
all that remains is fear
and the echo of wings in the night.
She braces herself for the blow
that never comes, that will never come.
Tonight,
(as stars burn on
merciless as cigarettes)
she'll dream of old bruises
blossoming blue on her arms
like forget-me-nots.
She'll relive
him softly humming
I love you, darling, I love you-
as he already curls his fists,
those hands which always reminded her
of catching monarchs as a child,
when golden scales stuck
to her fingers for days.
(She suffocated every one
with greedy fingers so well intentioned
they didn't understand
the delicacy of gossamer wings.)
Yet every morning she wakes to stare
into the butterflies behind her eyes,
leaps off the doorstep and into the universe
with fear folded up like a love note
and tucked inside the heel of her shoe.
Those same shoes
click coolly on the pavement.
Her gaze glints straight ahead
as she hums like a dragonfly,
shining and defiant.
The world rotates towards her
as she moves in place,
so effortless seems the grace of her step.
And sometimes in the sun
she stretches out her arms like branches
of a magnolia tree
and imagines herself dissolving
into three hundred butterflies
which kiss the faces
of the first blooms
of March.
Literature
anemic, broken, and growing up anyway
when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my s
Literature
Death of a Love.
She hadn't moved from her window in over a day.
Watching for the impossible was something that she was content to do. It injected her with the faint hope that she might witness some of those precious memories once again. Maybe his decrepit old Clio, chugging along and spluttering to a grumbling stop right outside her house, or maybe the bicycle that he sometimes opted for instead, signalling his arrival with the ringing of a bell. It economised on both petrol and his nerves, he had always told her with a smile.
His smiles were gems. She had always watched in rapt fascination when his lips pulled back and curled upwards, his left cheek dimpl
Literature
Advertisements
She was only six when the funeral homes started sending us advertisements, all competing with each other to be the best, to win her business. To win our business, more like; six is hardly old enough to understand what's going on. It's not old enough to understand why everyone is covering their mouths with their hands and failing to hold back tears when you walk into the room, or old enough to understand why people begin to outright sob when you start talking about what you want to be when you grow up. Once it was a doctor, before that it was a fairy princess, but right now it's a policewoman.
And of course all the children have heard about t
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It's still a work in progress, I guess.
© 2011 - 2024 KaseyKillface
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