Newest
when window panes became bars.summer weeks are rippling across her skin, the bugs with wire wings beating against their kin. a rocking swing on iron hinges and the ticking stream fill up the moment like elephants on a balance beam.when window panes became bars.
one sits with incubated breath in the yard compounds- its surface bark, its deep eyes protesting mounds of restless whims trapped beneath wandering roofs. she would rush out now but walls are persistent proofs.
"the world is great, yet here is just a corner," she betrays the brook with jealousy for a foreigner. opposite the fence, the old are steadily rusting, while
by ~distinguish
born elsewhere...today, she will not admit to being braided through telephone lines nor having buttercups growing from the stem of her throat.born elsewhere...
her name is may and when she was five she
heard beetles singing mantras in the reeds.
she tumbled through the doorway with fear
itching at her toes, bolted the wall shut
with yellow flowers.
that night, she was the monster under the bed.
dust bunnies fell like pillows along her her spine and wished to be dandelions wishing for a breeze. may shuddered, her tiny bones
convulsed under blinking eyes.
"we are not s
by ~distinguish
bipolar bears.anyway, aside from falling down crevices where the icicles shatter like a drunken orchestra and playing on shattered glass, i'm okay.bipolar bears.
(my hands are warped in paint giving me acrylic stripes that i use to hypnotise lions. i am standing with feet planted knee deep in fertiliser, a pair of eyes closed. you are going to take me down to my roots.)
would you believe this is a tundra from the inside out? that the rainbow bleeds black just over the horizon because ebony absorbs everything. you said i was everything but felt like nothing. you said i was cold like win
by ~distinguish
seven years.i.seven years.
i lost myself on a road i never found.
ii.
it was an unimportant weekday and i was laughing with church bells strung down my throat and clothes lines tangled around my ankles. my laundry was behind me.
there was no art in the room, only dyed pencils jumbled together like a collage created at the masterful hands of a four year old. blank sketchbooks, blank shoulderblades, black clothing.
we ran so fast the glass shattered.
iii.
six girls in a bathroom: three peering out from behind the mirror and three
by ~distinguish
sappy.
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music is my boyfriend ''.
your words are niceee.
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"We spend our whole lives in unconscious exercise of the art of expressing our thoughts with the help of words"
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i just think alot.
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