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9/14/11

Heaven's floor is leaking.

The world falls apart.

Misty folds placing clouds to a rust-and-oil sidewalk, heavy sheets like hellhounds' spit spiraling down from a backwards heaven; and the hiss of tires on a slippery street, asphalt wailing to thunder's beat.

And the sky falls.

Tumbling mists and rolling fogs encompass the grasses and consume the yard. Torrents storm through by violent trampling, mud in patches, and water standing—and from what direction, you couldn’t say.

And you can't see the sky.

She's watching the windows, streaked and running, running; and the roads too—rushing as flames often rush. Broken crystals bead the glass like an army gazing through; and the paper is blank beside her, but the screen: filled.

Because every now and then, the rain finds a story to tell to you.


10/3/11

i wish for home.
not lies. not angels.
just the place where i belong.

sorry for all the updates tonight.


10/6/11

Her mind is storm blue.

And the air holds a stillness she cannot place.

She does not expect the foggy incalescence that is drawn forth from her lips, and it takes her a moment to recognize her own breath: the air hot against that metal spine, with its sharp veins branching like overturned roots; and the heat that pools at her cheeks, which have grown rosy with the cold.

But she crumples under the heaviness of cloud.

And then, from oblivion—the whirring of winds untamed begins, and the wolfish calls, the banshee howls: and the gale is around her, but only for maybe a minute; and the whole world is dizzy and the sidewalk is whirling, and her face is the concrete and her arms are the wind.

And the umbrella only hangs limply at her side.

she;s not feeling well today


10/11/11

It wept in broken beats.

The scars ran down like veins.

It had been through something terrible.


5/16/12

She starts up high.

Up high, where people look most—
Because they aren't much like her, no.

She'd look down, always down.

But first impressions are important, and she's going to be beautiful.

There is powder in her hands, in her hair, in her eyes.

It is soft and hopeful and delicate, they say it's vital for your health, and she thinks that's far too sharp a word for such an airy thing; but she knows it matters, knows health is important: it's a pretty thing.

She sweeps a hand across her face until it shines and clears, and then you can hardly see the tears.

She paints her cheeks, softly: smoky blush like running blood, sweet on her skin.
They'll complement her eyes, perfectly porcelain, china-glass blue—
Soulful creatures, better fix those too.

She lines them in silver, ice to frost the river. Lip-stain says no-run,
maybe these'll hold the current. She stands barefoot in the mirror,
Splendidly unconcealed, carefully bare. But she can't see herself.

And she started up high, where people look most.
But now she's working her way down, and people don't look there at all—

Not at her heart in its bone cage, not at the rubies shining on her fingers,
shining on the blade

near her
stomach.


6/19/12

That star blazes forever.

He was twenty-two; she was nineteen.
He met her where the moon hid, held her there in the void.

"Beautiful night," she said.

He caressed her lips, her cheeks.
Pale, milky roses wrapped with delicate petals.
There were thorns at the edges.

She loved knives and guns.

“My silent night.”

He took her arm, took her hands.
They were warm against the heat of his fingers.
And they were gentle, and they bound.

She loved a good, sharp blade.

“The things that can hurt me,” she told him, “I enjoy most.”

“I do not believe you, étoile.”

“You think it is a cover, a bandage. You’re wrong.”

“I am never wrong. Are we playing a game?”

He watched her keenly, half-contented smile.

She'd let him.
"I will not feel exposed," she said.

"I should not want you to," he said.
He enclosed her in his great arms, veiled her from all the world.
She folded neatly into that embrace. They remained; still, quiet, alone.

His face was to her a razor; the features were chiseled, sharp as a cutting wind.
His eyes were shadow-cast, deep, secretive voids.

To the darkness she said, "You're part of my collection."

Something in the darkness stirred.

"You do not have to," he said.
You do not have to let yourself be hurt.

She laughed, and she shone.
"I will take you as I take all dangers to me."

He held her.