9

Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to hold your hand. And have your soft palm pressed against mine. Like holding a sweet plum or peach.  
I think about talking and listening and laughing with you. I think about kissing you,  and hugging you,  and being so close that I can run my nose along the line of your neck and the tips of my fingers across your chest. 
How I would sprinkle brown sugar in your ears and smear honey across your eyes,  make things sweet things for you until your heart is saturated in syrup.
I think about where we could go  and what we could do. 
About you,  you I entrap in these thoughts. Flower petals soft, caressing, a scent tickling my nose, enough for me to ignore how cheap these petals actually feel. 
You you you I think about who lives in a decorated glass case,  so pristine and nestled quite comfortably in my mind, the glare from the spotlight not blinding enough for me to ignore that thick line between what is real and what is not. 
But I enjoy how the residue of that line made of black black tar sticks, and tears at my skin the burn reminding me that it’s only safe to be on the side of what’s real.
I heed and I ignore.  
Because to think that someone who seems as lovely as you could hold my heart in those soft palms
is too appealing. 

 

8

Soft and delicate were his features, so unlike what I was used to. The way words fell from his lips, the syllables sweetly caressing his tongue before fluttering from his mouth.

I say these words so artistically, but the hard line of truth streaks through them. But… it seemed I was the only one who saw what I saw, and felt what I felt. No one else seemed to think the gracefulness at which he danced through life was something to be admired. His low, swinging voice and tepid nature regarded as an excess of muliebrity, and nothing more.

He was disposable, and overwhelmed by the startling opposition to his beauty, I was swept up to feel the same, and disregarded him thusly.

It was such a typical story, and I forced any thoughts of him away, under the scritch scratch of the pestle scraping the bottom of the mortar. Until there was dust. And in the passing winds, it blew away. 

7

A battlefield; where prospects of any hope long since vanished. The putrid stink of death and decay steams from the ground and sticks like the dirt marring your skin. You wrap yourself in thoughts of faraway places, a thin ratted blanket in the early morning when the silence is thick as the fog that crawls along the ground.

To have someone there, how vital he is, a part of your survival. The blood that seeps from his wounds is your blood, the shallow shaken breaths, and eyes that are black from the tar of war. You wonder if his heart shakes and rattles inside his chest whenever he doesn’t see you after being engulfed in the loud loud loud  booming sounds of big machines, the rip of souls being torn away from bodies and slung into the mud, the little pricks of hatred, ignorance, fear, anger, sadness, death death death scrap against your skin like the rugged bark of trees you crawl past in that deep forest.

The soil soaks it up greedily, sings the screams of many men and it echos shrilly in your ear until you feel so numb your thoughts are crawling crawling just like you.

6

The light always seemed to be there, though he knew it wasn’t.

But it seemed so.

Always a bright spot flickering behind the dark silhouettes of the skinny trunks of the sparse spread of the trees across the street from his bus stop. He would stand and stare at it, completely fixated until the bus would pull up and break his line of vision.

It didn’t interest him at first. Something he could transfix himself to while he emptied his mind from the dull numbness that followed after he left work. That’s it.

When it became more he wasn’t sure. More eager to stand and stare at that little white light than to go home, he rushed from work.

5

It wasn’t difficult to read people, seeing as he wrote about them all the time.
Damien at least felt he had that power; to look at little things people would do and be able to predict how they would act, what they would say.
It was so easy. Everyone was essentially the same, after all.

3

That troubling feeling of uncertainty.

It is like trying to hold a fistful of water; for the quickest of moments– but no, no of course not.

So you have to let it freeze over and turn to ice. But then the surface is so very cold, it pricks your skin and once again, you have to let go.

This is not what you wanted, what you imagined.

Close, so close.

All you thought of, your mind saturated in the sickly, sticky sweet fantasies that pressed themselves so firmly against the forefront of your vision, so hard, to blink and have them suddenly vanish made your chest hurt.

Your chest hurt now.

You watch until your eyes burn. The numbness that seeps into your skin comes from inside out, makes you feel as if you are floating.

Vision blurry, cheeks wet.

Perhaps you have passed through a cloud.

1

I knew a girl who smoked cigarettes, and took pictures with a complicated camera, and quoted lines of poetry, framing whatever moment…

I kind of hated her for it.

Kind of hated that her clothes somehow didn’t have the pungent smell of smoke weaved into the fabric; the soft passion of her voice as she tagged her sentences with lines of Blake or Tennyson, Cummings or Poe; the pictures that anyone could take, but you could feel the significance so poignant that it burned in your chest.

I kind of hated her because I kind of hated myself for not being like that. My tongue felt lazy and my mind like mush when I couldn’t recognize the lines. One side of her mouth would quirk up, responding with poets to my confused expression even as I nodded. When I couldn’t sleep at night I would look them up, and read the lines too quickly and almost thought I could understand but didn’t want to discuss anything because I probably really didn’t.

“Your slightest look easily will unclose me, though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens’’

I gave a small gasp, recognizing the line, and my heart jumped from my chest onto the pavement when she smiled at my reaction.

She knew what I’ve been doing, when it was so late that every sound was like a blow horn. She knew, somehow, and my face felt like fire.