05 7 / 2011
Bassinet
Her heart like butterflies her stomach like snakes she climbs from bassinets into aviaries mouth open hungry wide.
30 6 / 2011
Follow Follow
Small shiny thing in the river, I don’t know if you’re alive. I follow you down and down and you keep getting away. Do you see me? Can you see? It’s getting dark and darker. I feel things touch my legs and arms and the places under my fingernails. I still follow follow. I still want you.
30 6 / 2011
Now updating Tuesday/Thursday
Tuesday/Thursday will contain fiction. There may be reblogs on other days? I don’t know.
18 2 / 2011
Day 49
The smell of it is what got to her first. You could always tell when something was dying from the smell of the room - powdery, like you were inhaling chalk dust. Though she doubted there was actually something dying. The light from the bulb hanging from the ceiling showed her plenty of mold. That also smelled powdery.
She stepped around dunes of dust and old newspapers, reverently, almost, but there wasn’t anything to disturb. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Distorted, her face was a small white thing pushed off-center. She blew, and it dispersed with the dust.
17 2 / 2011
More midterms.
Let’s just put this on hold until the weekend. I’ll write two a day starting Friday.
THAT IS A PLAN.
16 2 / 2011
Day 47
A lot of the time, these things seemed to sneak up on her, like when we went around a corner at night and then she couldn’t move, gripping my hand still, her lips turning blue. I spent a lot of time talking into her hair. It’ll be all right.
15 2 / 2011
Day 46
Bathing helps the pain, a little bit, and so does sleep, but she keeps mostly to herself in case someone touches her. Eventually the rim of the bathtub is her horizon. The mattress becomes the earth.
14 2 / 2011
Day 45
The air is so humid it feels like silk on my skin. The pages of my book are curling, almost translucent now.
“Are you going tonight?”
It’s the kind of question I don’t want to hear right now.
“It feels like it’s going to rain.”
“I really don’t think so.”
Shadows on the paper. That one looks like a hand. It moves, and I think about paper cuts.
13 2 / 2011
Day 44
She makes these marks on her skin, each one of them a reminder of things that happened a long time ago. Black here, red there. Sweep up and around the eyes with brown dust. Little brushes with coarse black hairs. Tacky liquid the color of skin, rubbed on with her fingers over the darkness under her eyes, the bruises on her shoulders. The colors come on and off like a film on her skin, beauty disposable, wasteful, but new.
