I have fingers made for dialing rotary telephones until sore and
for pricking; one, two, many times
and pressing crescent moons into skin.
I am a cultivation of blood—bloodlines and blood oaths
and blood drawn from sewing needles, among other things...
chewed up blooding lips.
scratched bloody cuticles paired
with blood under fingernails.
bloody scalp and
bloodshot eyes—
Blood. Blood. Blood.
and damn, the best New Years Resolution I can give is,
maybe I'll do better next time.
I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another co
she is a bird sitting, teetering on
a power line because
one way or another, she figures
the best way to end
a story
is a big bang.
He is a fish swimming, traversing along,
Against the crashing tide because
He figures he can defy the law one or way or another,
And the best way to begin
Is to finish the end
Before he's stuck in her talons.
though she is made of feathers
and bones and she is still weightless enough
to take to the currents of air,
she is powerless
against the waves his actions
make, and she is so easily swept away that
she thinks her body might as well
be made of stones.
He could tell she was astounded by his ocean,
By the place