of storms and skysee my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you dont deserve gods beautiful violence.
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. and then a moment we are swallowed. gumtrees, rain, earth; we are all night sky now. but our eyes open and the rain is no more, dew on grass. and the wind is no more, only breath.)
oh the little thingsItd be nice if he'd let me breathe. Just inhale a little air to keep my teeth company- maybe even exhale again when they grow tired of one another. You really dont notice how wonderful it is to breathe until youre lying stomach down with empty lungs and the creepy man from the corner store sitting on your back.oh the little things6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
But what can I say? Not- please get off of my back, I can feel my spine against my stomach and I dont like it. Because I really can feel my spine against my stomach and am breathless to say such. My cheek makes like feet against the wooden floorboards. This man has a whole forest of trees in here! All lying flat, cramped and without breath or life. I can sympathise. We cling to each other and both ache to breathe again.
I cant for the life of me remember his name. It was there bold and black on his shirt pocket every four pm. He was always the one with the far-off eyes and the rotting algae teeth. Hes a nutcase S
she sold seashellsfrancesca sits at the sill with swarthy legs dangling seaward. their holiday home cliffs off to the heaving ocean and together they sigh in a breathy unison. wind gushes around her, quieting her with a 'shhhhh' and gently suggesting a fall. she licks dry lips and almost succumbs to the wind's murmurs. how easy it would be for her to slip and fall weightlessly into the warm sea that held her as a child.she sold seashells5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
every april they come here and every may they leave once more. francesca leaves the city behind- and with bottles of sand and broken shells she tries to bring the sea back with her. but inspiring smoke and exhaling city air will never really be breathing, as pavements and bitumen will never be hot sand between her toes.
the ocean does not hide its desire for the girl. it aches to swim across her baked-earth skin and cling to her heavy eyelashes long after she has surfaced. its throbs and crashes against the shore with a reckless yearning. look at that, her mother had sighed once,
sickDeath slouches over the edge of her bed, licking his lips as he caresses her thighs. He sings the noise of wind and rain crashing all around and her head throbs with the sound. Her head is hot. Her forehead is on fire and her cheeks catch alight with it. She burns silently and sees red, red, black.sick5 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
Tiny insects have crawled beneath her fingernails and they dig with tiny claws and teeth until they are swarming beneath her skin, biting outward at her flesh. Each vertebrae carries bruises and as she tosses her body about the bed they ache loudly and sharply.
All the heat has rushed to her face, her body shakes like a leaf in wind and goosebumps make known on every limb. I am dying, she tells herself- she can hardly hear this amongst the sound of hornets and the pressure in her head, but death smiles.
Her voice is lost. She calls aloud for someone and only death can make out the words. She cannot swallow, she can no longer move. Her hands desperately comfort her skin and she feels it like
you can't feel through fabrictonight the rain becomes the earthyou can't feel through fabric6 years ago in Other More Like This
falling from hidden spaces in the sky and swollen clouds
i hear it make mud of dirt, and lovers of friends
and ask, quiet, where are you going but down?
im not all there in the head
youre not all there in the head, my mother says
im not all there in the head i repeat
sometimes im there in my toes and fingers and heart as well
and now - in this downpour moment- i lie on the street
so warm that i think well thats where loves gotten to
but where is your shirt n? oh someplace else
and is that a light flickering in the house across the road? hide!
i rush in soaken with rain i watched fall (like stars)
am i poetic enough yet, yet?
leaving rain-prints on the carpet but mother wont mind
mind you she never minds anything if its mine
but then it stops a quick shut-eye stop
(i wonder) is it dew now that it sits like jewels upon the grass?
the wind is lovely in my ear, voice like rushing water
this aprilThe moonlight falls through squinting blinds, bowing softly to hug the arc of his naked body. The blankets are strewn about his toes as a girl, no more than sixteen, lays wide-eyed and warm-bodied beside him.this april5 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
She silently watches the dreams come and go beneath his eyelids, she quietly feels his chest rise, rise then fall and she listens to the heavy breathing that accompanies it. Beautiful breathing, she thinks, tracing generous lips with fingertips.
The air is cool but she is alight.
Everything in this room bathes in blue shade. She watches the alarm clock beside the bed, numbers coming and going out of fashion before her eyes. Now it wears 0, 4, 2 and 9. Melbourne will burn beneath the April sun shortly. She does not need the sun for warmth anymore but the city always will.
His arm no longer sleeps wrapped around her and she feels the emptiness below her breasts as though nothing is really something after all. He sighs in sleep and it is not a heavy sigh but a light-hearte
dear diary, today i diedshe's a ghost of a girl in the mirror. dark hair tangles like weeds below her shoulders and cuts at grey eyes. harsh shadows don't leave her with a skeleton like she sometimes hopes, but she feels it in her mind. feels the sharp edges and the trembled fragility, the silent cry for another's flesh and that outward plea of don't break me. cold fingers make love to cold glass while the sky cries over and over for sun.dear diary, today i died5 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
this afternoon death made to kiss her lips but missed. he'd come so close she now knows what nothing doesn't feel like and she cannot fear it. it's a blankness so removed from consciousness she cannot reach it with thought- but she had drowned in it and forever the extent of nothingness will stay with her. she shivers. she is wet, she is cold, but she breathes. hear her breathe, louder now than the wind outside.
the rain had witnessed them; two friends walking beneath an vast umbrella. legs bare and teeth bare in laughter. the rainclouds had swollen with envy, coughin
leavemedon'tleaveme.you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.leavemedon'tleaveme.6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
you made me do this. you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said youd care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.
i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together. i like being the blue eyed girl with hands holding her from spilling in a mess at everyones toes. i like it when theyre your hands.
i try to define you with mental disorders. i say you have schizophrenia and pretend its a valid excuse. im in love with one of your personalities, but the other doesnt even notice
owl boyLight spills like milk from the window. It drips bright upon his face. He is naked, he is the milk spilt from the window to the floor. He is sleeping now.owl boy5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Sun whistles her breeze in the trees this late August and the birds are drunk with birdsong. He sleeps on through the sound. A quiet, dreaming boy. She kneels and kisses his fingers, soft.
Sun dances, warm and alight, across the sky until she is weary, disappearing with sleep herself. Calling, Moon! Moon! Im so tired my love, I will fall a moment and sleep And he will become her in the sky, following after her until sleep becomes of he, too. And the chase will continue into morrow.
But sun and moon are none, because he wakes. He wakes and he breathes slow like the beach when there is only you to watch. He wakes and the colour leaks behind half-open eyes and he is naked, so very naked this cold now-night.
A clock hand whispers the fleetingness of each moment from the wall and a cat drinks from a fish bowl. The
the fluttered- a collectionithe fluttered- a collection6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Hear my joints dislocate, coming apart at the notion of sunlight. It falls and it settles in pictures of loveliness, golden tree branches and hints of leaves; of autumn, of spring.
I am so tall in the water. My legs are never-ending, crooked lines of peachskin- watching my fingers draw out ripples until they strain and buckle and fall into the cool. Ill touch my toes and loop my figure and Ill make giant ripples, abhorring fallen leaves and sending shivers of blue through his legs.
Its a faded crimson red holding my breasts, tugging my hips and leaving my ribcage bare to the current. Its smudged lipstick and smeared blood to him; its the soft of petals and the heat of summer to me.
With dirt up my thighs and crushed flowers beneath my elbows we sat in echoes of bark; lit with the little light the leaves could spare. We were a picture. We were lovers in the dirt, near the stream, soft nothing above and heaviness beneath us.
It came tumbling down by my
colour blind.She saw him at the park once. He was the colour of dirt; with bird eyes and white, mapped palms. Her little forehead lined as she felt the bile force its way up until her saliva was acid. She counted her toes and bit the inside of her cheek, should she run? Are they fast runners? She figured this one must be if he kept himself out of jail. The dark man flashed a mouthful of pebbles and held out his hand- which would have swallowed hers.colour blind.6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
'Don't touch me.'
Her hands were all knuckles and her baby eyes tore into his. He faltered and stepped away, a half mouthed sorry. He looked upset, a grin spread like fire between her dimples.
Suddenly she imagined force-feeding him barbed wire and then tearing it back out- the way a clown pulls coloured cloth from his sleeve. She imagined tying the left of his limbs to a heavy tree trunk and the right to a truck. Dragging and pulling until his joints sang high with dislocation and his arms snapped like twigs. The way she likes the crackle of dea
picture death.I couldnt bring myself to bury her.picture death.6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I couldnt bring myself to empty the ground of dirt and of earthworms and of the spindly weed roots, and fill in the ochre gap with her body. Her coffee-cream fur held her tiny skeleton from falling out when they hit her. I try not to think of miniature beat-less hearts and mute lungs. I never saw her dead, but I can imagine.
They found her on the median strip. Breathless and still by the endless whoosh of traffic.
In my mind I see Mums face; I see her heart throbbing at her feet and her cradling the dog, like a precious baby to her chest. I see the love flowing down her withered cheeks and her hands pressing into the fur, desperately releasing life from her fingertips. She wrapped her in a rainbow and buried her beneath a flowering mango tree.
When I came home she was standing on worn feet, looking forlorn and waiting for me. Around the door my little sisters freckles and cheeks are stained pink and shine in the light.
easteri'm in the back of the car, sucking my chlorine hair and watching with sleepy eyes out the window. brown dirt is soon ochre and we are nowhere in particular yet. we are going to the atheton tablelands for easter. i fall into a broken sleep on my sister's warm shoulder and when i wake up we are there.easter5 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
it is nighttime and my cousin is only still a baby and she cries from inside the house (which is really only a very large shed). out of the car the air is like freezer air but fresh and crisp like cold water. my eyes become wide at the rolling of the hills around us, the living green they are, the horse paddocks, the shapely trees. there is a loud, insistent buzzing of myriad thumbnail sized insects slamming themselves against us, and walls, towards the light. they scare me and i go inside, under blankets. i am still tired and softly i ease back into sleep on a mattress on the floor.
when i wake up i am the only one awake, even the sun is still sleeping. when i'm the only one awake i like
why didn't you say goodbye?Love wasnt in the air the night you unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my skin. No, love definitely wasnt in the air the night we spent in heat of moments, sweating and tumbling and fumbling on your fathers bed.why didn't you say goodbye?6 years ago in General More Like This
It was anywhere but there. Does love go on vacation? I ponder and make fleshy butterflies from my outstretched fingers. Probably.
I cant remember much but I can remember the beginning. The burn of acid bleeding and gushing past my tongue and down my throat. The noises and then your silence. The clumsiness and then the awkward kisses.
You had a garden of dark hair growing from your scalp and dirt eyes. You had a protruding belly button and clown feet. You smelt like my grandfather in his coffin.
You didnt ask me if you could take my virginity. You just assumed I wouldnt mind giving it to you. I always wonder where you put it, if you take good care of it and how it is doing. I imagine you put it in a shiny jar with a sticky label reading Lore
exhalation.Sixteen. Sixteen years since she was the size of a deflated lung beneath her mothers ribcage- now she has her own mass beneath her ribcage. Thumping sometimes to the outside, treating the skin of Laylla's stomach like a door. It will open in 3 months, it will be sliced open because her flesh is meat and they'll bring Sophie to air and she'll swallow until all she tastes is that dull white of the hospital. And then she'll cry and the music will drone in Laylla's ears until she tastes vomit and she is numb in all the aching places.exhalation.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She doesn't know the father. She thinks Michael but she tells herself it is Louis. She repeats his name over and over in her head until it simply can't be anyone else's. But baby Sophie will have Michael's milk skin and his amber eyes and then she'll feel her heart sink all over again.
They fucked in a Garden. Wire fencing ripped open her calve like it was a gift and left a scar souvenir. He lifted her dress -sun yellow- and brought her underwear to meet her k
voices.are you listening?voices.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the trains are
burning. planes are
crashing, and i can only hope
they're not yours.
tides are coming in,
breaking the shore, carrying
the ground beneath you
away, away with them,
and we can only
but see that guy over there?
there are voices
inside my head, pulling
at the roots of my hair and
banging on the walls,
begging me, screaming at me:
'please, let me out',
'please hear me, hear me,
until they're all i can hear,
until i want to give in and
give up, and they've won, they've
won, until i feel like the ability
to live life fully is a dream, a hope, a
something meant only
for the lucky, until
depression fills my lungs, and
i need a new source of oxygen, and
i can't breathe.
tell me it'll be
alright. please. just lie
it'll be alright.
Fragilei.Fragile6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i wrote this for you.
i wanted you to know
that i am always
i burned my mouth on my coffee
and remembered the scorch of your lips
burning, stinging, lingering.
and i finally lost those ten pounds
that you told me i didn't need to lose
but i felt the need to be underweight
and at night, i curled my little self up in a ball
and thought of every part of me that
you could never love.
i guess a part of me always wanted
to be fragile.
you will never know how many times i saw you
in the backs of other men,
and i ran to them, calling your name
and they'd turn, confused.
they'd say, "Can I help you, miss?"
and i looked into their unfamiliar eyes
and wished with everything in me
that i could say yes.
"could you promise a certain boy
will see me again? because i seem to have
and I'd walk away disappointed
because that was the day I'd decided I would tell you:
you are the sunlight
streaming through my window in the morning.
i spend h
strings of pearls and breathunderwater they are mermaids. patterns of poolwater-caught sunshine dancing in soft-edged white upon their long legs (tails). red hair like ocean fire and fingers ever reaching for the bubbles, like pearls but from out their mouths. darting up between their fingers.strings of pearls and breath5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
there are places here, beneath here, beneath the sound of their mother yelling at their father and the loud rough of the neighbours dogs bark, where they can breathe. breathe the dead leaves in water whirlpools beneath their feet and breathe the chlorine, leaving eyes red and hair green at the tips. breathe the quiet of their bodies and their imagined underwater world, so colour-dipped and alive.
their eyes are closed tight and they press their heads together, on the pool steps. one holds the others hand and together they love a love that is shimmer on water waves edge, pink casing on sundown clouds and toe nails with pink polish peeling. they love and in the silence of their love (and sound of life
losing.i.losing.5 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
my eyes are hollow.
happiness is hiding from me,
silence is stalking, suffocating.
how do i smile?
the roads are too long, too
slippery. it's too easy to get lost.
and i have no map.
could someone be my map?
'you haven't lost
until you've given up,'
they remind me.
'don't give up.'
sometimes i wonder -
what if i already have given up?
have i lost, then?
stop asking me to breathe, please.
stop asking me to live.
stop asking me to be happy.
i don't want to.
if God could see me now,
what would He think of me?
[it can't be good.]
sunshine hurts my eyes.
the only cage i'm in is one i've made myself.
why, then, can't i break out of it?
'i believe in you.'
but you shouldn't.
but you shouldn't.
[i'm not worth it.]
my heartbeats sound suffocated.
please don't leave.
feel like flying.i used tofeel like flying.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
look at the pretty
how it felt to fly
it was only
like you're still around.pretty new startslike you're still around.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in pretty new places;
followed by ugly hearts
with ugly faces.
sleep-talk.sleep-talk.6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
isnt it curious how your fingers fit perfectly between each of my sclerous ribs, or how your breath mimics mine with belated accuracy
(count each breath and youll run out of fingers.)
dont you remember the fairytales?
(and they both lived happily ever after, until after ran out and the monogamy became as non-existent as the magic.)
you were never one for myths. with discerning eyes, youd plant kisses along the ridges of my back
across my shoulders
and the hollow beneath my jaw, questioning my pastel skin and every involuntary blink.
I am not a myth. Id breathe.
Even when my back wore naught but jutting wing bones, a street of s
asthmashe smokes marlboro cigarettes with the bedroom door locked. i taste it on her breath, lips and skin everyday after school. her bed is a mattress on the floor. sometimes we make love on it and i wonder if she'd rather have her mouth around a cigarette than me right then. she has asthma too.asthma5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
she is my second cousin. i didn't know this until two years after we began fucking and three years after i fell for her. i don't think it really matters. emily says if i ever made her pregnant she'd make me punch her in the stomach, heavy and hard. but i never would you know, i love her.
the smoking is killing her. i hid the cigarettes beneath the sink, but she just bought new ones and hid them better. she had her head down in the pillow, coughing, coughing until she coughed up sticky blood. i cried for her and she told me to stop being such a pussy. i told her i loved her and she drew another cigarette. kissing it ways she'd never kiss me.
some nights i sleep over hers. her father doesn't mind, he
missing.i remember how you found me digging through boxes in my closet one day.missing.6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
'what're you looking for?' you asked.
'i'm not sure,' i replied.
you looked at me, confused. 'you don't know what you're looking for?' you asked. i only shook my head.
because i never know what's missing or what i'm looking for; only that something is lost. misplaced.
but maybe the only thing misplaced is me.
'what do you think of yourself?' you asked me the next day.
'what do you mean?' i replied.
'i mean,' you paused for a moment. 'how do you see yourself?'
a telephone was ringing on the t.v. in the silence that dragged on. you turned away from me, and i could tell you didn't expect me to reply.
i didn't, either, but i surprised both of us.
'well,' i said. 'maybe... maybe i'm a fish born without gills. or maybe i'm a bird that refuses to fly. maybe i'm a treasure chest, locked and full of surprises - or maybe i'm just empty.
maybe i'm like fog, confusing and mindless and almost impossible to see through.
insomnia.one a.m.insomnia.5 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
i couldn't sleep. i was too busy tossing and turning and throwing my pillow at the shadows dancing in my room.
i tried counting sheep, but somehow, one became two became three became fifty became purple became what the hell is wrong with me?
i glanced at my phone and thought about calling you. and then i realized that you're never the one to call me, and that stung, and i decided to count the stains on my ceiling instead.
some idiot set his car alarm off, and the other cars answered, forming an odd sort of melody.
i wanted to answer with a scream of my own, but i forced it to stay in.
sleep was calling my phone, but i couldn't find it to answer. i wondered if i lost it.
i finished counting the stains, and there were twenty-six on my ceiling. the shadows were laughing at me - or maybe it was me, laughing at myself.
i stumbled through my closet to find my phone, finally answering to sleep.
'alyssa.' i didn't reply.