Shop Forum More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Hobbyist xXI-Feel-InfiniteXxFemale/United Kingdom Group :iconlitrecognition: LitRecognition
 
Recent Activity
Deviant for 8 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 205 Deviations 6,992 Comments 30,059 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
23:29
My mother gave me a flower, said
it would only bloom when my heart
was broken. I thought it was a curse.
I watched it grow, leaf after leaf
unfurling into pink-tinged skies
and lonely nights. My first love
turned me (upside) down.
He tumbled into another’s arms,
and the plant shivered an inch
upwards by morning.
I never watered it, hated it like an
unwelcome guest. I once poured
boiling tea into its roots but
the stem only sighed for a week
and recovered. I met a boy with
a talent for making things grow
and the flower halted its ascent.
We talked across continents and
seasons, telephone lines like
tightropes. I lost my balance.
A new leaf-bud began to swell.
She asked me about it, the plant
on my windowsill. It had grown
outwards and upwards, a shrub
of generic shape and temperament.
I told her about its trick, the secret
to it blooming. She laughed, said
“as long as you hold my hand,
there won’t be any flowers.”
It didn’t take long for the first
new buds
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 18 9
Literature
balm.
the dog-days have come
and hounded me with
curled tongues and wicked eyes.
they have lain on the ceilings of
humid rooms and sweated out a balm
of indecision, snarling at my faltering
steps, gnashing at my heels that dare demand
fresh air and space to decide
where they go from here.
the hounds of summer have come early
this year, pressing hot against my legs
as the city is plagued with heat and
restlessness. the museums stir with the
winds of desert climes, sarcophagi sighing
with the last breathes of locust swarms and
harsh sunlight. the parks lay flat and bleached,
grass and concrete singing in unison pleading
for rain. it is a constant chorus, the wish
for rainfall, so desperate that the city
would see softness in thunderstorms, grace
in the violence and tumult of a summer rainstorm.
but those dogs won’t let me be.
they howl through the night while
I seek coolness from open windows
and evening breezes. they bite at my hands
as I swat them away, pacing through walls of
stiff he
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 9 4
Literature
river.flow
we talk in rivers. I have noticed
them flow in the midst of our
conversations – mine the thames,
serpentine slipping as a whisper
through the low meadows, quiet
and hissing. yours the five rivers
of the punjab, vying like brothers
in a tumult of froth and noise,
wrestling their way through
mangrove roots and mazes.
the rivers raised us, taught us their ways.
somewhere two oceans meet in a
place where there is no wind,
the doldrums silent and still
as two currents cancel out in
a moment of collision. as the
thames flows into the punjab
and halts, so too do we stand
together, silent, over-brimming
with restrained tidal waves,
our currents ceased and bridled
each time we kiss in a place
where even time stills its flow.
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 18 4
Literature
blackbird refrain.
Mine is a nation of songbirds.
Even now amongst the cliffs of
noise, the walls of peeling engines
and a thousand tongues speaking
in tandem in an edifice of sound,
I hear them still. Blackbirds
dotting the stripped branches of
warped beeches, the flitting of thrushes
amongst the shrubbery of landscaped
office spaces, I hear them trill.
A constant lyric of avian emotion,
their sentiments mixing with mine as
dusk nestles itself in the unlit
corners of London’s neon streets.
I hear them still, as I wander
quiet backstreets in the footsteps of my
Victorian ancestors, wondering if they
heard the same lineage of musicians
weaving lullabies from the barren
branches of the very same oak. I hear
them trill, and my ancestors heard them
too, perhaps as buoyed by love as I am,
echoing those love-worn serenades in
the nest of their hearts just as I do now,
or perhaps instead so singed by betrayal
that instead irony took up the cuckoo
mantle in their thrumming chorus-line.
Mine is a nation of
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 20 2
Literature
paramour.
You came the same summer a flock of parakeets arrived in the park outside my windows. I remember it still, you sat on the windowsill as they flashed amongst the branches, paint-strokes of emerald dashed against a backdrop of greenery, the vapours from your tea curling like incense around you, a devotional image in repose. They mirrored you somehow. When you laughed, their songs would whistle underneath the breeze, slipping through the open windows with a trill. When you slept, they would nest in the boughs of century-old oaks, wings tucked into their sides as closely as your arms to yours.
They were yours, the parakeets and their songs, their feathers, their beaks too. But when you left, they stayed, flitting amongst the trees outside my window, the branches bare but for their greenery. I watched them, nesting in pairs as the frost laced the panes of glass, as the ring box gathered dust under the chest of drawers. I tried to call you, tell you that you left them behind when you moved o
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 13 0
Literature
hair.line
My mother taught me how to
fall in love with strangers
so before I met you we were
already halfway to the stars,
but as soon as you spoke
I was lost. Loving strangers
is easy, there are no secrets
and no hard conversations,
there are no wounds to salve,
no scars to explain. The oddities,
they rest as quirks on the skin
of casual observation: a light
flip of the hair, a habit of
counting exits, the planning of
escape routes masked as
musical fingers playing sonatas
in empty air, a symphony
of fears tucked under quiet smiles
at gurgling infants. Falling
in love with an acquaintance,
a friend, a man like you, is
new to me. And when it happens,
I will have no map and no
compass, no way of hiding all
the pieces of me that I have
spent a lifetime slipping
under a thousand eccentricities
and the muses I have made from
passersby so easy to love
without risk of breaking.
You trace
your fingers
down my hair-
line fractures
with all the
softest edges
of curiosity,
whispering to
me of tragedy
and
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 21 4
Literature
cave.painting
in the den of almost lovers, i took refuge
in the pelts of a thousand kisses that all felt the same.
watched a world unknown spin past my fingers
and took not a single step outside these tightly
painted lines. it was not enough. it was too much.
my hometown was a single shade of grey; it wept
when i left it and my eyes were dry. i returned
in a summer carved from schist, the sky above
that familiar shade of nothing and my eyes weren’t dry.
born with hands made of tongues, and tongues
made of stomachs, i devoured starvation and
held myself empty and purging, wishing for honey
and sweetness, a place i had never tasted but
would know by its scent. it was you, it was you.
found you on a lawn of suspended kites, under
firework skies of charcoal and splinter; my mouth
knew you before my eyes. it was familiar, it was
not. saw the tangle of india’s hairline in your palms,
bathed in the thick incense of your garland wrists,
swallowed the monsoon rains without a word, spoke
of nothin
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 19 2
Literature
love notes from an ivory tower.
i give you my midnights, my eleventh hours;
i give you the first taste of caffeine in the
morning, the opening of curtains, and their
closing too. i give you the moments spent
staring in open jewellery boxes and thinking
of your rhinestone teeth glistening in dark
rooms; i give you the silence of closed doors
and closed eyes, every fragment of reflection
at three am. i give it all to you, the hours,
and the quiet, the pieces of myself that only my
walls have seen. i know you will give me yours
in return, the sweep of your palms on cold sheets,
the beat of your feet on bicycle pedals -
that first suck of air on a Sunday afternoon.
you will give me crossed shoulder-blades,
the aches of late nights lost in libraries that
whisper my name from a thousand worn spines;
i give you it all, and gladly, knowing that my
midnights, my doorway pausing and thoughts of you
slipped between the headlights of passing cars,
the thrum of your heartbeat echoing still
in the hum of all these people rushing p
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 22 12
Literature
garland.bearer
Has Cupid ever fallen in love?
Saw you from across the sky and
dived, impaled himself on his own
arrow at your feet and prayed
for the libation of your kiss?
Did he give you his wings, tied them
to the faintest of hellos and wished
for flight; did he cuff the moon to
your wrists and spill the stars over
your lips in that first confession
of something close to love?
Because Cupid could give you everything
soaked in sentiment: clouds of swan
down, an ocean of white silk, he could
have plucked the rings from Saturn’s
axis and slipped them on your fingers
if he ever fell in love with you.
It isn’t difficult to fall in love with
someone like you, but I can’t rearrange
the heavens or call upon a chorus of
erotes, all I can do is write you verses
with mortal hands and mortal sentiment –
Love is something for myths and legends
and Venus’ bedtime stories. I can only
give you words, and whisper them in the
language of the gods low enough for them
to mishear, misread
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 27 8
Literature
Ganges.
i have been dreaming in rivers.
it started when those palms of
yours skated into the corners of
my imagination, soaked in thick
 incense smoke and wreathed with
    the scars of a thousand births and
         rebirths, a thousand more deaths
                and re-deaths. it started when
                   those palms pressed up against
                    the palisades, slipping quiet prayers
            in sanskrit between the roman numerals
          and grecian arches of a life spent spinning
    like foucault's pendulum below the domes
  built by my ancestors' hands - their palms
plastered and rock-worn, calloused
and beaten. but yours are soft, they
whisper in a language i have never
heard, a hush below the angels' choir
  and sh
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 27 14
Literature
vanitas.
how arrogant it is
to fall in love with
a mirror image of
imperfection. see
your wide hands
and splayed grin
reflected in the
arches of my eye-
brows, see your
velvet laugh caught
in mine, we make a
martyr of our vanity
only for it to linger
in every kiss. i have
lived fewer lives than
you, have cycled through
the centuries with a little
less conviction and such
dispassion for love. you
come with the wisdom of
every incarnation, of
charity and soft palms,
of will and want and
worship; i watch and
try to imitate your
silence in a hundred
words and always come
up short. a thousand
lifetimes of carbon
can still be compressed
into a pearl, it sits
in my mouth as we kiss,
that this is nothing
that hasn’t happened
before. mirrors always
show two realities, see
my worry and see my doubt,
how it translates to
certainty in the reversed
curve of your jaw, see
your modesty, how it
rests proud on the
ridges of my shoulders.
in the nights of firework
skies i cannot tell whose
hands hold whose
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 22 8
Literature
fever.break
The heart of an hour veined
with thoughts of you, and you
alone. Lying in great seas to
wash all these sins away has
done nothing but prune my
skin and my faults are studded
into the marrow of every
decision I fail to make anyway so -
I have time. I have all this time to
waste on a set of straight teeth
and a pretty face, a boy with venus
dimples and sharp hips and wide
hands, a boy who laughs in tune
and sings without. Adrift in Atlantic
waters, these oceans are too cold
for your Indian summers but here
you are scrubbing at red raw sins
so scarlet they blend into one great
mess of indiscernible mass. Ask my
past lovers and they will tell you I
am a thief, and proud, and arrogant,
you will say as much one day. Ask them
how I kiss and they will say dispassionately
but with all the fervour of a fever breaking,
you will say as much one day. But here,
we catch eyes as we soak our sins and
stop. Yours are beautiful, I say, as are
yours, you laugh. Caught in the pull
of shifting tides, we dr
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 24 16
Literature
cyber.space
and she exists still, in cyber
space, the paris of happier
times, in a thousand snap
shots of nothing important.
there, her glasses two discs
of light under a honey moon,
with a laugh captured in an
eclipse of silence, she stays.
there is no parting, no planes,
no plans, there is only paris
and there is only her. and she
exists still, a series of faces
in a series of places, none i
can recognise, and to her i
am nothing more than a
crossroads while she lingers
still, whenever i think of
the rinds of laughter she
left peeled in my bedroom
musings. how good it would
have been, to stay there.
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 21 10
Literature
time.wide
We first met in the slums of Paris,
I knew you by your hands, and we
caught eyes between the passing
carriages, their wheels slick with
waste as the plague settled its
cloak over Europe’s shoulders.
The back-alleys of Karakorum, and
you rode into town with a dagger
as short as your temper. I watched
your hands flash, thin and white,
in the face of the barmaid, saw
them swing with hard knuckles,
and said nothing at all as you left.
We met in the pits of Rome, the
Colosseum, stood opposite the other
in our rusting armour. I watched
your gilded teeth graze a smile as
the crowds called for blood; well,
you said, it won’t be me, and I saw
your hands were bloody on the
hilt of my dagger –
London, the blitz, I knew you by
your hands, a red birthmark from
our last encounter, and the sirens
wailed out into the night as we
waited it out on the street, nothing
but black skies and cracked paving
and those hands glowing like wax as
you chain-smoked stunted cigarettes.
I watched yo
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 19 4
Literature
heart.sick
now that my heart has been taken by another
i see the beauty in the giving
i would have given you it gladly, would have
wrapped it up in autumn skies,
a parcel of sycamore leaves and poetry and
it would have been all yours.
it is not, though, and yours is no more mine
than this soil, or this air, or this
frail piece of love i cling to in your absence.
throwing verses at your back,
silence my tongue and hear it work still to
explain, confess, concede
cage my hands and watch them burn with
loneliness, yours is the love i
cannot purge. heartsick as i am and empty
-chested too, my love is all
else, my love is gastric, flesh and lungs,
my love is marrow and nerves
and eyelashes too. it is the respiration of
a hive of dazed wasps, caught
in the honey and seeking a sweeter surrender
still, it is the bewitching hour
when love rises phantasmic from dead dreams
and dances over ceilings in a
wedding gown, it is the sun letting itself be
outshone by the shadow of
the moon, it is its own pulse and
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 24 10
Literature
wander.lust
packed up my hometown in a suitcase
and travelled down backwards roads,
I find myself in Paris, in Rome; vaulted
archways, concrete sprawl, I press on
as you press up against my heels with
those kisses of yours, saying “stay” and
“run” all at once. in the forest glades of
deep night, every cityscape looks like
you, arms outstretched reaching, arms
outstretched pushing. haunting hotel
bars in daytime hours, seeking solace
in the colosseums where good men
fought each other with all the violence
of love, I imagine us in the pits of war
and watch those gilded teeth graze
a smile as we stand armoured in gold
and greed and the sigils of rival houses.
it has always been this way, our love
swells as glaciers do, and in the spring
the ice-melt pools in the valleys below
and paints a lake to cover all the sins
of a barren land, the sky leans down to
meet it. it has always been this way, our
love as atoms, and space, a million words
and endless silence too. I listen to the
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet
:iconcomatose-comet:comatose-comet 29 16

Groups

:iconlitrecognition:

deviantID

comatose-comet's Profile Picture
comatose-comet
xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Hi, I'm Kelsey :love:

Even though I'm supposed to be doing things with my life I keep ending up procrastinating here and pretending to be able to write.

Lived for a year in China, the time difference was mental and even though I'm back in the UK I swear pieces of me are living seven hours in the future, dancing on the other side of the world. Also lived in Paris for four months and I miss the eclairs immensely.

Currently reading: Villette Charlotte Bronte
Just Finished: The Member of the Wedding Carson McCullers

24 | F | Sagittarius | Hopeless skeptic | Sold my soul to Hussie | Johzenji | 浪迹天涯 |
Interests
Quote:
She belonged to no club and was a member of nothing in the world. Frankie had become an unjoined person and hung around in doorways, and she was afraid.
Carson McCullers, The Member of the Wedding

Personal:
October has come without warning and once again I am back in my favourite city in the UK, this time studying for a PhD. I am no longer with that someone who once took up my writing time, and I don't know how to feel about it. But there is much there to write about, so I'm back again. I'm trying my hand at writing competitions again too, so things may suddenly disappear from my gallery and re-appear sometime later.

What are your favourite quotes to get you through a break-up? And what novels would you recommend as a cure for heartache? 

Bookdiva Currently Reading: Villette, Charlotte Bronte
Bookdiva Finished: The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers

Features:
the aftermath of paradox and hypocrisy                       today 
          the universe & I are still.
pressed against the opportune upcoming,
        the great, ghastly unknown
-and we blink.
we share an addiction to counting ribs & breaking stars
and never hear the end of it.
art classi draw stars
that dance with
the freckles
on your arms 
while you plant
flowers in my stomach
and let the vines
squeeze me
in two
    but this kudzu
    seeded within
    aligning my spine
    with yours 
    lacks a distinct
    sense of
    suffocation
our songbird
dispositions 
hum in harmony
    the beating wings of
    our hearts
    melodizing with
    the stuttering
    singing from our
    throats
i stare at the 
popcorn ceiling
and listen to your
gentle breathing as
you fall asleep
other the phone
    angrily asking
    myself why i am
    letting myself
    fall for you
    so easily
but when the sun
peeks through
the cotton layered
sheets of the sky
all i can see is your
honey-dipped smile
and feel your
feather fingertips
brush against mine
    so despite this ache
re:micromortsmicroprobability states
after consuming one-thousand bananas over the course of your lifetime
and subsequently every one-thousand more beyond
your chance of sudden death increases
by .0001 percent
exactly the same
as drinking half a liter of wine
smoking one-and-a-quarter cigarettes or spending
two days in new york city
so if you find me one day
smoking a cigarette at a wine bar in manhattan while eating a banana split -
casually sipping and puffing and spooning and sighing -
ask me if it's all been real
wombsi lingered in my mother's belly
like a hunger
five days after i was due 
to make my grand appearance.
it's almost as if i was hesitant to leave the womb,
to break upon this empty sky as dawns do,
spill my colors like glowstick syrup on this bleak world,
or maybe, let the world
spill its bleakness onto my beauty
a newborn baby
wrapped in cotton and swaddled in fate
as i grew older,
i witnessed the other kids losing their baby teeth and 
i wanted nothing to do with it
i let my teeth dangle like christmas ornaments
hanging by threads,
didn't want to sever the ties i had to the past
the first food i ate went past these very teeth
they erupted from my peach-flesh gums, turned valleys to mountains
the first words i babbled fell into the world, slipping through these pearls
irregular as the flight of a bat
but no matter how scared i felt, my baby teeth still fell
hard white snowflakes, bleeding ruby, meteor showers flowering into the sink,
later plucked up and hidden in a secret box
Self love is Bullshit until it isn'tIn Berkeley, California, the rain is a downpour.
You shove your pajama pants into your boots to run outside at midnight and
this time only you bring an umbrella and
this time only you smoke a cigarette (the bell of the umbrella: a dingy coronet) and
this time
you don’t want it to kill you.
The rain is driven like the city is making up for
all its months of dryness
like it’s gotta get it all in right now, tonight and so
you’re standing in a river that’s running down your driveway to join all the other rivers and your feet are getting so wet but
you can’t feel it yet and
in the cracked pavement of your shitty rundown street you can see all the intricate channels
filled up by the yellow light of your sodium street lamp and
all of the halls of that lighted maze quiver with the rain still hitting them
with this moment still hitting them.
You’re looking out at it and
all you can do is think
oh my god
because this place is perfect and
so breathtaking that
y
Not By SightLiving blind
can turn a simple grocery run
into an altar call.
Enter good Samaritan:
no introduction,
just a hand on my arm
and a prayer
for my sight,
my wholeness,
to be restored.
Am I not whole?
My eyes took early retirement,
but that doesn't make me
tragic,
less than;
I am
a collage of scars
and stories,
of train rides and tea leaves.
I've had a good life,
a hard life,
a full life.
Today, I can't
find it in me
to gently correct her;
in society's eyes, I am
made invisible one moment
and spotlighted the next,
ready either to stand back
or stand out.
The pressures imposed
by tokenism,
by duty to educate,
by forced intimacy,
are enough to render me
diamond-rough.
Her words come from the heart,
and in a world
where people are quick
to say hateful things,
her intentions
are truly refreshing;
but I wish she didn't equate
seeing
with being
whole.
Of course,
I believed the same once.
When I was small, I hoped
for an unneeded cure.
Now, I find purpose
in every aspect of my being;
even with my
6. bubble lighti am thinking of
the way you
said it
& how it felt,
to watch you whisk
the wonder up,
how the sun burst
through the blinds
when we pulled it off
in the golden room,
where the light leapt
as you looked at me
& i wonder if your
ribs still hurt with that
lava lamp laughter,
if your pride
in me was
a painless thing / but i
don’t know
the answer
anymore
Tableyou have been at the center
of so many celebratory moments
family scandals and shouting matches
a sidelined spectator of every
episode of Wheel of Fortune
even if it wasn't your choice
the choice was never in your hands
you have only had sturdy legs
to make your mark in this world
keeper of conversation
a place of rest and order
your family could not do without
you’ve withstood every splash,
every scratch, every knock
we’ve delivered you
your limbs creak now
like an octogenarian
and you favor your left side
the stronger half of you
the age shows now
in your complexion
signs of discoloration
few would believe
that you were more spritely
in your youth
fashioned from oak
and painted pretty
like child’s doll
you’ve held us together
all these long years
with such grace
borderlinelove, 
you need to understand:
i have an addict's empty heart
i am porus, 
poured over
a glass of wine
spilt across the tabletop
and dried to a stain
i am chronically empty
with a sieve of a soul
love passes through me
but never sticks
so many nights ago,
i begged you:
mediate my moderation
because i have none
my glass is empty or full
i haven't seen a single shade of grey 
since the moment i opened my eyes
my world is either
a blinding aura
or a moonless night

my vision 
is chronically skewed, tilted
the scales
never balance
quite right
the waters never settle
my body knows no homeostasis:
it is in constant battle,
unrest
my mind
is in a incessant state
of disquiet: 
cacophony, clamor
there is a bar fight 
between my head and heart
—my body is caught between
The Things We Never SayMy Dear,
We've come again to this.  You're in the bedroom slamming drawers and packing suitcases, crying on the phone to your mother.  I can hear the corners of your conversation: "Can you believe it?" and "...should've left years ago."  I think I heard a "worthless son of a bitch" bounce against the closet.  (Let's hope, this time, you leave it on its hinges.)
I wonder what you're wearing.  You ripped your blouse getting out of the car tonight—caught it on that three carat platinum bracelet I bought you for Valentine's Day—so I can't imagine it's survived your vanity.  The bedroom is off limits, of course, but I've seen you angry before—fists tight and nails digging, stomping around in pantyhose and a lace bra.  When you notice a runner you'll curse and hop about until you've tugged the tights off, scowling at those hardwood floors you wanted.  Your diamond earrings are probably thrown bitte
blue/redi think he came to me
because i was like her
but not
we were opposite sides
of the same coin
the more i think about it
the more i realize
we are strikingly alike
like the same song,
played at different volumes
i am a soft whisper
played in a coffee shop
she fills an auditorium
she is me but a little more
and i am her but a little less
she is me
but more confident
more passionate
more hispanic
more outspoken
more existent
she puts herself in the world
and shouts her un-apology
she does not ask meekly for love
but demands it
and spares no time for those
who do not fill her need
i am less so
i am more calm
more quiet
more reflective - perhaps, not? -
more lonely
i try to pull myself away from the world
try to fold myself
into a singular atom and then half
pray no one looks at me
but desperate for just one to see me
we are cut from the same cloth
but she has been dyed
the red that starts and ends wars
the red of lust and fire and creation
i am the soft blue of sleep
the caress of the unspo
Something Queer, in your Bed, againShe’s there, in your bed
again, and you didn’t ask for it.
You didn’t tell her not to,
not this time,
and you know that from your chipped nail polish
to your cracking lips,
your body wanted her there too.
You think there was maybe
a time when you had potential, a time
when loving her was like the kind of talent
that you make your college major, before you realize
all too quickly, that it can’t turn a profit.
Eventually life makes us all dismiss our dreams.
She’s sleeping, and perhaps you should be
too, but it’s easier to breath without her
body so close to yours.
She reaches out her hands like a lost child
seeking her home.
Maybe, if this had gone differently,
you could have loved each other better.
Maybe, you could have even been good for eachother
in a way that makes sense. But she never
makes sense, and you have no sense when
she slips her hands into your back pockets and whispers
into your ear that it doesn’t matter who’s
looking-- sh
in the soilwhen a human grows
it is ghastly;
i noticed the rib
protruding out,
through my decade-old
sweater.
no blood, and
no idea.
to protect
i turned from
full to shadow,
fell like lucifer
and kissed each rung
of jacob's ladder
with the blooming wounds of intention
all the way
down.
humans don't break,
they only
grow.
portrait of an odyssey"New York," says Mrs Lipinski.
"New York," thirty-odd voices chorus after her. Bored, he prods his desk, running his fingers over a small dent in the grain of the wood.
"London," says Mrs Lipinski.
"London," repeats the class, and he mouths the syllables. He glances over at Ellen. She is sitting bolt upright, her eyes fixed on the map at the front of the classroom.
"Hong Kong," says Mrs Lipinski.
"Hong Kong," says Ellen along with the rest of the class, and in her eyes is a flash of some strong emotion that he cannot identify, a sort of longing that makes him shift uneasily in his chair, for he cannot understand it, and suspects he never will.
The geography lesson seems to linger within her for years afterwards. He spends most of his lunch breaks with her in the town library, tossing an apple or an orange between his hands as she pores over giant atlases and dusty travelogues.
"It would be easier to search for those on the internet," he says one afternoon, watching as she bends so clos
j'adore l'ete by calliopen

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconthesquareroot:
thesquareroot Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
thanks for the :llama:

it was deliciousI'm hungry...Get in my belly! 
Reply
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
No worries :D
Reply
:iconomujiu:
omujiu Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2018
:beer:
Reply
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Cheers 
Reply
:iconkittysib:
KittySib Featured By Owner Oct 15, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
:iconllama-plz:Thank you for the llama!:D
Reply
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
You're so welcome :)
Reply
:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Dec 2, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
I hope you had a beautiful birthday, darling. :heart:
Reply
:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much lovely, it was wonderful :rose:
Reply
:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Dec 5, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
You're welcome, my dear! :tighthug:
Reply
:icontigerfishaori:
TigerfishAori Featured By Owner Dec 1, 2017
Happy birthday! :D
Reply
Add a Comment: