I used to wear my heart on my
sleeve but I don't wear sleeves
anymore so now I have it tucked
underneath my bra strap because
all the pants I own have fake
pockets - and I don't like purses
so I can't carry my empathy with
me anymore (but if I'm honest,
I had always tucked it in a pocket
at the bottom of my bag anyway).
I used to wear flowers in my hair,
a blooming crown all the colors
that I had bleached from my skin,
and now all that's left are horns -
delicate and wilting but still bejeweled
in glittering thorns, red with the
blood of every bitten tongue—all the
words I've ever choked back now
dancing across my glass
i will reduce myself to instincts.
when your hand settles wide and warm on the curve of my hip
i will allow myself to ease into you,
to sink into this infrequent surety -
to feel small,
(just now, just tonight)
and lay my body and my vulnerabilities bare,
trembling and receptive to your heat -
your solidity -
i will be reverent,
(just this, just once)
enamored of each breath,
each plane and edge,
each soft channel between
each heaving pair of ribs -
i will allow myself
(just once, just once)
to consume you,
to find myself
(just this, just please,
The most annoying thing about death is all the paperwork involved. Every morning, Lyle and I make the trip to the warehouse to sift through today’s files and see whose soul we get to summon and send into the light.
“Harold Lassiter, aged eighty-six,” I read from the list of names. “Heart attack. Leaves behind a loving wife, Katherine, and a German shepherd, Goober.”
“Maya Hernandez, twenty-one,” Lyle adds. “Car wreck. Leaves behind a little sister, Leslie, and an absent father. I think I remember her mother somewhere…” He glances around the massive warehouse, at the rows and rows
Sometimes I wish I knew what true darkness was. Other times I could swear I see it in your eyes, in your shadow, in the empty beer bottle still hanging from your fingers. But right now all I see is your ceiling.
"Do ya think aliens are real?"
I turn my head toward you but you're still staring up. I trace your profile with my eyes and pretend, just like with every other time, that you don't notice. I blink and turn back to the ceiling. A shaft of blue light streaks across it.
"Yeah," I whisper, more or less. It is hard to tell.
"Same," you say, like a sigh. Your voice is always breathy but it's also low and I'm pretty sure I could fall asl
Super sorry for hardly any artwork! I have to leave the frequency of my uploads to my creativity and when I seem to feel inspired. I'm trying my best to give out a bit more than I have in the past, but sometimes artist's block kicks in and ruins my p ...