I’m strung out on the filament of your love
Bound between your lips and your lies
Wrapped in the chill of your exhale.
Category: writing
Categories
Withered
In my memories you exist like
the sharp scent of an overblown rose
and the sting of thorns.
You tamed the tangled garden of my soul
but plucked
my buds
one
by
one.
Categories
Memories
Daily writing prompt
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
Grandmother’s are magic, and my grandmother was a witch.
With her her cupboard full of paper wrapped soaps, handkerchiefs, cards, crayons, and lavender satchels, there was always something for me to look at, to touch, to explore.
Her gardens were wild. Snapdragons turned princesses and roses turned prisoners with butterfly guards and praying mantis wizards that filled my days with whimsy and laughter.
It was not the thing I was attached to the most. It was going to her house, drinking milk and eating cookies, unwrapping rose scented soap, spinning in the gardens, and closing my eyes while she told me about little girls all in a line and a little one called Madeline.
Categories
Deja Vu
Our lives are written on a thousand slips of paper jostled and drowned in the foaming waves of a tempest. We float on the bubbles, too light and insignificant to notice the storm underneath. But sometimes, when we sleep, our fingers grasp the inky depths of the future.
Categories
103
Daily writing prompt
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
We are, all of us, the keepers of history. Family history, personal history, even world history. Each person reading this is the primary source of their life. When others are gone, you are the one who will remember them.
But age comes with problems that surpass aches and pains. Age comes with loss: of friends, of family, of work, of self-worth.
We should value the stories of elders, but in a hyper-productive capitalist society, stories of complicated lives aren’t condensed into 7 second clips meant to hold our attention.
But I encourage you to listen.
Categories
Billboard
Nothing and everything.
Tendrils of color in sweeping brushstrokes would reach for the sky, communing with the varied moods of sunrise or dusk or stormy weather.
I would hang art that clashed with black snaking roads and gray exhaust. Art that soothed hurried commuters rushing from home to tomb and back to home again.
Art. Paintings. Poems. Photos. The advertisements of the soul.
Categories
Melancholia
My phone buzzes with a volley of text messages that light the darkened room with a harsh glow.
Angry, stubborn, brutal words paint the screen, each jockeying for precedence against each other. Sharp consonants and long vowels that extend innocuous words into a written curse.
They settle into my heart like a thousand cuts. Alone, they’d be a simple bruise that heals overnight. Together they leave leather scars amongst the other ties that bind me together.
And still, the phone buzzes.
Categories
Stardust
There are truths buried so deep within the Earth that time has washed away all traces.
We are left with only the memories that reside in the dust of our souls.
Whispering tissue
Wonderment strewn on their face
Echoes of childhood
Categories
Dreaming
Hand-stitched quilts and faded letters lay in the dusty boxes of my attic. The yellowed tape flakes when pulled open.
Fragmented memories flutter in the dust motes and cloud my mind like tangled wildflowers.
Your long fingers. Your knitting needle. Dried lavender. Rose gardens bereft with aphids.
The plastic smell of your favorite lawn chair.
Hair curlers and embroidered handkerchiefs.
You’re lost in time and space, but I have your nose and my daughter has your boisterous laugh, so somehow we found you, too.
And the blanket smells like lavender.
And your “L’s” look like mine.
Last night I talked to you in a dream.
Tonight your blanket lays on my bed because you were worried I was cold.
Hipstory 