A Collection Of Emotions.Horror: Spiders crawling up and down the spine, burrowing into the spinal cord.Depression: Something weighing down the limbs and numbing the brain. This something is unidentified as yet. Guilt and other assorted secondary emotions swirling in a thick mixture, sometimes located in the gut.Love: Clinical insanity. Symptoms can include the disproportionate swelling of the heart, and a surprisingly pleasant sensation of nausea. Heartbreak: Glass that has shattered inside the chest. A single memory, sight, reflection or comment may cause these shatters of glass to shift and aggravate already present wounds. Shame: Hatred of one's self, loc
chipped off nail polishTell me what to do, boy;my nail polish is chipped offand I know I am not perfect.Tell me what to do, please –it's hard to swallowand I cannot breathebecause you're out there somewhere in the world.(Where the hell does someone like you come from?)My lips are bittenand my heart is sore.People say that strong emotion is goodthat it means you're alive and sensitivethat it's better than the numbing lethargyof depression.And it's true, I've never felt this presenton this blue-and-green marble world of ours.But oh god, I cannot take it any more.My shoulders are thin and I am pale and sickand I do not know if
listening to silenceThe party had ended, nothing to do but listen to silenceglitter on her sore and bitten lips still, she listened to silence.She'd left the boy and he didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He couldn't muster up tears, so he sat and listened to silence.Taste of peppermint chewing gum in her mouth and thewoods quiet around her, she was happy as she listened to silence.The poet sat in front of her computer, and observed the thingsher heart sent fizzing to her fingertips, and she listened to silence.
Mango-Peel LanternI like to think of fantastical things;perhaps a lantern made of mango peel!Imagine the squishiness of itand the wet noises it would make when you shook it.Oh! And the light filtered through the dripping stickness of the skinand the lumpy bits of ripe, orange fleshthat haven't been pared off quite as well as the rest.
backfloatingi tilt my head back, and my body floatsgracefully upwards, flipping like a log thathas been dropped headfirst into a river.i am not in a river, though, the sharptaste of salt in my mouth is unmistakeably seai can feel my nose burning and salt dryingon my cheeks, and my hair floating away inropey tangled strands that will be hell to brush out when i get home aching and tiredi bob like a loose cork, my arms stretchedoutwards, wrists loose, water ebbing, flowing,skin-pricklingly cold, the seagulls cry and itis like they have lost something but i havefound everything, everything i need, thisis all that is and this is
he is a working manHe smells of the city when he comes through the door –metalandoilandmudandrainandnight – and strides across the floor, two quick steps.His cheek on yours is cold and prickled with stubble.He is a working man,and the hands that settle awkward on your shouldersare rough and coarse.They are not beautiful hands, the ones that touch you now,this evening,not like the hands you might have dreamt ofwhen you were a little girl.They are better at constructing machineryat organizing metallic chaos into a functioning wholesomething that movesand clanksand belches out smoke.There are still drops of rainstrung
good conversationWords spill out of my mouthtumble over the curve of my lower lipand dance excitedly into the open air.My hands are moving swiftlyshaping the atmosphereand telling the ideas where to gogiving vowels and consonants a quick shove in the right direction.(I've always been one to talk with my hands.)I grin widely and crookedlyand laugh a littlebecause I love this topicand I love youand sometimes, just sometimesI love life.
the need of salt.I've been ripped in two by heartbreak beforeand this is quite different.I am heartswellingly sadmy chest is fullof youand my brain laughs maliciouslyand pokes itjust to make me wince.(I think of the animal cell placed in pure distilled water. It drinks and it drinks and it drinks until it bursts.)I need some salt.
Whiskey.I don't know how to feel.I tried whiskey butit burned and I don't want to burn.I've had enough of that for now.
starving armsMy eager arms are starved;they reach out, and I'm so happy to know you.I haven't tried to pull anyone infor a long timearms pinned by my sidesI think I meant them to be friendlyand maybe welcomingand maybe a little romantic(ssssh)but then I overbalanced.Oops.You have nice shoes, by the way.
Epithalamium.Tighten the high collar of your wedding dresstry not to think of it as a noose.Restrained, restrained, quiet,bursting at the seams of a thin, defenseless little figure. Your hair is arranged in perfectlittle curling ringlets of sandpaper blonde.Smile now, dear, who wants to look like a corpse on their wedding day?Hands run over the slight curve of waist and hipsyou've always been your own until now.hmmmaybe…dark night thoughts slide insidiouslyand...Slick on the lipstickred like blood and not appropriatefor pure virginal wedding whitebut when has he ever treated you like something pure?If he's going to t
jump into the fogI'm feeling lucky so take my hand.Let's be slammed against the ground by the musicand the nervous beating of our teenage hearts.
Skeletons.I have skeletons in my closet.Who doesn't?rattlerattlerattleI drag them out sometimes, just to have a look.They click their teeth at me angrily.Oh shut up, you get to spend your days in the quiet, and the dark.I have to face the lightand it's harsher than whatever you lot can come up within your dusty old tombs."Yes, but we are you."rattlerattlerattleBe quiet.
Bathingi want to roll around in wordsor take a sponge bathin the soft pretty ones, the onesthat fuzz and roll off your tonguebathe my skin in the milky rhythm of an 18th century pastoral poemBut then ouch!The sudden prick of a staccato caesurapunctures my skin. It hurts.Magnificently.
Sta.sh
