Do you remember the summer of escape? We drove up to the cabin your great aunt used to keep when you were a kid, the pictures brown edges creased, but your crooked smile perfectly intact. We got bored with city life and escaped on wings to a haven of chipped paint and musty drafts, all ours. The oven would barely light, and the wooden floors creaked like prayers as we tiptoed needlessly. The trees were tall and old and wise, and the silence was peculiar, like we'd imagined deafness (and wed sometimes yell out things to make sure we werent indeed deaf, just in case.) We slept three to a bed, rubbing dirty feet in our sleep, and gig
I remember when we gathered all those acorns and made dents pressing down with our thumbs in the ground, and like tucking babies into bed, we were gentle, always gentle. We pulled up the dirt covers and whispered little prayers into the ground versus up into the sky, but I guess it depends on the density of prayers, doesn't it? I remember you helped me tear up leaves and grass and holly berries to make bird food. I suppose thats what I imagined birds to eat, bills stained red with berry juice and flecked with seed. We would run up and down the block tossing the food here and there, where we had tracked down blue jays and red robins. You
a compendium of bias and lies. by speaklikewaves, literature
Literature
a compendium of bias and lies.
He went to pick up the morning paper, (a compendium of bias and lies, of shortcomings portrayed as greatness) as he did every morning. He stood, towering in my memory,
and he fell to the ground.
And all I remember is the way his body looked, surrounded by leaves in the morning dusk, and the slap of the screen door as it closed, as I ran barefoot, and I don't remember screaming, I don't remember falling to my knees on the pavement. It's like a slow motion movie- like running in water- I couldn't carry myself fast enough. I fell, and I pushed on his chest, and Im sure I cried, but again, I can't remember. Perhaps I didn't. Ive nev
As November creeps forward, a silent chill and a eulogy to everything we were, I sit outside and I stare up at the sky, searching for a sign, the half moon still laying low in the late morning sky. I see the sun departing, leaving for far off lands, warming them instead for the coming months. One of its rays, like hands, breaks the cloud cover, and gently, starting under my chin, traces the side of my face, like a lover. The ray says to me "Ill be back. Don't give up while Im gone. I will come back to you, have I ever let you down?" The singular ray caresses and folds into my cheek, and then departs again, over the hills. I grasp
death smells like fresh fruit. by speaklikewaves, literature
Literature
death smells like fresh fruit.
I put on the shirt and it was far too big, I struggled to find my arms lost in swatches of fabric, thin and deceiving. My tiny arms so slack from the smallest intake of food, the sleeves drooping like old skin on small bodies that everyone refuses the option to quit. Eating has seemed so cannibalistic since you left, the simple act of forcing food down my throat only makes me more of myself and less of you, who will never eat again.
I stop in the hallway mirror, and look at my smudged eyes and lank hair. In the summer, on the swings, it hung around my face in loose waves. As all things seem to do, it grew as we grew apart in physical state,
and when I write, it feels like I might vomit, all the words build and pile on top of each other, can't stay shoved in the back of my throat, can't be stopped by air or food or drink, they're coming they're coming they're coming up up up, all over the pages, all over my hands and fingers, words come like a wave, words like fragile and monetary and exponential and baby babies babe. I sit and I wait till all the words get out, climbing out with little legs, and sometimes after all the words are out of myself, I get real tired and crawl back into bed again, and I feel empty of a lot, but never empty of everything. Always lurking is that vomit fe
and i sit in bed, dripping wet,
smoking takes away my lonliness.
this is how i hurt myself,
i turn the water too hot and i drown in it.
emerging anew,
each breath a revival.
(re: again, vive: life)
This town, this town that sucks you in and keeps you in it's vice-like grip; it's going to be the death of us all! This psuedo-ghost town on the rise, arid and fickle like the friend who has betrayed you time and time again. That friend that you just can't force yourself to leave when they whisper in your ear, "Stay tonight, just stay tonight." The water must be spiked with some off-balancing chemical that turns cheer captains, glamor shot beauties, into desolate mothers, peeling potatoes, crying into the sink. Our mothers had dreams too, you know. Who said they wanted to be anchored down in this town run dry?
Every yard is dead. Every car i
All the difference between boys and girls, men and women, it can all be found in the enclosed bedroom. And I know you're thinking: "Of course, our sexual deviations are apparent"- But that's not it. There's so much more to it than the eye can see or the mouth can taste.
When I was young, my mother would send me into my brother's room to wake him in late morning, knowing he'd not dare get angry with me. My angel face and tiny legs covered in fuzz, he couldn't spew vile onto such a babything. I would open the door, and creep in on little girl toes, exploring the cave left unguarded by it's many faced monster. I can't fully explain, but the roo
And and and we joined hot hands together and stumbled through that field and my day was perfect it was perfect, with the long grass touching my knees, my knobby knees all creaking and squeaking barely holding me up sometimes so tired from all the running Ive done, running towards and away, all the standing knock kneed in my little dresses, seducing strangers. And that grass, that prickly grass was as hot as we were, and even though it grabbed me around the knees, it cowered in your wake, your big strides leaving me behind. That grass, it knew better than to touch you. Those birds, they knew better than to come out from behind the perche
Do you remember the summer of escape? We drove up to the cabin your great aunt used to keep when you were a kid, the pictures brown edges creased, but your crooked smile perfectly intact. We got bored with city life and escaped on wings to a haven of chipped paint and musty drafts, all ours. The oven would barely light, and the wooden floors creaked like prayers as we tiptoed needlessly. The trees were tall and old and wise, and the silence was peculiar, like we'd imagined deafness (and wed sometimes yell out things to make sure we werent indeed deaf, just in case.) We slept three to a bed, rubbing dirty feet in our sleep, and gig
I remember when we gathered all those acorns and made dents pressing down with our thumbs in the ground, and like tucking babies into bed, we were gentle, always gentle. We pulled up the dirt covers and whispered little prayers into the ground versus up into the sky, but I guess it depends on the density of prayers, doesn't it? I remember you helped me tear up leaves and grass and holly berries to make bird food. I suppose thats what I imagined birds to eat, bills stained red with berry juice and flecked with seed. We would run up and down the block tossing the food here and there, where we had tracked down blue jays and red robins. You
As November creeps forward, a silent chill and a eulogy to everything we were, I sit outside and I stare up at the sky, searching for a sign, the half moon still laying low in the late morning sky. I see the sun departing, leaving for far off lands, warming them instead for the coming months. One of its rays, like hands, breaks the cloud cover, and gently, starting under my chin, traces the side of my face, like a lover. The ray says to me "Ill be back. Don't give up while Im gone. I will come back to you, have I ever let you down?" The singular ray caresses and folds into my cheek, and then departs again, over the hills. I grasp
death smells like fresh fruit. by speaklikewaves, literature
Literature
death smells like fresh fruit.
I put on the shirt and it was far too big, I struggled to find my arms lost in swatches of fabric, thin and deceiving. My tiny arms so slack from the smallest intake of food, the sleeves drooping like old skin on small bodies that everyone refuses the option to quit. Eating has seemed so cannibalistic since you left, the simple act of forcing food down my throat only makes me more of myself and less of you, who will never eat again.
I stop in the hallway mirror, and look at my smudged eyes and lank hair. In the summer, on the swings, it hung around my face in loose waves. As all things seem to do, it grew as we grew apart in physical state,
and when I write, it feels like I might vomit, all the words build and pile on top of each other, can't stay shoved in the back of my throat, can't be stopped by air or food or drink, they're coming they're coming they're coming up up up, all over the pages, all over my hands and fingers, words come like a wave, words like fragile and monetary and exponential and baby babies babe. I sit and I wait till all the words get out, climbing out with little legs, and sometimes after all the words are out of myself, I get real tired and crawl back into bed again, and I feel empty of a lot, but never empty of everything. Always lurking is that vomit fe
and i sit in bed, dripping wet,
smoking takes away my lonliness.
this is how i hurt myself,
i turn the water too hot and i drown in it.
emerging anew,
each breath a revival.
(re: again, vive: life)
This town, this town that sucks you in and keeps you in it's vice-like grip; it's going to be the death of us all! This psuedo-ghost town on the rise, arid and fickle like the friend who has betrayed you time and time again. That friend that you just can't force yourself to leave when they whisper in your ear, "Stay tonight, just stay tonight." The water must be spiked with some off-balancing chemical that turns cheer captains, glamor shot beauties, into desolate mothers, peeling potatoes, crying into the sink. Our mothers had dreams too, you know. Who said they wanted to be anchored down in this town run dry?
Every yard is dead. Every car i
All the difference between boys and girls, men and women, it can all be found in the enclosed bedroom. And I know you're thinking: "Of course, our sexual deviations are apparent"- But that's not it. There's so much more to it than the eye can see or the mouth can taste.
When I was young, my mother would send me into my brother's room to wake him in late morning, knowing he'd not dare get angry with me. My angel face and tiny legs covered in fuzz, he couldn't spew vile onto such a babything. I would open the door, and creep in on little girl toes, exploring the cave left unguarded by it's many faced monster. I can't fully explain, but the roo
And we talk in these long constructed sentences that wrap and tangle on top of each other, knotting and twisting, and we have to go back, we have to return to higher ground, and Im sorry my strength wavers sometimes and I just think if you were here to help, It would be better to see you face to face, or maybe worse because then Id be tongue tied and lose it all in one big mess of words and verbs and hand gestures.
Im sorry we have to stay in the shallow end when youre so ready to swim.
I sit and I watch the milk congeal. I can almost hear every little atom whisper Im tired of moving so quickly, I think Ill slow down. The light sends a spear across my upper thigh. My knee. My calf. My ankle. What a brave warrior, to descend from the window sill. I smoke one, two, three in a row, deep breaths like meditation, eyes closed; exhaling spirals of peace and good intentions into the ceiling vent. I look out the window blinds, watching cars go by. I wonder who I know is out driving today. The fan makes my good luck wind chimes bump and breeze cautiously, like strangers passing on a crowded street. I try to wri
1. you speak for me in most cases
2. you know all the stupid things i hate
3. when i had to think of five things i hadn't told you, i couldn't
4. when i'm happy, you're happy for me, and vice versa
5. you think i'm cute when i wake up, when everyone else knows i'm really not
1. you fit perfectly under me when we hug
2. you're actually a 40 year old woman
3. you deal with me when i am in horrible terrible moods
4. tea parties, underwear parties, and parties in general
5. you swear my stomach speaks spanish