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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
July 8, 2013
~speaklikewaves witnessed the traumatic death of someone close to her, and death smells like fresh fruit. is the product of her mourning. The subtlety at play here is tragically remarkable; every notion of death, numbness, and fruit leads back to the title: the dead can bring out the worst in the living.
Featured by Nichrysalis
Literature Text
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, the hair mourning you like I do, the hair that caught your hands and fingers hangs unwashed and tangled. I smelled you near then, and I pushed out my limbs, and I ran to the glass door, pushing always the pane aside. My tiny hands and I have become more acquainted in the past days, as I hold my cigarettes, as I hold my face. The pool was covered in late leaves, all wet and golden brown green tinged corners, but I could see the murky blue winking underneath, and without thinking, I dove in, a state of release much like death itself that hasn't touched me yet like it touched you then.
We push through life at such a speed, running blind until we hit the surface of truth, the ultimate. Unlike my imagined heaven, I didn’t become entrapped in bright light when I stayed floating in my womb of water, and I didn’t find you there, for when I opened my eyes, I only saw the clear blue, and when I looked up hoping to see the face of my savior (your ultimate taker,) I only saw dappled late day sunlight playing through floating leaves above me, like clouds with veins. And then we emerge, as we depart, as we each emerge from our birth canal, as we each depart from the life we led, and I made miracles happen; I both emerged from the water but departed from you, and you from I- as I emerged shivering from the pool, naked legs and wet eyes.
Those that had seen me through thin curtains across the way only shook their head, not understanding fully but knowing that I needed to hurt sometimes as best I could. They only turned away, wrapped in sheets to keep out winter cold that touches bones, saying to themselves, "Perhaps today's oranges will taste fresh, my dear."
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, the hair mourning you like I do, the hair that caught your hands and fingers hangs unwashed and tangled. I smelled you near then, and I pushed out my limbs, and I ran to the glass door, pushing always the pane aside. My tiny hands and I have become more acquainted in the past days, as I hold my cigarettes, as I hold my face. The pool was covered in late leaves, all wet and golden brown green tinged corners, but I could see the murky blue winking underneath, and without thinking, I dove in, a state of release much like death itself that hasn't touched me yet like it touched you then.
We push through life at such a speed, running blind until we hit the surface of truth, the ultimate. Unlike my imagined heaven, I didn’t become entrapped in bright light when I stayed floating in my womb of water, and I didn’t find you there, for when I opened my eyes, I only saw the clear blue, and when I looked up hoping to see the face of my savior (your ultimate taker,) I only saw dappled late day sunlight playing through floating leaves above me, like clouds with veins. And then we emerge, as we depart, as we each emerge from our birth canal, as we each depart from the life we led, and I made miracles happen; I both emerged from the water but departed from you, and you from I- as I emerged shivering from the pool, naked legs and wet eyes.
Those that had seen me through thin curtains across the way only shook their head, not understanding fully but knowing that I needed to hurt sometimes as best I could. They only turned away, wrapped in sheets to keep out winter cold that touches bones, saying to themselves, "Perhaps today's oranges will taste fresh, my dear."
Literature
Burning Out, and Falling Fast
You're sitting in your parents' old corvette (if you had bothered to check, you'd know it was older than you), flicking your eyes between a lighter in one hand, and a box of matches in the other. You forget when fire became such a need, a distraction.
Spencer is right beside you in the car, his fingers stroking idly at your forearm, watching you with hooded green eyes.
"If you want to die," he says, "then just kill yourself, but do it with style."
Pause. Rewind.
You met The Boy Under the Sycamore Tree when you were four. Your mom encouraged you to go see the lonely boy, and when you
Literature
How to Sleep and Never Wake Up
The year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.
That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn't eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.
That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the girl who shared my soul. Her sister ran naked through the street a few da
Literature
the 'd' word
when i was seven years old, my mother, tear-streaks
drying on her cheeks, fingered her wedding band
and told me, “love hurts, sweetie,
that’s how you know it’s a good love.”
two days later, my father came back home.
he was missing his wedding ring
and when he left again,
he left a handprint on my mother’s cheek
that she carried with her even after the bruise was gone.
i grew up without a father influence in my mother’s world
and without a mother influence in my dad’s.
neither of them got remarried.
they had found each other and that was enough.
they had found each other and that was too much.
i gre
Suggested Collections
one of my personal favorites.
but then again, what i like, no one else likes,
and what i don't really like (life elsewhere, anyone?)
seems to be better know.
oh well.
but then again, what i like, no one else likes,
and what i don't really like (life elsewhere, anyone?)
seems to be better know.
oh well.
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The imagery is astounding...