bodies like star systems.“the neighbor’s house smelled
like the ocean when i walked past,” you say.
“it’s a sign that i’m drowning.”
“i stepped in two patches of fresh dirt.
it’s a sign that they’ll be digging my grave.”
“i saw the boy i’d lost my virginity to today.
it’s a sign that i’m going to cheat on you.”
“you wake me up with this shit,” he says in annoyance.
“is that a sign i should break up with you?”
“no,” you say, not looking at him, fighting
to keep smiling. “it means -”
he goes back to bed.
he thinks you don’t get it,
but you do.
he teaches you about chemistry,
about physics and the stars.
he teaches you that the universe is finite,
but constantly expanding;
he takes you hand to his chest, and says
“like my feelings for you.”
used to be, you thought he was your gravity
because you were so drawn to him
Fate be damned.personally,
i can’t see myself with
the milky way embedded in my
bones, much less my heart. it
sure would be nice to wish upon a
star for our happy ending, but i think
my prince charming just
i am a phantom
stitched into my
lips and rose petals
inked into my skin.
bones would like to
whisper “i love you”
in every language of
because fate may
not exist and it’s
high time i form
my own destiny.
Herbal ShowersIf only I could drench you in Aloe Vera,
and let the succulent drops sink deep,
so deep, into the pores of your skin.
Maybe then, you would begin to feel
the arid spirit within you surrender.
And you would realize that the water
from above never truly stops falling -
that there is always a rain forest
in the midst of a desert.
My Birthday Is Rather SpecialMy birthday is rather special time of year. In the day, there are good wishes, parties and a good time to be had by all. In the night however, events tend to take a rather morbid turn…
I prepared this year, as I always do: A chilled bottle of wine hidden out of sight and a pair of large candles; both of which would last the night.
I would then take a seat on the sparse wooden floor of my storage room and wait. Always I would end up waiting as the minutes ticked on by, for my companion was never early nor was she ever late. Indeed, she would only arrive precisely when she was meant to.
I peered into the shadows as time wore on by. The flickering light of the candles did little to aid my vision, filling it with the blissful pirouettes of the dancing shadows. I was always nervous during these times and indeed, I had reason to be. Most would have lived their lives without a spiritual encounter. Most should be glad to be a part of the boring world. For in a world without incid
The Scattered Monologues of Jessica Leland: DinnerThe uniqueness of my position is that I am naturally a neurotic, often maliciously suspicious motherfucker—not literally of course! Though one past girlfriend accused me of having a mother complex while we were dating, which was I think a bit off base since Mother owns a string of hotels and she was a graphic design major learning to be a tattoo artist. Obviously, these two ladies were very different.
So now that we've established that I am neurotic, suspicious, prone to tangents and lesbianism, or rather bisexuality I guess—mother didn't like Lupa anyway, which was a shame since Lupa was fantastic—ah, right, anyway, I'm at dinner kind of.
Not actually. I'm writing this but I'm not literally at the table right now. But I'm going to write like I am. Okay? Okay. It makes more sense that way or something.
So, the uniqueness of my position is that I am a neurotic, suspicious motherfucker who is in the position of interacting with a certain kind of person (wait—that's not right
the monarchy of a dangling heartHis heart is a dead monarch, and he knew it like the back of his hands.
He traced the pattern of sunlight left by the remnants of autumn and declared that he was a lion, a throat crying with might, hands cupped towards the skies to catch the constellations falling from daylight.
Life breathed through other things, he thought, and a fabric of chambers only holds needless love.
“The strength of celestial-fire will surely keep me alive.”
He was delusional, but he held his pride like he dropped his heart, neck- deep and hanging from the threads of his veins.
It’s dead! It’s useless, he thought.
He told himself that he never needed a heart.
He only needed himself; the burning galaxies and himself.
With this, a thousand suns gathered in his palms. He swallowed them whole and spat poetry to the heavens.
“Words are too plain for glory; only poetry can hold the beauty of something this immortal.”
He carried a desert and tucked it inside h
Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.
Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.
Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.
Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't taste the difference.
Listen, writers are the ones that drip fishhooks down their throats to coax out their hearts. Writers are the ones who fling those heart-hooks into the sea even if they have a message but not a bottle. Listen, sometimes fish swallow them. Some of those fish sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of the world in those heart