wickedcurly

yesterday: I live inside a drum. I live beneath a beautiful stretched sheepskin, and on warm days the sun lays her head upon the face of the drum—softly humming. I’ve always lived inside the drum, and so have my mother and father. My family has lived inside the drum for generations, along with all of my neighbour’s families. We know the winter songs to be jeering in tone but elegant in mood. My mother speaks fondly of her life in the drum—most often of her childhood. When we used to go to the fields in the summer she would lie on the softly swaying grass, holding me close to her breast as she would recount storie

i sit in envy, and i sit for a long while... i think i have buried myself

i am observant and curious- at the tension in your winding (why are you so stress-fully balled up?) so i take you onto me and unwind- unwinding gently (as streams would), orbiting my wrists in concentric circles around one another i spin the thread until you come spiraling onto me, undone. here we are again where we once were that very first time we spoke and were both bubbled in the thought of each other that is where we are now again observing the truth of the stark nudity of a shared confusion we are both thinking of that again, both thinking about what it was then and what it is now- what is it now? ... are we in bloom again?

I admired her habitually. The first time I saw her, she was watering the rich red tulips outside her window. She gazed down at them and the thick eyelashes of hers fluttered downwards. She looked contented and shy- watering the plants as a duty to the observers walking along the streets, she dared not to burden them with an unsightly flowerbed. The second time I saw her, she was in line at the bakery. She was furrowing her bushy eyebrows in contemplation over the sweet breads, but she went with the dark rye bread instead. The third time I saw her it was the afternoon and she was napping on the desk in her kitchen- her face peaceful and the c

I met death for the first time on a tuesday. I knew that she had been meaning to visit for a long time- I just figured she was the type of person to prevalently let her self be scattered in mind and heart, so I wasn't angry at her shortcomings.  I spent the time waiting reading in silence and occasionally watching the robins sing and sigh upon the windowsill- they puffed their chests out to brooding winter and flapped their wings proudly to bring a contrast of life to a streamline of white. I heard her enter but I understood she would be there before she even asked the nurses for our room number- I knew from the moment she decided to make

there are ticking clocks between us, the minutes and hours racing amongst themselves in circles of repetition, (a perspective defining who's winning between us) and I am here waiting and you are there waiting bracketed by the depressions of silence on the surface of noise waiting for an eruption again, for the cymbals and trumpets to clamor again for now- it is that quiet that the paper of night (covered in pencil shavings and lunar dust) unfolds out in apprehensive extension of a self it cannot accept ....sleep

would you even mourn that memory of us, the one where a flood of the sky and emotion forced our bodies near and let us feel and understand the silence between us was one that was evolving into a peace- or would you forget me again, forget me and let your stride move you into a spin which is more familiar than I?

i. a crescent moon splinter on a stale purple and blue hue background she never looked as dead as she did when you were around, her freedom snagged on the sighing gloss of your forever stagnant gaze and i understand, the shame-filled sensation of self loathing you'd urge underneath me that look always squirms around in my skin and i can't sleep anymore the maggots are nested beneath my surface and with all my gruesomely plump insecurities, they're set for the winter. ii. i watched that moon crawl away on all fours the night faded in and i knew she could find peace, far from you the few nights later she came back, robust and re

this is a place for ghosts, the palace and home we are building castles, for only the dead to roam

and you took her from me, her bones so brittle and her gaze so frail you saw her shaking and grinned secretly- the rhythmic vibrations of her fear made you feel powerful, as if you could take all of her shaking and redirect it back into her and overwhelm her, paralyzing and silencing her. you decided this was not enough though, you did not wish to silence her.  You wished to bend and contort her into your perfect image gleaming there in your mind- although you found that the real thing was a lot bloodier than you had imagined. the blood was pulpy between your fingers and you liked your hands clean when you were strangling