Green pills, yellow pills, white pills. I wonder if they color code the pills to match the malady, green to soothe, yellow to wake, white to purify evil thoughts, black like ravens who peck and caw, Jezebel's bones, sodden red tulips, dogs lapping, tongues so black, black holes that like eating novas and girls like me that just happen to see the testifying of bricks. "Here someone was murdered", fickle neurons, scandalized hieroglyphs of blood, constellations of wolves such bloody tongued dogs.
"Open," the nurse says checking to see if I have swallowed her pills. I always do hoping such sacred behavior will loosen me of this place. If I promise to believe everything they say? But Nurse Mary is quite contrary, maiden's breath grows in her garden, clouds of crushed stems, pollen and powder. Maybe she sees the wolf. My flamingoes feel the unease of rhyming couplets and badly played croquet. What would Alice do? What would the Duchess do? What happened to Jack and Jill after they s
Justifications and Salted Smiles"I don't think I'm holding on any longer
I'm diving in.
I wish that you would see,
there's a magical land at the bottom of the ocean
where waterproof lungs let you be
everything you've dreamed.
You can bury underneath the sand
and not be found-
it's the land that's been promised to me
in late night whispers
and burnt tears
wasted on things that don't matter.
I know it's real,
broken minds can't lie
and I can feel it in my bones-
there's something more.
What other reasons would we live for?
They say you inhale saltwater
and exhale enlightenment.
The waves pour over you
and finally make you clean (pure)
No one knows where you are
so your problems don't follow
and neither does time.
It all fades away
until you disintegrate
like your worries.
You can only get there
with a heart that doesn't beat
because humans' empty brains
You need to be all the way gone
I want to go and find myself
and live the dreams I never had.
I swear, it's not that bad-
I'm a Christian and aspiring writer who dabbles a bit in drawing and photography, daydreams too much, talks to dogs more easily than people, and needs a life. You can find me on
Miss Literati: www.missliterati.com/u/xPurple…
and tumblr: past-misfortunes.tumblr.com/
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~"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss
~"I was always fascinated by people who are considered completely normal, because I find them the weirdest of all." -Johnny Depp
Her FadingI would do anything for her: anything. If it would help her, if it would save her, I would walk through fire – I would die for her – I would kill myself. I would kill anyone. For my beautiful Ann-Marie, I would do whatever I had to.
This, they tell me, is the problem. This is why she left me, why my beautiful Ann-Marie ran away: I love her too much.
The apartment's empty. That's fine. It's not like I don't know how to be alone.
Her smell still lingers – and I breathe deep before I fall asleep, nestled in the memory of her closeness – but her clothes are gone from the closet, her treasures are gone from the shelves. That's fine. They were nothing: items, fripperies. They were hers, and she loved them, but they don't matter.
The apartment's empty of her, the sounds of her living and moving and breathing; when I open my eyes she's not there, and I can't watch her, can't touch her. That's fine. Fine. It's not like I can't live without her; I managed
womenwhatever ways we went,
we went work-weary, whisper-wrecked,
we were warning,
whatever we were, willowy wonder,
we were wholly warm
whip-wild wet within.
why wonder when
whenever we went, white walls
were willing witnesses,
we wouldn't worry –
we wouldn’t wish –
Gus Number FiveGus Number Five
Jenna and Cindy filled their mouths with watermelon seeds, spitting them fast and hard until the air swarmed with seeds like shiny black dive-bombing gnats. “My seeds are winning,” twelve year old Cin yelled, her thin body tense and urgent with victory.
Jenna just kept spitting seeds. Eight years old, she already knew the seeds that flew the farthest would be Cin's no matter what.
Jenna puckered her mouth preparing for another losing bombardment. Suddenly she paused, lips plump and pouting as the mouth of a painted candy box cupid. Spitting the seeds into her palm, she stared at them for a moment, chewing the end of her pigtail. Then anxious with inspiration, she trotted into the house and minutes later reappeared hugging a fishbowl.
Carefully placing the bowl on the steps, she solemnly stared at the rattled goldfish who darted and wiggled his copper penny of a body. But when Jenna scattered her handful of watermelon seeds into the water, the goldfish paused
you are the ocean,"run away with me."
"we don't have to run. i'll show you the way. just hold my hand."
- - -
have you ever loved someone so intensely that every part of you aches just to look at them?
your entire body literally shakes with want and fear and need
and there are a thousand thoughts pulsing through your restless mind
and every breath you take is like a sharp, heaving gulp of winter ocean,
you can hardly manage a faint trembling "hello".
- - -
i think if you touched me, i might break into a million pieces.
- - -
every time i close my eyes, i'm kissing your long eyelashes and curling into your chest,
and when i wake up,
i can hardly imagine it isn't real.
Ancilla, gillyflower, cathedral, chime and stone,
frightened child, you were only thirteen
when the dove pecked you,
so frightened, I dreamt my belly split open,
pain rang like bells in my my bones. Virgin, gillyflower,
my child was a gillyflower but she stung,
fragile as a wasp's wing she was,
she is, cathedral, chime and stone and my mother cried,
"How could you, how could you," all the way home
but there is no home, the river tastes
of mud and piss. Whore.
They called me whore, not virgin, not blessed.
I wanted, want to be stone,
and my mother wept.
. becoming a mermaidthe thing about mermaids, i must explain, is that they are not always born in the sea.
it was nothing, she reminds herself, leaning precariously over the prim white balcony. the breathing ocean moans and sighs, sighs and moans against the fragile coastline.
all of this is nothing and it is everything.
she takes one, two, three bitter sips with a wince and leaves the salt air to find her sterile, cold bedroom. the new year is cursed, she decides as she falls limp and helpless into the wild mess of sheets that swallow her small body whole.
(she closes her eyes and imagines the pale blankets to be rugged waves, breathing and gasping, gasping and breathing across, around, inside of her bones. they pull her deeper, deeper, deeper, like the myths of once-mermaids dissolving into sea-foam. she can almost feel herself become the ocean, when…)
real or illusion; was it a memory, a dream, a hallucination?
"why?" he had asked her.
"everyone deserves to know if they are loved," s
Not FleshNot Flesh
He wants to paint the virgin with skin blue
as a stillborn child, as blue as his wife's eyes.
Around their cot in the earth, their seven babes
wait in line for the opening of the sky.
Christ will come back, the priest intones. But this time,
he will not enter through a woman's flesh.
How would he paint a Christ not flesh
the painter wonders? Will he be stone, the bitten skin
of a plum, a fly's wings, threadbare flaxen cloth,
or a white canvas, so white there’s no air to breathe?
"Blue skin," the painter thinks,
Mary's face pooling beneath his brush.
An angel caresses his back until feathers fret
and knot beneath his skin, wanting out.
How a Grandmother Leaves YouHe does not look at the loosened light,
murdered, sprayed on the walls in a temporary graffiti, rotting lumps of it swept under her bed
along with nine pairs of slippers, papery sheets of it tearing thinner than a yellowed wedding veil
across her blankets.
I hold her skin that smells like decomposing paper and fuzz,
that turns to milk to cinnamon to coffee grounds
beneath an entangled net of veins zigzagging up the wispy bones of her arms.
I do not know how many times I have mistaken the feeling of marble for her hands,
or the dumb slapping of flip flops on sidewalks for the snapping of wings.
I can hear charred pots that look like trash cans, gurgling,
digesting something embryonic in thick kitchen sauces, fickle and tangy.
Around her she has clothed the sparse, looming woods on balding heads,
and scratchy scalps on furniture
in plastic jackets to prevent them from aging alongside her.
The withering afternoon wears a sunhat, broad and wheat-yellow as it heaves itself to her bedside,
The Last DetentionI've spent too many years sitting
in the back of a classroom.
We see thousands of chalkboard faces
in the evening haze of rush hour traffic.
The nicest days of the year always happen
when our Teachers give us detention.
We can't be trusted to punish ourselves.
Grab a stick of chalk and begin.
100 times- I will not cheat on my husband.
100 times- I will not miss my nephew's soccer game so I can drink alone.
100 times- I will not leave smaller tips for the older, less attractive waitresses.
100 times- I will finally get the courage to kiss her tonight.
100 times- I will tell him it is over if he hits me again.
100 times- I will not be weak.
100 times- I will notice the sky today.
100 times- I will invite the widow in 5A to Christmas Dinner.
100 times- I will call my sister.
100 times- I will learn the difference between what is worth fighting for and what isn't.
100 times- I will ask my co worker how he is doing and actually care.
100 times- I will do more than just get by.
What if there
on 'the Father'mr parker lined up
his children with an ax,
lined up twelve small
disciples of hard work
and the Depression,
twelve small chickens
hollering with tremors,
twelve disciples hungry
for the Fruits of the
previously to this,
he severed many of
mrs parker's tendons and sculpted
her face with a frying pan.
she bled on the floor and
crawled somewhere, the lioness
in her made the unseen more
powerful than science
and far more previous to this,
mr parker sent mrs parker to my
great grandmother's childhood home
with a basket of vegetables and pork
and bread. my great grandmother says
that whenever her family couldn't eat,
mr parker made sure that they could
and so mr parker has lined up
his children, and mrs parker has
miraculously sent for the sheriff
and mr parker has run behind the barn.
the sheriff, thumbs tucked in the
waist of his breeches, walks
quietly in the dewy fields leading
to mr parker. mr parker has tied himself a
noose from the rafters and is standing
calmly on a stool. he