When you read this The storm will have passed The fire extinguished The fight far behind. When you read this Your wounds will have healed Your pain scabbed over Your … Continue reading When You Read This
Thank you for your email. As of this Friday I am out of the office And will remain so indefinitely. I am sorry for the inconvenience caused, If you’re the one … Continue reading Out Of Office
We’ve been in this maze for so long
But we are not lost
Life is long and the maze is winding
The goal’s not the end
It’s the route you take to reach it.
I’d been walking alone for so long
I was not lonely
Others beckoned me to follow them
Their paths unenticing
Until I ran into you walking my way.
We pick the same path and I pause
To look back
At the turns we have taken together
At the paths I could take on my own
If I decided to say “So long.”
She burnt away, rotting from within
Until all that was left was ceramic skin
Perfectly painted with only one crack
Just below the knee, a hole of deep black
The only blemish on a porcelain doll,
Showing inside she was nothing at all
But empty and hollow, full of dead space
A vacuous vacuum with a manufactured face
No love in her heart, nothing in her head
AnaMia’s glassy eyes already felt dead
But she still smiled a fixed, painted grin
Because now that doll was finally thin.
Via Daily Prompt: Thin
The music crackles and he takes my hand for the very first time. The record spins, he spins me with it. We laugh. We dance. We kiss. His song is on repeat.
It becomes our song.
It plays at our wedding.
It plays our daughter to sleep. She plays it herself when she is sad. When she leaves home the house feels empty so we fill the rooms with music.
It plays as we grow old.
It plays when he is ill.
It plays at his funeral.
It plays when I get sick too.
The music crackles and he takes my hand for the very last time.
Mum keeps his bedroom door shut.
His pictures are still in the living room. They used to gather dust, but not any more. She must polish them when I’m not looking.
She’s taken his coat off it’s peg and his shoes out of the hall. It’s like he’s just gone out. Or run away, like everyone says. Kids run away all the time. He’ll be back in a few days. Days turn into weeks. Then months.
In the bathroom there’s the piece of evidence that mum clings to.
His red toothbrush still stands next to mine.
He didn’t pack it.
A single white rose grew in a field of daisies.
She knew she was not like the others.
She grew taller than they did
And lacked their happy yellow centre
Her petals were too big.
When children came to make flower crowns
From daisies that were so easily chained
They looked but did not pick her,
For they knew she was substandard
Her stem was too thick.
A boy ran to catch up with his sister
Dropping a daisy chain near the rose
She watched them wither and realised
Picked daisies never came back
And so she grew thorns.
He shattered her heart. Shards of it crunched under his boots as he left. She tried to pick it up, piece it back together, but every time she touched it she bled.
There was glass in her skin and splinters of anger in her pain. The floor trembled and pieces of her heart rose with her rage. She sent them to find him, like a plague of angry locusts, a swarm of broken dreams come to claw at his skin.
He bled a little. She bled far more.
And still he did not love her.