alwaysscissorhands

She is an ambulance chaser; A super hero following sirens Clasped in her hands Is life A fragile case Her breath fogs the windows The victim inside Reading as she traces: I am here Reading as she traces: Here is hope Her fortune is her immortality With it she nourishes the poor Clasped in her hands Is life Glowing in a fragile case Her fingers are little locks Keeping it warm for me The victim inside: I am here

the future should hold fragments of the past, and it does. just to cut you up in the morning. the way a reflex goes about itself without warning. the pit of your stomach will drop out, and you'll be empty and on fire, because of the present reminding itself of something in the past. it isn't fair, but your own brain doesn't play nice. it plays with matches and knives. and your body takes it out on you; fists into walls, noses, mirrors. it takes it the way a good girl would. the future holds on with grubby fingers to all the things said, meant, lied about, and stolen from the past, collapsing all of that into the present just when your head

His voice has the same impact as lemon juice in hot tea; it tears through everything else until all you hear is the syllables tumble from his mouth to the floor, soaking your feet, sticky and warm. He is also a traitor. Or maybe he isn't. The way his eyes are set in his skull remind people of a person who may slit their throat if they were to turn their backs. Metaphorically. Literally, too. The motion of his body could go side-by-side with the way waves crash against jagged rocks in bad weather. He movs tumultuously. He never shuts up, constantly squirting lemon juice at people, possibly ready to cut their necks open, walking too fast for

He places his feet on the step and it is a defining moment. It's one up. It's almost there. It's something. He slowly takes each step so that he can get used to the smell on the second floor if there is one. His muscles feel like they might be shrinking, but he can't be sure. It just seems that way. In times of stress, the body can do such painful things to itself. Like eating itself from the inside out. His stomach hurts and there are tears in his eyes, but Mother said to go up. Go up, she told him, and see if he's doing any better. Grandfather hadn't come downstairs all day. Certainly, he must be dead. When an elderly person doesn't wake u

There is fury painted on her hand like a Henna tattoo. He is gone. He is gone and there is not a way for him to come back. Her fingernails relieve the paint that isn't really there. Her skin breaks. The purpose of this exercise is to remind the body that it must go on without the heart. It must breathe without its lungs. Go on and breathe and walk and live without life. She will miss him. His gloves and his hair. His shoulders so broad. She will wake some nights and stare at the wall, headlights passing outside of other people going on and she will not want to anymore. She will, but she will not want to. The fury in her hands will drip and m

It's perfect. They screamed at each other until their throats tore from their necks and fought on the carpet. Their heavy breathing met between them and the air fought, too. Their necks and their breath gathered the daggers they were glaring into each other, and they fought with those as well. It was a mean, wicked battle. Boys refuse to lose. Nobody ever ends up winning. It's perfect. They wrestled their way to the shower until the sweat splashed to the carpet and fought with the fibers there. Their heavy breathing met between them and the air fought, too. Their fingers clasped around each other's hips and necks, their bodies wrestled the

hello butcher remind me who i am; take the weight the draft the blanket i wear hello butcher tell me who you are risk the weight the draft the blanket you wear hello darling forego introductions guess the weight the draft the color of covers hello darling tell me who you are risk the weight the draft the blanket you wear goodbye butcher you told me who i was took the weight the draft the blanket i wore

you can dream little jay, but i won't ask you to. i'll think up my own schemes, redeem my own way. you can fly little jay, but really you don't have to. i'll catch a train all alone, be there by one or two. you can sing little jay, but i won't ask you to. i'll hum my own throat dry, try to carry a tune. i see you in my plots little jay, though the canvas is blank. i recreate your feet and wings inside my dreams. you can dream little jay. i feel you in my skin little jay, though it is fake. i regain my path in the clouds. you can fly little jay. i hear some glorious words tumble from my mouth, though they hardly ever come out. i regrow my sou

The soft hum that her skin gives off is the white noise that keeps me from sleep or decent thought. Even as young children, I stayed awake nights, hearing my best friend off somewhere in the distance. Unable to connect that sleep deficiency to her, I was a troubled girl. I walked clumsily through life, listening to that hum. Maybe when she cried is when I heard it the loudest, or maybe when we both cried. The theories are not all concluded. Lately, the hum of her skin has reached a new pitch or level – something. It lulls me to sleep, but forces my mind to stay awake and listen. My ears are so warm from the exertion, like muscle built u