24th june: on giving up

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24th june: on giving up

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â the sun no longer shines here (aavillainess)
iâm writing you a poem
you exhale silver moths that wing their pale way into the sky. daughter of a land crushed kingless, silhouette of a city turned lightless against stars that shiver in the sudden dark. in the silence, you ask what poem i have clenched between my teeth tonight, and i kiss you, wordless for once. on a distant horizon, the flames are dying, smoke carried across the sea. we, too, are burning. we, too, crack like the teeth of ice, walking onwards to a half-forgotten dream.
in a city drowned by night, we stand with our backs to the mountain, mouths filled with ash and the dead wood of grief. the streets echo emptiness, no fires or drawn blades or oaths left to be broken, no weaving of gold and silver lulling us to sleep. what songs, you say, could ever be sung about tragedy? iâm holding the answer on my tongue, iâm letting it flutter free, your name lighting every candle in the city, pushing back the dark inch by inch, your name a spark, a faraway star, a hope rekindled.
e.e. cummings
this is not real.
there is a hunting knife buried between her second and third rib, and cold iron links bind against tender skin. your mouth blunts itself against a syllable, / bitten sound offered raw from the hollow space of your lungs.
here, the hemlock does not fall from her tongue, and her eyes are shadow- molten, unforgiving. / your hands are not your own. your mouth is not
your own. / you dream of the fire sketching itself between fingertips, striking at the cut of her throat, the swallow of death curling out like
a wound. you dream of the pyre, the flame shattering into air, how her corpse yielded to heat and light. you dream of the unburning. / there is poison sweet between her teeth and hunting season digging into flesh.
you step forward. / this is not real.

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We meet in a small cafĂŠ, on the corner of a crowded street, her duffel bag is tucked between her legs, mine is stuffed underneath my chair. âSo,â she says, looking at me. âYouâre Felix.â I swallow and nod, eyes trained on the Styrofoam cup in my hands. âYes, thatâs me.â She hums softly and takes a sip, her dusty pink lipstick staining her cup. âAnd you know who I am,â itâs not a question, more like a demand. âSydney, youâre Sydney Cox.â She smiles, a small satisfied thing. âYes, very good,â she says. We drink our coffee in silence. I pull my shoulders up, drop them, in an attempt to relax. âSo which bus-â âThe forty-five, to the border.â Sydney says, cutting off my question. I close my mouth, teeth clicking against each other. Right. âOkay.â She sends me a tightlipped smile. âWe should go,â she says. âBefore the sun rises.âÂ
⯠words left unwritten ⣠e.d.c âł hi hello darling - try and make this your last one - 462 words âž again, ât wasnât my last, also i thought first person would be a good idea?
from muses, help me bloom
When I say my skin is lace, I mean I used to find it lovely. Now there is nothing I miss. I hold myself in my arms. I bend against myself like grass, like this.
â Claire Wahmanholm, from âWhere I Went Afterward,â Wilder
a reprimand: how unscientific this is. candlelight chosen for how it trembles, uncertain as your pulse. how it masks the rot and its humming heat, but
counterpoint: corpse-coldness. when you exhaled like youâd meant to drown and the lake bloomed poppy-red. when the moon slipped away, siren-smooth, and fit herself under your fingernails like
an accusation. your eyes brim with it and she wonât apologize but she might promise to do a better job of wiping the blood off next time â next time, sheâll skip from history to ghost story. leave the legend sleeping with the memory, leave
the confession. so of course it comes back to wrists and throats, those parts that split and fishbellied up in the half-light. it comes back to lips and eyes, and skin, always skin, flushed with apology and numb with the morning cold. it comes to
setbacks; her asking if you wanted to wrap her in cotton wool. if you knew she heard prison when you said protection. if you knew her temper was not hair-trigger but kept in the space between point of impact and the tip of the weapon, every motion
a sentencing. listen: if death is at the door she will offer your body. eyes closed as the wetness wells up in every socket. back straight as the morning light slants into something like regret.
â blood moon | q.l. | originally published here

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âHow she longed for winter then! â
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock, each sentiment within border
And heartâs frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
âSylvia Plath, Spinster, Selected PoemsÂ
youâre a meteor, a bright falling star, burning across the atmosphere like a dying wish. scorch marks come as no surprise; whatâs a shock is living to tell the tale, nothing to show but the ozone smell and looking a real goddamn mess. everyone knows what to do with a hero who comes home on her shield, but when youâre walking no one knows what to say. The stars carve themselves a red pattern across your skin, a souvenir, a reminder, a lesson you could spend your whole life trying to unlearn. but: thatâs longer than you thought.
â what comes after // c.h. // prompt from @inkstayâs dare-to-write challenge (âicarus with burns on his backâ)
what i mean is that iâd like to wait in that quiet corner of myself until the wind dies down & i become a breathing thing again, billowing out into a quivering field, my very own winged insect self with my own special buzz, only a minor bother, humming outside your window, thinking, oddly, about sticking my tongue out to taste the blinking lights. do not mind me. iâm just figuring it out all over again. like sometimes i go to sleep so early to end the day on my own terms. to wake up the next morning, before the sun, even, gulping air like iâve just been drowning. funny how my body has its own current. like the stream behind the house where we once splashed around & slipped on rocks. i cracked my jaw on a stone one time & it split right open. thus, all this time spent mending.
your heart is an ocean-swept tragedy, a fragile thing clutched in the deep of the sea. doomed from the start to long for landlocked memories. here: you cup the falling sun with your hands & let the golden rays fall through the everlasting blue of you. sometimes, you dream the colors blend for an eternity but the sunset becomes night & you are left with nothing. the fading burn of the day slip through parted fingers like the ichor in your veins. you follow the pull of the moon, ambrosia-drunk on something thatâll never be yours. ocean-kissed mortal, split the skin between the vertebrates of your spine & fill yourself with the salt-tang of regrets. pierce your skin in the pattern of jasmine blossoms & call it any other name but longing. your heart; a yearning, sorrow-ridden bruise buried in the deep blue of you. - it couldâve been love for @thermonousâ (aavillainess)

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current mood: listening to la vie en rose and pretending iâm in Paris, drinking my warm latte in a cozy parisian cafe