#2012 works

I wished you had been a brat or that you had some pretty messed up morals, because praising you would just make it like your death made you an angel.

But darling, you always were, and the way you swore was always so gentle; it lacked punch. We always laughed you off.

You left us hanging I could be cliche, I guess, say you lived on in our hearts but you didn’t because if you did, we’d still be the same

and we’re not. We’re all just limping around, bodies distorted like Picasso redrew all of us placed us back on old canvases disfigured.

It was sad, because it was ironic, and I never wanted people to laugh at your Death. No one should be able to laugh you off because you were trying to live, visit “1001 Places To See Before You Die”. I don’t know how far you got, but you got to Flagstaff.

If you’d seen the article, you might have laughed too. Except I’d never heard you laugh. I’d always imagined it would be soft and tinkling.

I want to be there when the tide turns and swallows your shrieks

When he has played his last move and taken your king.

I want to be there when she has learnt to hold the rapier to the junction between your collarbones and vocal chord.

eight o’clock —

Ms. Ho, the physics teacher once said that in the day, the sea stores heat in its folds as it collects the sun in handfuls (the sea has bigger palms than us and in them, more lines that cross) to keep it warm at night. one day, she said, a young man is going to hold your hand, bring you to the beach and whisper, i brought you here for the sea breeze. but then you will reply that after the sun lowers itself below the sea, the sea must keep itself warm while the land learns to cools off, creating a convection current of air from the land to the sea to fill a void, causing a role reversal; a land breeze.

and you will have taught him something.

I remember Saturday mornings before six, clambering and dominating the sofa as King of the World, reach for the remote to find rainbow pixels dotting my screen.

long branches snaking between ink-splodged pages dividing into tributaries slithering around the paper in left-hand squiggles tiny geometrically open umbrellas

Series: Evillious Chronicles

Sub-category: Original Sin

Maybe it's a poem.

In the beginning, there was sin When Eve picked the fruits. Consequences unthought of Over a thousand years they spanned.

When Eve picked the fruits, They turned against her. On that moonlit night, Lunacy abounded in shadows and thoughts. They turned against her, ripping her transgression apart. What did they think of, as their mother burnt, their father bled? Ripping her transgressions apart, seven corruptions were created. One woman, tracking them down, On the request of a friend.