#maggie drafts

Ghosts prefer to sip their tea in the doorway to the brainstem. Wait for them to sing, the choir that speaks in tongues not meant for the harmony. It is a common thought these days: the vacancy sign nailed to the browbone, lightening-year lit: welcome all, join the forever choir, walk the catwalk retina. There’s no beauty in the wardrobe of personalities held behind the eyes for the drapes are always drawn tight. Let the ghosts don new pearls for each new stranger, a panel of voices laid out on shoe racks. It’s a treason of the mind, adopting voices as if going to the fair, touch another on the shoulder and absorb the way they see the world, shed the emotions unworthy of knowing, invite the ghosts for tea at noon.

Fire has a destroying tongue, a whisper of chipped teeth. Society will think it holy, the god for the dark side of humanity sharpening his jaw. It is women with unguarded hearts who tend to the flame, their ribs buried in dirt so they could be without the armor of bone. It’s far easier to reach the muscle, to let it beat in their own way, donning dresses woven by the Furies as a deathless shroud. They are only made of grandeur if someone can tremble before them. Women as the beast and not the beauty. There is a hymn written in dust, singing of the fragment of infinity when it steps into the light, all curves, a raw beauty afire, the devil waiting beneath callused skin.

Fire has a destroying tongue, a whisper of chipped teeth. Society will think it holy, the god for the dark side of humanity sharpening his jaw. It is women with unguarded hearts who tend to the flame, their ribs buried in dirt so they could be without the armor of bone. It’s far easier to reach the muscle, to let it beat in their own way, donning dresses woven by the Furies as a deathless shroud. They are only made of grandeur if someone can tremble before them. Women as the beast and not the beauty. There is a hymn written in dust, singing of the fragment of infinity when it steps into the light, all curves, a raw beauty afire, the devil waiting beneath callused skin.

they are women with vines trailing their walls, they’ll watch you from their porch swings, eating fruit from the backyard in the winter. the neighborhood boys call them witches, spreading tales of the roots and branches that popped the backs of their heads once they tried to climb the tress. and you’ll believe them for no one should have eyes like a forest fire and laughter. you’ll forget them, the floral printed dresses and the skin smelling of tea and dirt. but the trees remember and they’ll be here long after this town.

Skin tends to be cracked with the scent of oil and roses. It’s, in the same way a woman's fingers smeared nail polish on yesterday;s juice boxes and torn magazine covers carpet the shadows of a bed, a model holding herself as the monster waiting where terrors are formed. Beauty is born when bruises are photoshopped into lipstick.

Picture this, just for a moment. Light as magic. In the way sun-soaked eyes still wish for stars. History almost knew them, those children with two bloody knees. The world gazes upon them as if they were a house on fire.

Hands will throw a lot of punches and call it courage and one asks Icarus if he has a pair of wings to spare. The palms of their hands are stained golden, and skin is never the same once it bites concrete or one shuts their eyes, still knowing the shadows of a sun.