#wtrwrites

A black dress clings to her country road curves as if God Himself painted it on her skin the same way He paints sunsets. In any case, I don’t doubt it, she knows Him better than I do; bums Him a cigarette outside the diner, splits a stale slice of cake, red velvet. A cross around her neck, she wears black, in mourning, not in who she’s lost, but the waste of time.   I wait, watching if she’ll cry when he leaves and she doesn’t; doesn’t even stand at the door and watch the taillights disappear into the tree-line. She’s thigh-deep into a book, biting a ridge off the nail of her pinky, and if she’s trying to come off disinterested, it’s working. The love of her life leaves and she doesn’t flinch. “It’s not my regret to have, baby,” she replies when I ask, hours later, if she’ll be lonely, “I make a point not to miss anybody that won’t miss me.”

“Write something iridescent”

Once you stepped off the shore the dock was dragonfly land Flitting wings and blue and green distracting from the sheen of the water down below (I think they’re magic but no one else seems to understand)

Fist. full of gums and two parts red regret mixed with one part pride, the price of any blabbermouth’s first school-yard fight Fist. as a noun and fist as a verb. Can fist be a feeling? It can, i would know Fist. meets fist, meets face, mangled braces make for great stories but horrible tellings so why don’t you say it for me, come on you know the story Fist. no longer, they call me honey and baby and though i got my braces off long ago there’s no more to tell, i tell myself, their words say all you need to know (Fist used to fight for my words now it chokes, blocks them out; but where the hell else are my fists spposed to go?)

-Are these weeds? -Maybe.. (i mean no) She pulls them anyway, says they need to go You always bet there was something crooked growing inside of me, and half-watching would always say, there’s nothing clean in there, prune it all Yet 10 second phone calls are all you can muster, can’t keep your cool for longer i wonder Have you never run barefoot in your perfect green grass or did your mother deny you that too (If anything’s grown crooked in me it’s because of you) -When will you do something with your life, become something? Anything! -I don’t know I want to ask, when will you stop cursing half my being, when will the hugs stop being a bluff? every day fake interested and each night fake goodnight kiss and i want to ask will i ever become enough? But you are betrayed by your cruel furnace breath on my cheek telling me lies and lies and one half truth I ask: -Will you ever reap this seed you have sown? (You pause as if you couldn’t care less) -Maybe… (i mean no)

mountain of my ribs mounting panic mounting snow mountain full of unsaid things grind my jaw, push it to go a storn born, blowing, twisting flurry billowing around crushing blizzard slowly building i cut through my ribs and throw it out