It is a haunting thing, these shadows that search and spasm, the darkness of it overwhelming, overthrowing, over and over until it’s a tumbledown mess of madness, where the crawling flies lay eggs of wonder and as I reach up I realize I’ve been buried alive and he’s whispering in my ear quietly like singing crickets do at night unless I’m purely made of metal and not flesh which is the only reason I keep coming back here to open to open to open up all the things inside to lay them bare while every single possibility slips through and around and inside my head because all her angels were all she ever wanted but the black feathers came undone like some kind of unraveling at the seams doll like some kind of terrible dream thing that can’t touch and can never be touched not out of fragility but of a desperate power that can drink everything up and choke it all down and filter it out into great crocodile tears of white wine which she’ll drink when she dances over the place she knows I’ll walk some day after I’m finally born into the world where she had been already always standing.
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Link me, baby. What are you reading? What have you written? Tell me a story.No tags for this post.
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