ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
she sits in a bathtub,
drenched in the warmth of late afternoon,
and wonders about love.
it is cliche.
it is also important.
her fingers slide along her
chest, counting the hidden scars.
seventeen that she can feel,
more that she can't.
but that isn't important,
not right now,
because she's thinking about love.
it isn't passion she remembers,
not fingernail scratches or gasps
or quiet suggestions that maybe
the slipper-socks should come off.
she doesn't think about the secret smiles,
or the smell of cinnamon,
or even the voice saying i love you, you know
[because she did know].
she thinks about silence
about those moments in between breaths,
in between heartbeats,
in between words.
she thinks about how tangible
it was, how soft and warm and light
and then she thinks about the
silence that's with her now,
the silence that's seeping through
her pores,
splashing in her lungs,
hovering in her head.
she looks at the razor she's been holding for an hour.
she looks at the paper-thin skin on her wrists.
she continues thinking.
it's worse than silence, she decides.
it's nothingness.
numbness.
emptiness.
silence is the absence of noise
and this is the absence of everything.
she never even cried.
her hand begins to tremble.
her muscles tense.
she can't taste. she can't feel. she
can't hear anything and she can't
see anything and she can't
smell anything
except cinnamon.
she pauses.
frowns.
looks.
the shampoo bottle is still open,
the familiar smell drifting into the sunny room.
she looks away and her eyes settle on
a pair of slipper-socks,
unceremoniously thrown in the laundry pile.
slowly
she puts down the razor.
she drains the bath.
she wraps a towel around herself.
and she emerges from the bathroom
with seventeen scars and tears streaming down her face.
and that is important.
drenched in the warmth of late afternoon,
and wonders about love.
it is cliche.
it is also important.
her fingers slide along her
chest, counting the hidden scars.
seventeen that she can feel,
more that she can't.
but that isn't important,
not right now,
because she's thinking about love.
it isn't passion she remembers,
not fingernail scratches or gasps
or quiet suggestions that maybe
the slipper-socks should come off.
she doesn't think about the secret smiles,
or the smell of cinnamon,
or even the voice saying i love you, you know
[because she did know].
she thinks about silence
about those moments in between breaths,
in between heartbeats,
in between words.
she thinks about how tangible
it was, how soft and warm and light
and then she thinks about the
silence that's with her now,
the silence that's seeping through
her pores,
splashing in her lungs,
hovering in her head.
she looks at the razor she's been holding for an hour.
she looks at the paper-thin skin on her wrists.
she continues thinking.
it's worse than silence, she decides.
it's nothingness.
numbness.
emptiness.
silence is the absence of noise
and this is the absence of everything.
she never even cried.
her hand begins to tremble.
her muscles tense.
she can't taste. she can't feel. she
can't hear anything and she can't
see anything and she can't
smell anything
except cinnamon.
she pauses.
frowns.
looks.
the shampoo bottle is still open,
the familiar smell drifting into the sunny room.
she looks away and her eyes settle on
a pair of slipper-socks,
unceremoniously thrown in the laundry pile.
slowly
she puts down the razor.
she drains the bath.
she wraps a towel around herself.
and she emerges from the bathroom
with seventeen scars and tears streaming down her face.
and that is important.
Literature
oiseaux oedipaemia
don't open your eyes, okay?
this is the difference between sick and saved.
the walls are pearled, and i am one shade of white,
wearing scarves made of washcloth and paper.
my eyelids are tiny butterflies,
quick, pale, and new. i see things
that evaporate as soon as i recognise them:
jaguars prowling from the depths of the water,
climbing from the drain with dripping pelts.
their spines ripple,
shoulderblades sinking and rising
like gentle breath, like sad sunsets.
when they look to me, i become one of them,
i breathe in as they do, taking in a breath
Literature
step-mother
she sings to me
like the sad sparrow in
the cold,
dusking the day
with a draw of chords.
and i want her
to choke
on the glissando
of her cordial chirps
and gasp like
she were a drowning
nestling,
because i
cannot breathe with her
so close to the window, i
so close to the
resurrection
of the freedom
of mine she imprisoned.
i take hold the
nape of her larynx, swollen
with weep and apology,
hoping to snip
her straight clean.
instead i fold over her
like a nest and rock
her to sleep.
Literature
Zemi
Things having to be returned to their transparency:
i.
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
ii.
are recalcitrance / and you
are convergence
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
iii.
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
Suggested Collections
this is... long. i'm not sure how i feel about it. i'm generally not a fan of writing stories in the present tense, but it seemed to fit here.
comments are loved
comments are loved
© 2012 - 2024 aprilwednesday
Comments18
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is stunning.