subtle teething

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Nights spent at the pool, drives home where streetlights pinwheeled through wet eyelashes.These were years broken fingers, sores. Early morning by the garage, so many orange peels and the small spines of fish. In those days, there was tenderness and low, mouths empty. Sometimes pink mattresses, girls waiting outside gas stations, coat pockets deeper than river bank mud, a gallon of milk swinging from their knuckled grip. In those days, I would forget to blink and the land bruised around me, a sky pink and ripping through itself, bleating over the power lines, the snow. All this space yawning past us, and sometimes your voice would reach me from across the parking lot, waterlogged and scratched. Sometimes processions of yellow lights, and when we reached the mouth of the tunnel, a fever of black. There was too much water in my room, too much room in my mouth, my boots dredging through the snow, the black sky hounding. And you, the sore eyes, missing teeth.

And sometimes I knew your name, other times I looked away too fast.

 

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body of goose down

Hello all! I hope everyone here had a lovely holiday & felt the cold on their faces & lit scented candles & all that winter-y stuff. Promise that I will post more soon if I’m not swamped with school work.

milklight

What was she but soft ignition?

Me on my back, again.
Sky soft with yolk shades and robin-egg blue, again with the airplanes,
the apple tree. Everything harsh as teeth.
Some things I will never repeat: my palms becoming sparrows, folding and blushing and dying for you. The way I became small. The way I bend, ask for your weight in return, soft excuses.

The way there was no grave marker for where I first burned.

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froth mouth

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and sometimes a bathroom, chipped tiles,

milk florescence. i begin with my tongue.

 

touch my skin, leave it ringing and sparking

in the spaces i leave. sometimes the eyes,

 

bathroom mirror, bathroom sink. i want

pronounceable things. i want my body to be

 

the stop. fingers more than memorials.

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small fingered

Apologies for not making much noise around here; lately I’ve been so bogged down with schoolwork in ways I never knew possible. Everyday is a battle against anxiety and drowsiness but I know everything will be alright in the end so I just carry on.  I still have my weekends to indulge in the things I love, so I promise to give some more personal updates soon!

For now, here are some pictures I have fallen in love with in the past week and a small poem I wrote while hyped-up on caffeine in-between studying . I hope everyone has been enjoying these grey skies, the chill, pink skin. I adore late autumn / early winter. There’s something so historical and marbled and tunneling about this time of year. Ugh. I just want to stare out the window of a cafe while listening to big band music. So soft and lovely.

sometimes, there is too much water in my room //

sometimes, there is too much room in my mouth.

I am drowned, I am drowned.

I am a shrinking house with the lights left on.

punlovsin: city lights

Portraits, 2009 | by BerniLouisa Tin:

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girl, swan and blue

ręñåįśšãńçė

I am the deep swell below my tongue. Here is the belly of the whale, candlesticks and blue cradles, nursery rhymes waterlogged. All I see is gold light spinning, here is the melt, my mouth as hot wax. Here is what I want: to be forgiven / backwards. Have my voice return to my throat through the parking garage. In the art museum with your red breath, forgive my shoulder blades easy, voice so melted yellow it pours down my chest.  All I want is to see through these walls without turning my head. All my limbs turned to snow, a slow dissociation. There is a hole in my cheek. Winter air floods in. Forgive me swan, wings spread like a sugar tongue. Forgive me like November, all goosebumps and milklight. I just want your fingers, thin and pale and fish-boned. All I want is for sight to be my body, swim museums like a ghost.

 

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publication news – quail bell magazine

Hello all! I’m excited to announce that a flash fiction story of mine was published in Quail Bell Magazine, an inclusive online literary magazine dedicated to “the real and unreal.” The poetry and stories published on this site are simply delectable, so be sure to give it a look!

Although an early draft of the story I submitted, still titled “Art Knows”, is published on this blog, you’ll find that major changes have been made to the published version of the story. I re-wrote the entire ending paragraph and added a new ending line as well. This updated version, I think, moves behind the curtain of the story itself and lends a new feeling of ringing ears and bodily dissociation (fun stuff!). You can access the updated version here.

Happy reading!

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3 hours too late & sweet rot

 

three sisters sweet as thirsty mouths. three sisters always in the losing. teeth flossed with cotton candy and burnt days seen through my teeth. neighborhoods of one storied houses, chain link fences. all was scrape and a drowned burn, the ancient electric. at night, air becomes bruised purple through telephone wires. at night, you two occupy the buzzing space and my body is alone. sometimes i think that moments are like photographs that have to be developed. it takes time to see the myth that was always there. now i can see that the corners of our living room were made out of static, tunneling and endless. in one photograph we’re outside mom’s car by an orange grove. i’m on the ground and you two are up in a tree, smiles like secrets, white t shirts singing the air. if you look at the picture for long enough you can sense rotten teeth. i would always arrive to your conversations too late and i could only ever see the surface. if i hadn’t caught you two running away you would have left me, alone. home only exists as a throat pang now. in dreams, i’m all sight and no skin, wading through rooms that crackle and ring. the air is clotted, bruising like blackberry stains and voices reach me like i’m underwater. when i wake, my mind is like cotton. when you two left me in the motel, no note, my mind was like gristle, empty but scratched.

i think of our car and the ripped leather seats. how we avoided sitting on the gashes even after nora covered them with duct tape. how there was always something blooming in the air’s gaps. i was all sight with a threaded mind like sound. the lights on the dashboard were green and at night it all felt like we were sitting in the belly of a ghost.

 

mfjr:  Lorna’s Garden, Ireland, 2012  by Robert Ellis

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