• he works late summers and early autumns out at sea, and she stays home to mind the blonde haired babies, and to twist her hands together like bent branches tangled up in a fence. every year, she wants to escape the narrow halls of the house, to live in an old, vine covered brick one with three stories made from dark, smelling wood. she would go up…[Read more]

  • Cakes, pudding, and pies. Swallowing them down like swallowing hate, foolishness, lies. Never can I eat enough, as if I’m high. Never can I eat enough, never can I satisfy. This monster wants to be fed and it’s an 24 hour job.

  • I never have any reason to call you, so I wonder why I purchased all these free long-distance outgoing calls. Let’s just say our relationship is tenuous. Let’s just say that I often pay more when you call me.

  • Her buttons, her feathers, and roses and glitter and glimmer and light, all covered the cracks so when she looked in the mirror, she saw something close, something near perfection. Tonight, she can sleep well.

  • You talk far too much about sex, it can be ridiculous and crude. You are immature seeming, young looking. Your light on the world is a dim one, it’s sad. You think everything is hopeless, everything is invevitable. You hate people and the world…you hate yourself. However, I love you. However, I will always.

  • She tries to find it hiding under her old battered stuffed animals, the chest of toys in the attic, the old heirlooms of her grandmother. It’s nowhere to be seen, but she some how doesn’t mind.

    She wouldn’t stand a chance with those happy people.

  • Pets and hugs, her head heavy in my lap, her arms round my middle, her cheek against my shoulder, her sighing, her breathing, her squuezes and softness, her eyes squinting upward.

    Her rush of affection.

    Friends…more.

  • Rotted, brown, crumpled, hurt.

    Roses that you put away with the trash.

    They’re there, under the rusted cans and rats.

    They’re still full of his love.

  • Madonna’s voice rings in my ears and I watch her fifty-year old mus­cles lift and stretch and rip­ple her skin. She’s still pre­form­ing even thought the eight­ies have come and gone with only a glim­mer of hope that they will return. Like when you see girls wear­ing neon leg­warm­ers and flo­ral print. She’s got­ten old, […]