Comments Posted By Daisy King
Displaying 1 To 17 Of 17 Comments
We wandered down the railroad, following our feet as much as we followed the tracks. Occasionally we exchanged glances, our fingers touched. At night, I heard her breathe. We looked at the same stars but we were railroad apart. I wanted to follow her, follow the path of least resistance, but soon I saw that there were barriers and boxcars boxcars boxcars.
» Posted By Daisy King On 08.04.2018 @ 1:36 am
We wandered down the railroad, following our feet as much as we followed the tracks. Occasionally we exchanged glances, our fingers touched. At night, I heard her breathe. We looked at the same stars but we were a railroad apart
» Posted By Daisy King On 08.04.2018 @ 1:34 am
My blanket smelled like milky tea and boiler rooms and illusory bouquets of rose bay willow herb but we were thrown into the Wye and sank into the mud, sinking between petals and uprooted endings.
» Posted By Daisy King On 04.09.2018 @ 8:48 am
Low hanging branches. woven into a roof
Over you between your brain and the blue sky
Daily turning over with grey and navy blue
Glittering with golden stars
Eternity illuminated from here
» Posted By Daisy King On 10.21.2017 @ 10:45 am
the Priory lodge. It was where the eating disordered patients were housed. Priory Court was for the addicts. Somehow it sounded more ominous and grown-up. Priory Court. But Lodge. It was our counterfeit family comfort, our shadow smiles on the sofa under tinsel
» Posted By Daisy King On 10.21.2017 @ 10:43 am
I never read the manual. I can’t be taught by watching practical demonstrations. To instruct me, you must educate me with words, with rhetoric, with concepts to wrap my head around and facts to anchor my thoughts down.
» Posted By Daisy King On 11.25.2017 @ 11:34 am
I never went camping. We had a country house in Wiltshire. That was where I first learnt about Jane Austen, at the same time as learning about bleeding people using leeches, and a few years prior to when I first learnt what a white lie is. I remember seeing it in the rear window and driving away and I didn’t cry. I went camping with my boyfriend. It hurt my back
» Posted By Daisy King On 08.09.2017 @ 11:05 pm
I drank it backwards from the can to stop the hiccups. It never fails. I do it because I hiccup backwards, and it hurts. It hurts because my chest gets pulled in and the air expelled violently out of me from my muscles and chest and lungs and middle tightened parts, and it sounds like I’ve been punched in the gut. No up.
» Posted By Daisy King On 06.10.2017 @ 6:15 am
churning engine, riffs of waves and skis upturned and boats and wrecks and gulls cry overhead, pulling at the string, kicking the wheels that turn, upturn, downturn, mouth that won’t stop spilling with words, churning, running out, emptying, emptied out, motor dead
» Posted By Daisy King On 05.27.2017 @ 3:31 pm
The library is exactly the same as it was the morning I was shot in the head in the history section, only colder, and quieter, and bluer.
» Posted By Daisy King On 10.13.2016 @ 1:07 am
Sometimes it’s made of iron and steel, rusting over years and standing now in museums, alongside the swords behind layers of glass. Sometimes it’s worn on the outside of people you meet everyday. Utterly invisible to the naked eye, just to protect them from the world
» Posted By Daisy King On 01.26.2016 @ 3:58 am
Don’t watch me with your fat flat clock face.
Time is playing tick-tock-toe with me.
I am running out of here, I’m getting carried away.
» Posted By Daisy King On 07.23.2015 @ 5:44 am
Hook in hand. Reel in the ripples out to where your cheeks fill with wind and you blow out candles, you reach for the carrot, you want the prize in the trap and you lose free will. Make a wish and fish.
» Posted By Daisy King On 07.22.2015 @ 5:30 am
There was suddenly space in my lungs again, feeling the air whistle to all the chambers inside me, cleaning out the dust, as the wheels span to the cadence of my furious pedalling. Faster and faster, but what was waiting for me when I stopped? Would I ever stop? What was chasing me?
» Posted By Daisy King On 10.30.2014 @ 6:04 pm
therapists tap their pens.
that must have been difficult for you.
you think to yourself – difficult? these things can’t be difficult. some things have to just be done and difficulty doesn’t matter because you live for the easy things that don’t hurt.
they don’t know difficult.
» Posted By Daisy King On 08.13.2014 @ 8:37 pm
There are few things more difficult than turning around to see yourself
in retrospect, without the blind spots that once protected you
from seeing the ugly things that are so true about you
and it is difficult but you have to look and look and look and look and look. See
» Posted By Daisy King On 08.13.2014 @ 8:35 pm
«« Back To Stats Page
eyes darting from one side to the other, wild, a circus to watch, but not able to watch anything themselves, as the world going by was too much to observe when trying to hide from it. It was a crime, there was no shying from that. Being invisible the only option.
» Posted By Daisy King On 06.04.2014 @ 6:30 am