Entries By Anna Meursault
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All that she ate, her stomach is not full, the feeling churns into acid (probably not). All that he swam, his arms were not tired, the water spread past him (in a wave). All that I touch, my fingertip is burned, the etching moves like plastic (spiral pattern).Posted By Anna Meursault On 09.19.2012 @ 4:34 am
Like the string fraying on a pair of: Jeans and think for a moment about what the color blue might sing on a Monday Or a Tuesday – I’m not too picky.
That’s a lie.
Instead take a look at the fireworks crashing in my ear on a Saturday: Mornings used to be easier to deal with.Posted By Anna Meursault On 09.17.2012 @ 12:29 pm
I think the most important part of all of this was that his hands were clasped, arms jutting forward. There he stood, a battering ram of flaking skin and curly hair and he still charged.
From the distance, I could see his hair was parted straight down the middle.Posted By Anna Meursault On 08.23.2012 @ 6:14 pm
There is a blank space beneath the corner, in front of the window sill, to the left of the curtains and the right of the flat-screen HD television that he doesn’t need but bought anyway out of a show of machismo or some other tri-syllabic word that he looks up in the dictionary.Posted By Anna Meursault On 07.28.2012 @ 7:00 pm
There’s this pop in the center of her heart every time she hears her name, sharp and blunt and similar to falling off a three-story building, watching a man put a small knife to her ribs.
The repetitions of her name pang and burst and break and pound and she is afraid. More than she has ever been in her entire life.Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.20.2012 @ 7:22 pm
She scratches her nail on the writing desks, files it down to a sharp point in the shape of a triangle or needle or slice of pizza, she doesn’t really care for either of the options.
By the time the remaining piece breaks, only a pile of keratin, dust, remains in front of her finger.Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.08.2012 @ 3:22 pm
I will let this bridge burn down as ash and fire and cinders dance in a circle above you. I will let them float down and cover your face, until you cannot see or touch or breathe. I will let you lie on the ground and walk away, stepping on the imprint your body makes on the sand.
You will do nothing to stop me.Posted By Anna Meursault On 05.04.2012 @ 8:51 am
Off of the wall grows a sprig of mint, a sole leaf, flitting around the shimmer of vines and crabgrass, reaching towards the sun or sky or stars, possibly trying to drown on the air, on oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen, waiting to be able to assimilate them into itself.Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.30.2012 @ 1:34 pm
Having nothing is not the same as doing nothing, though at this point in time she does not know this.
She thinks they are the same, that everything deserving of a nothing is equivalent to an actual lack of existence, and in that aspect she is horribly wrong.
Horribly, since she will only figure this out when she becomes the same, and by that time, she will have been disfigured into a sprawling mess of clothes and hair and skin.Posted By Anna Meursault On 04.29.2012 @ 11:28 am