oneword.com

Yesterday I woke up and realized that I exist. You were sleeping beside me, material skin and bones and muscles and tendons all breath and mass and small movements and my heart was beating in my wrists and temples the texture of your skin on my skin almost too much to handle

as tightly as I curled into myself organs tight-packed together, bones touching through skin, I could not disappear.

Posted By With Feeling On 11.12.2012 @ 7:02 pm

He has this strange sort of cynicism The kind that allows for hope [but not the word itself]. In his mind he is the monk, the self-sacrificer. He leads the charge against injustice and he fights the demons of the world with truth-weapons. He says, I See You I Know You and the shadows run.

Posted By With Feeling On 10.20.2012 @ 1:46 pm

There are things hidden under blankets, under skin in that space between muscle and bone. Things that shine and scratch; sharp-edged things winged things caught in the sinews. That is the restlessness, the ache; the moon-howling is theirs, and the running. One incision and they will be free.

Posted By With Feeling On 10.19.2012 @ 1:50 pm

In the upper reaches of the atmosphere there is a cold, cold wind blowing. And oh, it chills the bones and makes them brittle and that is why we break so easily. When we fall from the sky [through thunderclouds] the wind whistles through the holes in us- the ones we are born with and we spend our whole lives filling up.

Posted By With Feeling On 10.14.2012 @ 7:57 pm

Reaching, reaching out. And the harder you clutch at it, the more it will struggle The more it will scratch at your arms the more it will skitter, hissing, away. The trick is to ignore it. Then, like a child, it will come creeping up behind you and wrapping you up in its arms (wanting) wondering why you ignored it for so long.

Posted By With Feeling On 10.07.2012 @ 3:00 pm

Before the storm, they had lived in a small red house with a small blue door and ivy climbing up the side. There was an orange cat who had decided he belonged to them, or perhaps they to him, and would come to the porch every morning at precisely six a.m. for cream and a bit of fish. Annie had insisted that his name was Timothy, and that he was their guardian angel, and Morgan had never objected. They had had grand adventures together, Annie and Timothy, tumbling about in the garden and murmuring to each other in that secret way that cats and children do. Then the water came rushing into the house and up around their ankles and poured down into their throats, and who could hear a small cat meowing over the rush of water? We really must forgive Timothy, for he tried his best. But a cat does have survival instincts.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.24.2012 @ 11:34 am

The imaginary gunshot slices into the morning chill and her legs are moving and stretching, sinuous. Lungs and ribs aching to hold enough oxygen.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.20.2012 @ 8:16 pm

As the breath rushes to escape her lungs, her eyes open as if for the first time. Suddenly she can feel. There- see how green the trees, feel how soft the grass. Everything moving together, breathing in and out in waves, an ocean of colour and sound and touch.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.17.2012 @ 7:16 am

The first and most important thing is the heat. They say heat is suffocating but this heat is different, dry, creeping pleasantly down my back. My skin is too white and I can feel it slowly cooking but the sunlight is just too lovely. I will live with the burns.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.15.2012 @ 8:39 am

And as his face contorts, seemingly in slow motion, Anna feels her lungs inflate and deflate. This will end the same way as it has before, she is sure. She makes a decision. There will be no more of this, she says in her mind. And before his breath can come bellowing out in a string of curses and accusations, she slips out the door, quietly locking it behind her. As she imagines his look of disbelief, she smiles.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.12.2012 @ 2:25 pm

Hands and legs and arms, entwined, clinging. Gasps of breath. Finger pressure says I Won’t Let Go. Don’t Go. WIlling happiness and energy and the will to live into you, but skin gets in the way. The barrier is too strong.

[I can't sustain you, I can't, I'm sorry]

Posted By With Feeling On 09.05.2012 @ 8:03 am

Oh, my fingers are searching every crack and crevice. Dust creeping in under fingernails. Plumes of oldness and neglect puffing themselves out into my face. Where is it? This is the true definition of miracle: to find something so small and yet so desperately sought after. I need my keys.

Posted By With Feeling On 09.04.2012 @ 11:38 am

drowning. Breathe; under the covers it’s always darkest when you need the most light. [They say we're naturally buoyant but I don't believe it]

Posted By With Feeling On 09.02.2012 @ 7:31 pm

This word is the same as yesterday’s maybe this place doesn’t ever change, maybe we’re stuck in some sort of time vortex, maybe we’ll never escape, not until our skin is plastered to our bones, and then they’ll distribute our dreams to the more fortunate ones.

Posted By With Feeling On 06.27.2012 @ 8:58 am