beeisadork
boots slicked with rain. a jostled umbrella. a hurried apology. fumbling hands. the curve of your mouth. a story of becoming or beginning or something that we couldn't understand. and i met you here. on a street in this rain grey city (that looked so much like every other one).
and until i am at your doorstep and your fingers are pressed into the woodwork and i can taste the earth in your mouth and you can find the sea in my hair and we form this broken horizon my hair will remain covered in salt and your tongue coated in dust and the sun will hang here in this space between drying our skin until we are husks. i wonder if you will crumble and if i will evaporate or if it will be the other way around.
prophet. they whispered. quiet. as though words could have powers they did not know of (but isn't there power enough in what they wield). there were stories, you know? of a child born at midnight. among shooting stars and falling constellations. they said there'd be angels. but it was only so quiet. as it always is. and it wasn't at midnight at all. it was during the day. there were no shooting stars or constellations but it rained. and maybe that was enough. no angels but a girl too young holding herself together. quiet so quiet. and perhaps, that was enough.
and see there must have been a before to this. there must have been a tidy sequence of events. a carefully dropped handkerchief. a misplaced note in a convenient corner. there must have been a before, a beginning they would say. as if there was an order to the way my skin has made way for your fingertips.
your wrist knocks against your forehead. salute. your wrist knocks against your forehead. but he is not moving. and your wrist knocks against your forehead. but you can see his life falling from him. your wrist knocks against your forehead. but his eyes are wide open. his uniform is rumpled. and your wrist knocks against your forehead. salute. colonel.
straight noses. pale skin. beautiful. beautiful. and you. you with hands the color of the earth. dirt they called it dirt. they told you. that you would never be compared to the moon or the stars. but you are of the velvet darkness of the sky. and you were born in the soil.
please know that my lungs were not made to run. they were not meant to burn but i cannot stand your wrists pressed away from mine. and i have made a lifetime off of quiet panting breaths when you have stolen my oxygen through my palms. please know that i have held this burn to my chest so i do not close my eyelids against yours.
there are days when i will glue wings on to my eyelids, my wrists. my ankles. and run far far away from. hello and goodbye and how are you and fine. and there are days where i cannot bear the sight of your skin. and i will ease the ache in my chest by pushing my face against the wind.
cut. cut. scrape. push away. you will scratch and scratch.
until the letters have become meaningless marks on meaningless
paper. you will grip your pencil like a lifeline. try to choke
words out of your throat. write. write.
rustle. hush. quiet. breathe slow. you have a home in the forest. they whisper beneath your feet. they look like your mother's eyes. and they smell like safety. there is no darkness here. they feel like security.
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writing since 2012 · 29 entries · 23 days shown up
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the words Bee reaches for
againstskinquietrainsmilesmelleyesburningwristknocksforeheadearthblinkdripmouthburn