hoom
Find me another word
this one doesn't fit over my shoulders
over skin, over color
over tangled roots
and brave new obstacles
like roadkill in my future.
Can a Girl get a definition,
a synonym?
Can you use it in a sentence for a Girl?
It isn't conscious, just automatic, these days. I sit here and you sit there, with our bodies not touching, just hovering in each other's personal space. We breath steadily.
I won't say something about night or darkness or whichever bit's the evil part of yin and yang but I'll make due with saying something about how we just don't converse any more. How even with the sun's first arch smeared across the horizon we feel listless, still, gray in the pale light of daybreak. Legends and misunderstandings clutter the bed at our feet; the room is quiet and discontent. We are old now, too old for this certainly, but we fall into war like mute soldiers and wage in the stillness.
Over time I stopped hoping that the lies wouldn't come so easily--that they'd become lodged in my own throat, choked off, dead in my larynx. Afflictions are difficult to cure, chronic liar, they said. I can't blame them for their panicky eye-rolling, cautious sidestepping of the lies.
When dad left the world tilted and I watched all of the people in my life fall over the edge of the world. Mother drowned below in a sea of Goose. Vita crawled into the cavernous mouth of lust and Danny--well Danny simply clung to the features of earth's face, clawing and grasping until he'd managed to find a foothold and it was me.
The features on her face rearranged themselves into something bitter and wintry. Suddenly her blond lashes were snowflakes frozen onto her white eyelids and her lips were bitten-red and pinched with expression.
Sometime in the night she danced her fingers down his spine as if the swells and bumps of bone beneath filo-thin skin were the keys on her grand baby sitting white and magnificent in the dawn. Come down, come down, she whispered into purple mists. I'm coming down, he'd whispered back, breath tickling the curtains bellowing in her window and stirring up the hair behind her ear.
Sometime in the night she danced her fingers down his spine as the swells and bumps of bone beneath filo-thin skin were the keys on her grand baby sitting white and magnificent in the dawn.
Over the hills we climbed until the the shores licked salutations against our toes and then our heels, wrapping around the earth in a rhythmic, timeless push and pull. We were one giant bruise, bandaged haphazardly and dying for a little antiseptic in the arctic cold of deep dark corners. What sort of shadows don't know how to stop wishing the light would love them, stop wishing the living would hug them? Where pride seems so little in our bodies the longing rises up and makes us sick like dogs in the heat; tongues lolling and noses wet and cold with neglect. The mass of our forms sway in the night when everything else is quiet and sleeping and gone. We're shadows here, trembling in the light of day and florescents and life.
It was only when the port was just a speck on the horizon stretching out behind them did the men really begin to itch with it--the need for galloping waves and mouths crusty and dry with salt. They spent days and days eating dried fish, sometimes with brick bread and sometimes with a rationed amount of fresh water. In the beginning, it was all they had wanted, hoped it would be. But when the spent seas finally washed them onto the shores of their destination, they swayed into town as waning husks of men.
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writing since 2011 · 66 entries · 60 days shown up
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the words N.J. reaches for
fingerssittingwhitebreathhaircoldhalfbeneathnightskinredmotherbehindagainstfeetlight