emorelli
Hurts like a fire in your eyelids. Feels like a chance to turn around, or change something. runs across the fields csreaming out my name every day as something I need to carry with me, a heavy book, a caseload of goodbyes. Nobody remembers them. It's somethign I'm so used to but continue to be hurt by-- and why? would would that help me do, if I let it wash off, the sheets of nothingness just falling away. Who would I be? There is no imagination when it comes to creating myself and that's why i can't create anyone else. But here I am rejecting my own ideas. Rejection is like a family member, or a basket of laundry, a window, a bed, a doorframe. It can lie between the sheets of memory, flat as a piece of paper.
writing since 2010 · 1 entries · 1 days shown up
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the words emily reaches for
sheetshurtsfireeyelidschancechangerunsfieldscsreamingnamecarryheavybookcaseloadgoodbyesnobody