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the steaks are too high, was the punchline. but there's no meat on that joke.

the way she used to wear her hair: ridiculously outmoded, by decades, but she liked to look strange. she lived off people's sideways glances at bus-stops and bakeries. she wore her hair up for the same reason she wore red boots, and honestly, for the same reason she wore me.

deep and thoaty, the voice of a bull from the mouth of a man, he shouted. we shook.

oil

fish oil, that's the smell i remember. a broken food supplement pill on the formica kitchen side, oozing slowly toward the ceramic hob.

spanning the chasm, a single iron girder, bolted at each end but rusting, and worn thin.

you are my silent n. you got me every time. snuck into words i was trying to whisper in other peoples ears.

an intuitive, automatic reaction, like the jerk of a knee under the hammer, i fight back. i didn't see the knife until too late.

dull

it glowed, dully, on the laboratory floor. now, usually i would admit that dully glowing objects on laboratory floors are not entirely the safest objects to pick up with your bare hands, but that's what i did. more fool me.

it slid down my throat, chilled, and sharp, like a cocktail on ice. i never wanted to be that right. but he was. he was. and is. and will be, because i have no way to stop him.

deer

warning triangle, edged in red, battered and rusted round the edges. this is the point on the drive where i always start to worry. worry about what you might say, do, or think when i arrive, yet again, wearing my hair up and looking miserable.

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writing since 2011 · 24 entries · 24 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means biscuitmensch showed up.

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on this day 15 years ago

biscuitmensch wrote about radical
“your new ideas aren't new. not even here, not even for you. you heard them, once, before, and half-remembered and remade them. i know they are not new, because they are mine.”

the words biscuitmensch reaches for

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