Tuesday, August 27, 2013


She likes the way after a cry, the liquid  acts as a shield between her eye and the outside air. The sheen fits tightly like a glass cupboard, holding up her lids. Before that, she enjoys the art of water and salt mixing with dead skin and sweat, snot, and makeup making a tornado of ingredients. It's a water color on her face, or maybe a delicate assemblage. What are tears anyway? An emotional science experiment, Changing forms and shapes? Traveling through the mind as a feeling and out of the machinery of the body, tangible, and wet.  What's actually leaving your body with tears? The face gets all red and warm. You're like a tea kettle. Sometimes when crying, she could no longer breathe through her nose. The snot rose up her hot head, congesting her thoughts, and tried to escape in any way. Other times, she lost her speech. The 'frog in her throat' halted words from forming. She hated this term, much too ugly of an analogy. She preferred envisioning a woman whose head was maybe wrapped in a colorful scarf and hunched in the trenches of her esophagus. The woman was in fact sitting at a loom, warping the yarn of her throat. 

Saturday, August 10, 2013

naivety is a fucking stupid word.

Oh, I hear you menacing voice
You build my home
I draw on your walls

You whisper

Everyone you love will diminish you
You whisper

Daggers when you exhale

You’re a fool if you’re not na├»ve
You whisper

If you hear me clearly, your perception is flawed
You whisper

There is only me