I sit in my hollow home Cavernous espresso shadows No light can enter or escape Home is where the heart is Heart? I do not have one of those Long has it been since I have felt the lovely lub dub of of beating bloody chambers Heart like home Hollow chest cavity Decaying walls that… Continue reading hollow
"Good bye" the last words spoken. My past me left behind in a haze of cigarette ash, cruel words and bloody feathers strewn. Sworn to myself it would be the last last time. I gave you too many finalities. I gave you too many second chances, second thoughts. You gave me too many "I'll never… Continue reading through this year
Flowers need the Earth, the ground, to be flowers But the ground is still the ground without the flower The flower does remain the flower, when plucked. Once a pretty little thing to look upon, but soon wilting, dying. The ground doesn't need anything to be itself. It is always the ground. If someone asks… Continue reading flower, when plucked
There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
The books I've read have always explained blood as smelling "coppery" or "metallic." They're not wrong, but they're not right either. Yes. I could detect that old-penny tang in the air, but there were other things too. They never mention the rot of it. The butcher shop meatiness. The piss and shit part that will undoubtedly be there. Because if there is so much blood you can smell it, then someone is either dead or about to be. A bandaid would no longer help them. Blood doesn't just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.
Chapter two of my short story Milk
The thing about hitting rock bottom is that you never really know when you are there until you start to build up from it. Or until you are away from it. You can assume that "it couldn't get any worse," but these words are often folly and should be treated in the same way as "Lord Voldemort," (For the muggles - don't fucking say it out loud)