curbside-confessions

Sunlight streams through the glass doors, falling across the black and white tile in patterns of fractured gold. Dust motes dance through the rays, twirling and spinning, acrobats moving in defiance of gravity. It is beautiful--the sort of everyday beautiful that you never really notice until something opens your eyes to it. She was like that. Like motes of dust dancing through amber rays--silent, beautiful and invisible until caught in the right light. I didn't notice it though. Not until it was too late. And by the time the light hit her, she was gone. Now only a memory remains. A memory of the girl I could have--should have--saved, but

The words aren't coming, they just aren't there! My fingers are tapping but the paper is bare. I'm wracking my brain, hoping to find, Some small little snippet or inspirational line. But oh to my woe and despair I have found All my words and phrases are nowhere around! My muse has run off, my characters gone On a far off vacation, somewhere in the sun. I'm not quite sure where, but one thing is clear Wherever they are that wherever's not here! So I sit and despair and lament my woe, I've nowhere to look and nowhere to go! Without my cast, director and script, This night is a bust, a real sinking ship. I wish you'd come back, you darn l

We are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars, The echo of mortality, the whispers of a storm, half-remembered, in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books. Time gets slow in waiting, ghosts are formed from the wanting, taking shape in the spaces where sunlight, or moonlight doesn't touch. The stars shake from the vibration, and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation, but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.

i am shipwrecked fever; kerosene sleep, & she is denied oxygen. i taste sirens on the shore of her collarbones, & salt-licked sea limbs. but, it's the natural disaster wrapped around her coral spine that really has my lungs                            s                              p                            i                               n                             n                               i                             n                               g.

I know more about half-moon palms than most know about lifelines the kind that beg dandelion child, love-yourself-breathless. I know about forged castle ribs & broken homes. Myths that are half fact & imaginary friend turned bogieman - Fangs that tear clear through ice-bone hearts like they are nothing but pretty paper to be folded over, again & again & again by the hands of quivering youths: Icarus, the reincarnated sky conqueror searching for warmth.

Her face slammed against the desktop roughly. She could feel blood beginning to drip from her nose, but chose to ignore it and instead rhythmically pounded her fists beside her ears. It was only when they were too numb to feel the pain that she stopped. Meet Lost Friend A, for this is how her mother found her. By that time, the blood had dried and crusted into rusty rivers on her face and on the desk, and her hands had bruised dark indigo. With a tender sigh, Mother wet a towel and mopped up the violence, but not the pain, and placed her daughter in the bed. Before she left, she picked up that shattered pieces of the picture frame on the fl