And then I cried a flood of tears as if I really were a mermaid who had absorbed too much sea into herself. The tears spilled like a balm, like a potion, like a charm. In them swam a little girl whose father was dying without ever having seen her. In them swam a girl whose mother’s magic – the only thing the girl envied more than anything else in the world, the thing that had made her invisible, the most precious thing –might be dying too. In them swam a green-haired girl who had never been touched by the boy to whom she was so devoted that she would have lived with him forever in a shack by the sea or a ruined sand castle even if he never made love to her. My tears were for me, but they were also for him. They were to wash away the thing that had frightened him so much so long ago. The wound inside his thigh. My tears poured out of me and he drank them down his throat. He drank them in gulps deep into himself, swallowing sorrow.
Someday,” he said, “when we are ready, I will give you back your tears.
(via porcelainfawns)
Long shall my mind implore you,
bore you, rape your thoughts
with cunning words of soothe
and take your drugs to drink,
quick blink, as rapid as a fox
for soon you shall become a
slice of Hell, a paper leaf above
no air, and I can state my friends
and I, we’ll dwell above you,
feed from you, take life that
bleeds from palms and feet,
your body tender— sweet
deceit should take you now
(via burningmuse)
Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eerie expression, half-pleasure, half-pain, came over those childish features. She sat a little higher than I, and whenever in her solitary ecstasy she was led to kiss me, her head would bend with a sleepy, soft, drooping movement that was almost woeful, and her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist, and slackened again; and her quivering mouth, distorted by the acridity of some mysterious potion, with a sibilant intake of breath came near to my face. She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I have her to hold in her awkward fist the scepter of my passion.
(via lapetiteromantique)
Here, beneath my ribs,: Tree Root Veins
i.
the soils taken half of me in it’s clutches, and you’re still holding on to the other with bloody fingertips. Why are you not afraid of tearing your skin on my splintered bones? You’ll never be able to bring them back together.
ii.
My veins have become tree roots, and I am shedding my blood to water a tree for you to climb; dangle your toes over an infinity of autumn leaves, only red autumn leaves.
iii.
I know you want to taste me. I am burning for your tongue to skirt my teeth, my hips. I am burning for you to taste me, but I love the way the bluebird in your chest sings, and there’s poison growing in the cracks in my heart; I didn’t sew them shut soon enough, and I will only tear that beautiful throat to shreds.
(via burningmuse)
You climbed my ribs like
a stepladder,
plucked at tendons as you
sang a love song dedicated
to Her,
kissed my lips and whispered
Her name,
broke every finger and
got everything that you wanted.
(via burningmuse)
: Tea
Old familiar smells and music under the bustle of food being ordered and old ladies enjoying their teatime together.
I haven’t been able to afford this for a long time, though I waste my money, dollar by dollar, just living and small extravagances. The red wood tabled feel of the short time I was still a child with the freedoms of an adult.
I can barely remember the last time I met him here. Not just a casual drink-to-go with friends, but a sit down date to catch up on the more intricacies of life that social networking can’t tell us.
Everywhere I go I look for those times. To be in love with life, riding bikes around and drinking from the cleaner bits of the creek, up in the mountains.
I guess I haven’t been in touch with reality lately. I haven’t been in touch with much but sleep and dreams.
(via burningmuse)
fallen words: on meeting a man who grew daisies on his palm
The first time I saw him, he had a tiny yellow flower sprouting from his fingertip. These flowers, I later learned, were yellow daisies growing from the tip of his finger. I paused for a while and blinked slowly, my mouth slightly agape. You meet a man budding a flower on his finger for the first time, won’t you find it rather odd? It is a really rare disease, he explained to me then. He has forgotten what it was called, it was quite a mouthful he jibed, and the cause and orgin of the disease were remote and uncertain. Only very few cases were reported with victims of this type of disease. People who has it would begin to grow flowers in random parts of their body. Because the roots of the disease were unknown, there hasn’t been any cure invented to heal it.
He was a fine man, really. He loved tea, loved to read books and took a lot of time listening to classical music with old records. His longish bangs often fell to his eyes when he would bend down to turn a page, his reading glasses would slip off the bridge of his nose, slide back the frame in place with his slender fingers. He was always sleepy, that man and he would ask me to sing for him ‘Daisy Bell’ to put him to sleep. It was only a few verses that I remember though but he listened to me anyway.
Daisy, daisy, give me you answer do,
I’m half-crazy all for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage;
I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’d look sweet upon the seat
on a bicycle built for two.He blamed it to the disease why he slept quite frequently in the grass as we take shelter under the shade of the old rosewood tree in his backyard. That lone place is the only place where he felt he belonged. When a new bud would sprout from his skin, he would excitedly tell me, run to the backyard and lie in the grass with the daffodils and bluebells and tulips dancing and celebrating with him.
The last time I saw him, the rest of his exposed skin is nearly covered with yellow flowers. He had grown daisies on his head, on the tips of his lashes, on his neckline. When he opens his palms, there are about a dozen daisies growing there. The doctor said he’s grown flowers in his stomach and his heart too, and it won’t be too long before he bids farewell. He knew about this and asked me to bury him in the garden with the flowers when he dies. I promised him I would. It was winter then when he left this world. His body was laid in the garden, just as I promised. Many weeks pass. Everything is covered in white. When spring came by early March, the snow has melted away, I looked out the window and there I find, on the ground lay a hunderd daisies on the damp earth.
(via burningmuse)
