She wakes up cold, with honeybees in her ears singing an old lullaby. Advertisements
The words whisper to me from the scratch of my dying pen.
To be a contradiction is to be overflowing; it is to listen and to contemplate; it is to consider and change; I am only human–my mind wasn’t built to be static.
Golden haze brushes over the rooftops. The red brick steams in the morning air, evaporating the shade of night.
Book pages stuck to her skin like honey, until the ink cradled her fingerprints and sunk into her bones to stay.
When the penny was discontinued, she sat on the carpet counting them for hours until I could taste the acidic steel in the air. She ran her fingerprint over the spine of the maple leaf, murmuring each date. She put them in piles that were counted over and over. Her hands started to shake, and […]
There blooms a fiery flower under your forehead today. It singes my lips.