i chase the sun.

of jacques, part two.

Tue, 13 Mar 2012 19:06:51 -0400

the first time i fell in love, i was 6 years old.

he always jabbered along in french
and i always pretended to understand him.

he taught me how to ice-skate
and why the sky was blue
and he used to hold my hands even if they were sweaty.

when i was 8, he kissed me on the cheek and blushed.
i’ve wanted love like that ever since

he always climbed trees
(and consistently broke his limbs)
he always spoke quickly
and largely,
using his hands and big words to enunciate his feelings.

he was emotional
and that made up for me being cold.

one time he told me i was pretty and then i threw up.
he patted my back and told me that i shouldn’t eat so many green things because they threw off the color.

of jacques, part one.

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 17:55:31 -0500

the first time i fell in love, i was 6 years old.

his name was jacques and he played the violin.

he lived 3 and a half doors down from me
(the half a door was a cat flap)
and his father owned a stand in the market.

when it was sunny,
he’d bring his violin outside and he’d play it all day.
it annoyed me at first,
but as we grew up together, i learned to love that violin, too.

he had curly brown hair (as most frenchmen do)
and light brown eyes
and tanned skin
and crooked teeth.

his laugh was annoying and he slurped when he ate soup.
his fingernails were dirty from pulling up vegetables for his papa
and he never seemed to take any showers.

but he liked to tell me stories
and he taught me how to draw with chalk on the sidewalk.

Reading Hurts

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 21:54:51 -0500

treesquirrrel:

That moment when you finish a book, look around, and realize that everyone is just carrying on with their lives as though you didn’t just experience emotional trauma at the hands of a paperback.

scream.

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 18:59:00 -0500

close your eyes and open your senses.

the rustling of the autumn leaves,
might as well be the trickling of a summer spring.
the smell of the chimneys,
could easily be the barbecue getting started.

the winter chill you feel on your skin,
raising hairs and goosebumps and making you feel so alive,
it could be the cool water
sink deep down, where the silence is heavy.

feel the weight press down all around you.

on your heart and your mind,
blocking out your sound and your eyesight.
all you have left are your lips and your fingertips,
open your senses.

the whole world could be yours.

Why are Brid, Breck, and Brynn on the same side? Oh wait, is...

Sun, 04 Dec 2011 01:21:11 -0500

Why are Brid, Breck, and Brynn on the same side? Oh wait, is Iago Foamdrinker using Dolan’s whip? Or is that Conan’s whip? And where is Callisto Bloodbiter? And Blaithin should be with Io, cause Alma’s already dead, isn’t she?

smolder.

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 21:46:00 -0500

i run with the wolves
along treetops and bluegrass countrysides,
through crunching leaves, tasting of brown earth
through shattered glass and burning coals.

along crisp train tracks which gleam in the moonlight
over mist-covered meadows that whisper secrets in the dawn
under the birches through which the sunlight shines
beside the tigers, the lions, the bears.

i swim with the salmon, fighting for my spot upstream
swirling through black water and dazzling air
being torn apart by bellowing winds
dancing through shimmering flames.

run with me as i watch the stars melt to fog.

this is the truth of it.

Fri, 04 Nov 2011 16:39:34 -0400

we were laying on the soft, green grass as sunlight filtered through the leaves and the tree branches above us, trying to discern shapes within the clouds.
“i wish i was a lost boy,” you whispered, your voice hoarse because we’d talked the whole night through.
i smiled and reached for your hand, “i’d find you, if you were a lost boy. i wouldn’t let you get away.”

your palm was sweaty, but i didn’t mind.

we sit across from each other in separate arm chairs, the blinds closed and the whole room as dark as our moods.
i try to look into your eyes, to see what you’re thinking, but i’m too angry and too over it to try for compromise.
“fuck it,” you bark, your voice hoarse from the screaming and the yelling from the night before.
i let out a harsh laugh and roll my eyes, “get lost, i’m done with boys like you.”

both of us are calm now, as we shake hands.
your palm is smooth and cold, and i don’t care a single bit.

writer's block is terrible, but i think the flood is even worse.

Tue, 18 Oct 2011 21:22:45 -0400

when i get into this zone, nothing can stop me.

i don’t want to sleep or eat or go to school. nothing can distract me, and sometimes i can’t even get my thoughts down onto the screen fast enough.

so many good ideas pass me by, and that makes me bitter.

and once i calm down a bit, i try to remember the feeling, the brilliance coursing through my mind…but there’s nothing. emptiness.

and then the block comes back again.

writer's block so bad. i'm in a rage.

Mon, 17 Oct 2011 23:46:46 -0400

owl eyes.

Thu, 06 Oct 2011 22:51:00 -0400

she speaks with the dusty voice of an insomniac,
with the wisdom of one hundred and one books
read under the covers using a flashlight,
with flecks of gold scattered across her skin.

her eyes see colors of the dark,
the majestic blues that cloud the earth’s senses
the deep purples that shadow the night’s sky,
but never black.

black does not exist.

she hears whispers in the walls
in her curly hair and on her fingertips
but if she closes her eyes for just one minute
it all shatters into glass.

glass, glass, glass
glassy eyes and hand blown candle holders
the ones that stand on her bedside
like sentries that keep her company in her night’s watch.

watches and clocks
tic tok, tic tok,
but her mind never wavers
her heart never stops.

stops. which is the stopping point?
the sun awakening or the moon
winking over the horizon
like kisses that taste of tangy petrichor.

petrichor. the smell of dust after the rain.
is that what her voice tastes like?
the starched pages of her notebook grow heavy
with ink and lead and bulky thoughts.

she looks into the mirror
and tries to see what they all see,
but she only spies those eyes, the eyes that know
those eyes that see dark colors and perceive the shapes of thoughts.

the doorways to her mind,
if anyone cared to really look.
those big eyes that see in the dark
that see into words and ideas and that dig so deep
those owl eyes that refuse to close.

(don’t let them close.
if you do, you’ll jump.)
~

thank you all for the support. it means the world to me.

Thu, 06 Oct 2011 01:40:32 -0400

recovery.

Wed, 05 Oct 2011 00:09:16 -0400

lips on lips
onthighs and hips

make them regret their folly
under the goassamer moon,
dancing barefoot on the
moonbeams that trail the sand

glimmering shimmering dust.
stars that flicker.
a candle that is about to go out.

the moon now tinged bittersweet.
like sad words inked across parchment.
like the sighing of a willow tree.
like the call of a whipporwill.

dancing faster,
chasing away the sun,
whispering to the sand
to time itself:

run.
~