eso ౨ৎ
@maroonesma
born to be a thursday’s child ,, #infpt. brown & luke hemmings lover!
10 okur puanı
Kasım 2022 tarihinde katıldı
Şu anda okuduğu kitaplar
“Because the butterfly’s yellow wing flickering in black mud was a word stranded by its language. Because no one else was coming—& I ran out of reasons.
So I gathered fistfuls of ash, dark as ink, hammered them into marrow, into a skull thick enough to keep the gentle curse of dreams. Yes, I aimed for mercy— but came only close as building a cage around the heart. Shutters over the eyes. Yes, I gave it hands despite knowing that to stretch that clay slab into five blades of light, I would go too far. Because I, too, needed a place to hold me. So I dipped my fingers back into the fire, pried open the lower face until the wound widened into a throat,
until every leaf shook silver with that god -awful scream & I was done.
& it was human.”
“That mercy is small but the earth is smaller. / Because I stopped apologizing into visibility. Because this body is my last address. Because right now, just before morning, when it’s blood-blue & the terror incumbent. Because the sound of bike spokes heading home at dawn was unbearable. Because the hills keep burning in California. Through red smoke, singing. Through the singing, a way out.
Because only music rhymes with music. / The train whistle heard through an opened window after a nightmare.
My mother, standing at the mirror, putting on blush before heading to chemo.
Sleeping in the back seat, leaving the town that broke me, whole. Early snow falling from a clear, blushed sky.
As if called.”
“That I read my books by the light of riotfire. That my best words came farthest from myself & it’s awesome. / Because a blade of brown rye, multiplied by thousands, makes a purple field.
Because this mess I made I made with love. Because they came into my life, these ghosts, like something poured. Because crying, believe it or not, did wonders.”
“He walks backward into the church, where Kelvin’s casket glows in the dusky light. Mothers and grandmas with heads bowed. But what he wants, or rather, what I want for him, doesn’t happen: underneath Kelvin’s button- up, the stitched pink eye in his chest, just above his right lung, doesn’t open, the .45-caliber shell doesn’t come out, won’t suspend itself in Sunday’s air, won’t make an obedient return to the barrel, splinter into lead, polymer, iron, elements, the ash of a star ejected from a cosmos into this one.”
“The fisherman suddenly a boy with too much to carry.”