Monday took her eyes. Making no bones about burning them out on tides of acid tears, until she sank into unseeing. Tuesday took her teeth. Plinking like piano key chips onto the kitchen tiles. And Wednesday took her tongue. Thursday sucked the guts of her, like slurping an oyster. All her courage gulped away. But Friday took no more than her smile.
Saturday skinned her alive. Raw nerves at the mercy of the world. Sunday gathered her pieces, ready to begin again.
–––––––––––––––– Lauren writes, she says, “because her heart would bust out through her ribs if she didn’t.”
Dusk on an autumn afternoon Leaves tumble from frail limbs Winter forms in a crimson womb
September ebbs and flows but winter ‘s hand cuts the day much too soon
As morning comes with jagged teeth Sucking from the sullen boughs
––––––––––––– “I write because of what I feel when I read another moving piece of work. I would love to have this impact on someone else. I feel there needs to be more profound moments through poetry.” – the writer
Don’t be sad. I remember that once you were golden. Now the gold has darkened to sepia but sometimes still the light shines through in flashes of the old gold when you remember. Don’t be sad. I still remember the gold and nothing lasts for ever not even memories.
––––––––––––– “I write to let the words escape.” – the writer
With their only daughter immersed in her favorite show, Jess insisted Tom and her bag up Amy’s old clothes for charity. Every item unearthed produced another forgotten memory, and the stark reality that nature wasn’t knocking twice.
When finished they loomed over the pile, until an explosion of Amy’s giggles jolted them. Reminding them how lucky they really were.
Tom put the boxed clothes into the attic. One day Amy’s belongings would find a new home and new memories would begin when he’d walk down those stairs, but for now he wasn’t ready to let go of the old ones.
––––––––––––––––– “I write because I love writing.” – the writer
God of love, God of truth, God of health, God of wisdom. (but fuck all of them. My prayers have gone unanswered.)
Instead, I find myself praying at the alter for God of good teeth, God of skincare, God of consistent, joyful movement. God to relax my patience, God to bring mental clarity, God of productivity. God of budget sense, God of good HR benefits, God to free me of cooking and cleaning.
Dear God: heal me and send God to believe in me when nobody else can.
–––––––––––– “I write because I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t.” – the writer
I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.
When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.
“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.
“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.
–––––––––––––––––––– When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.