Writing exercise one
I am watching the water flow over my eyes and I am not afraid. I let the small waves lap over my eyelids and I close them and then I open them again and I am submerged. I do not feel cold. I do not feel pain. I can see the broken glass from the night before shattered next to me, and I want to sigh because it means you’re still there. Watching. Biding your time.
Faintly, in the distance, I can hear the fire alarm in the kitchen going off. There is smoke in the air but I cannot bring myself to care about it. The water is red and I cannot feel pain. I cannot feel pain.
I have written more of ice than of
Fire since you left again and
It must be because you took
All passion and left only
Desire to drown in its wake.
the chaos I carry is licking up and down my back and sticking it’s tongue down my throat and I am sitting in a graveyard wishing I was grave dirt
"romance isn’t this. it’s not that sort of love. this is best friends, star crossed and swamp bogged. this is flesh melting off bone. this is death gardens, this is a body farm of emotions rising up to stroke my cheek."
i live in every abandoned farmhouse
in back alleys and meadows i
can catch a fever catch a cold catch
a bumblebee between my teeth and
drink whiskey with spiders swimming
in my teacup i am dizzy i am
in the damp and abandoned i
am a playroom full of sunshine full
of rot i
crouch in peeling corridors i
slump on musty chairs
i giggle ‘round the corners and
creak along the stairs