hinamori13

darling girl, will you pack your gloves, stuff your pockets? now to no longer be a fledgling... the prickling running oh a run, like time, let's run running through your veins, along a path of years upon your thighs, that's your call. no handkerchief, no more pillows crowned with your ghosts. you run.

I was three years old when we moved there, when the wall in my room that moved and the drunken woman next door and the grey grey hight of the flats could not contain my first chubby steps to identity. My parents packed us up for the jumble sale of moving, pricing up our lives and our possessions with tape and cardboard and memories. The grass on the show house became our grass, became our house, while I slept in a new room under old sheets and dreamed of darkness. I was five and nobody else was five and nobody else was a girl and I was so alone. The cats that roamed were my friends, the weeping willow and the squeak in the wheels of my scoot

I. Blackbirds rest on the power lines, their silhouettes form the notation to a dawn song set on the sheet music of telephone poles contrasted by the sun. Curled leaves are land mines littered on the lawn where imprints of twigs and a nurturing robin's tracks collect. Branchlets and leaflets stem from porch step railings and mailboxes; the numbers read odd on the east, even on the west side of the asphalt: seven-seven-thirty-six. The engraved letters on the siding reads, "Davis." This house is home to family so let the sparrows in. The house, with its branching hallways and overhanging décor and furniture rooted to the floor is

Jordan knew something was wrong the moment he turned the key. "Lily?" he called out as he slipped into the dark house. It was only around 6pm, but it was the middle of January, so the sun must have been down for at least an hour. She would have turned on the lights by now. Maybe she's out, Jordan tried to convince himself to no avail. Lily had scarcely left the house in weeks. He was still barely a step away from the door. Going any further meant making this real. Jordan decided he'd have to make it real sooner or later and kicked off his shoes, but didn't bother to strip himself of his winter coat. The chill in the air was far too heavy

Just let you go.  Cornucopia, meadowlark.   Hummingbird, just let me die. _ I'd like to explain, to eradicate, abolish and we are excess, my dear Greyson; the inception of waste. _ He stutters through straight tequila and ego.   Blurred butterscotch eyes, scalding alcohol, delicious pride. _ And to ignore the capacity, sheer magnetism; the pull of incapacitated integrity. _ I love(d) you.

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I have stones in my hair instead of flowers, And a rosebush of thorns is more poignant to me.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 My words aren't pretty or wise, And I can't sing about anything but a broken heart. 

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I am the sort of damaged you see in an old recorder, And the kind of old in an instrument that breaks into a billion pieces at a touch.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 Neither neat, nor tidy, nor correct in my behavior, And yes, I did in fact tell you to fuck yourself.

 I'm not the marrying kind.R

because honestly, i don't know you and this was just a big mistake, she says very softly. the morning sun peeks in through the curtain as she pulls on yesterday's shirt and i catch my last glimpse of her thin shoulder blades, protruding like wings about to burst out of their seams. she won't look at me. the floor creaks with her weight as she gathers her things. i've already forgotten her eyes, wide with wonder, and her lips, her slender jawbone. i wish she would turn around. i try to speak, but words don't come. her bare feet pad across the room and she pauses in the doorway, head turned to the side, as if listening, perhaps to my h

She hadn't moved from her window in over a day. Watching for the impossible was something that she was content to do. It injected her with the faint hope that she might witness some of those precious memories once again. Maybe his decrepit old Clio, chugging along and spluttering to a grumbling stop right outside her house, or maybe the bicycle that he sometimes opted for instead, signalling his arrival with the ringing of a bell. It economised on both petrol and his nerves, he had always told her with a smile. His smiles were gems. She had always watched in rapt fascination when his lips pulled back and curled upwards, his left cheek dimpl