Search Results

Trigger Warning: Violence, murder, manipulation, depressive themes, and drug use ENTRY XXI: I’ve returned from Nothing felt familiar, and none of it was hidden or on the cusp of my knowledge...aside from my getting Lauraine, to my defense, told her “Angel’s got almost a James Dean look.” When I woke up back at Ego’s, with Lauraine’s bag still in my inner coat pocket, I found myself saddened I reluctantly surrendered the stone to Ego, and wondered both what came of Lauraine and the journals

I’ve gotta hide this from her. She won’t like it if she reads it. If Ego found this, I think I’d be dead. ENTRY II: I made a fucking mistake. I almost forgot about this journal. It was a flash of physicality from then on. There was crackling audio from a busted speaker.

Trigger Warning: Violence, murder, body horror, manipulation, and sexual assault ENTRY XII: I’ve been found And the fact that my journals are still safe gives me at least a semblance of comfort. ENTRY XIX: I found some time away from Ego, and returned to New Jersey. I took out my journal to show him. “Ah, that’s a Morrisey song. His voice was a vision in white and gold: an angel with a jagged-edge dagger.

The wind became a gale and slammed into me from all sides, both holding me in place and tossing about He dropped close, raising a single finger that swung from side to side as my eyes followed it. He curled his fingers, and I felt words rise up from my lungs. His eyes were flickering again, shining out from behind the edges of his sunglasses. My hand slid under the smooth wood of my guitar, and my fingers found the leather latch of the accessory

Trevor didn’t turn his gaze from the sky. He just nodded. “Is the moon a star too?” Trevor turned to look back up at the stars, peace returning to face. “The moon reflects light from the sun; other than that, it’s just a big ball of dust. A star is bursting with energy; fire burning so bright, we can see it from lightyears away,” he said. It didn’t take long for me to fall back into old habits.

I. tissue an ivory start, a deep golden lock of hair and a magnifying glass. items only seen in a mirror that bends at will— an opening. born out of necessity, a means to an end. my mother’s tissue is expanding to fit us all. II. tether i am unsure if there is a rope or a feeling tethering us together, hand to hand i am unsure if there is a rope or a feeling tethering us together, palm to palm i am unsure if there is a rope or a feeling tethering us together, through the fingerprints we share III. trial and toothache a sack of blood [and] oranges i carry with me over and over, a repeated practice until my knuckles are weary and i can no longer support their purple insides and pith.

Clockwise from top left: 1. we lived alongside pigeons --let them slip from our fin-- gers 3. An image of a white pigeon with black spots with a pink, orange, and blue filter over it. An image of a black pigeon with small white spots with a pink and blue filter over it. The pigeon is facing away from the camera, standing on a patch of grass.

Fragments, letters, journals — narratives split and divided. An unfinished quilt set over the back of a couch. We take note of fragments. The small moments. I write to myself from past to present and present to past, all with the future thrown in for good measure Our fragments, the little moments from our lives, wash up on a shore. Sooner or later, a child will pluck a handful of these fragments from the sand.

From the front yard, the house seems grand. But from your fixed position in the backyard, you can see all ugly cracks that daylight hides. You wish she would get the hell away from you.

this swollen september grazing against hurriedness and possession. walking past half-gnawed apples made my stomach bright with nostalgia. leaves overturned by wind mean rain is coming. the midwest doesn’t change its capricious humor. though soon, it will break its seal and plunge us straight into winter.

they take the world melts theres so many too too too too too too too i will be the one who cuts heads from

hands with my eyes is all. loving is familiar with truth and wanting is friends with violence. your back solid feet. this twisted spine. this brittle hair and crooked nose and cruel smile. do not let the anger an act of reverence. the one thing that is not a war. let me show you i am born of flesh not beaten from