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Tag: story

The wolf cries boy cries wolf

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The wolf cries boy and no one comes running. Not the first time, not any time after that. Every full moon an empty howl fills a sky darker than the bottom of his feet.

He’s been running for too long – dirty and distant – running wild rings around the haunting.

Night descends in a furious wash of colour. Not a timid shower but a flood of blood and violence. His solace hides in a sympathetic sky and his pleads become the wolf.

The boy cries wolf and everyone comes running. To point fingers and to watch the fight.

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars

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She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?

Come with me and we will borrow time

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I fell asleep looking at a photograph of your face – your eyes like a slideshow of our lives. Together, we are not awkward like chalk against steel – the squeal of metal.

Rather, our bodies are turn tables scratching at the grooves in each other’s skin – a symphony played by an orchestra of pleasure. The strings pulling our hips; percussion making us swing.

Our tongues as two crossed fingers – folded around each other like tubes of brass bearing the weight against our lips. This beauty-full bassline belts a love that no one will understand.

There is air pushed from our lungs slowing down the clock; seconds match the rhythm of our breathing. Your breath: a fingerprint on the atmosphere conducting ructions when our bodies shake in perfect time sparked by what happens if I did this longer-harder-faster.

And there’s a fine line when it comes…

to borrowing time, so we lock thighs and grind. You sigh as my hand that knows the curvature of your spine guides the glorious climb till we are two tightrope walkers taunting the fragility of notes.

We are high up, but deep inside. Think and jump. Thrilled and terrified.

If you look for us, don’t look up for you will find us below, buried between each other like sheets. This is where my dreams sleep. And I will wake to you like waves stumble effortlessly upon the shore. We will sway day after day – an endless ocean waiting to sink its teeth into the Sahara.

The secrets my skin will never tell you

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I am most alive in that wild moment before death. Eyes clocking every corner for possible escape. Heart racing but my legs not moving. Skin tingling.

I have more than just my name beneath this skin. More than painted skies; more than grey lines and worn out lies.

My veins are just seams unstitched too many times I’m afraid. I am frayed. Made up of needles and string and patches and tears and nobody wants a thing that isn’t whole. I am a blanket of holes.

I plant thorns and grow roses from my wrists. Glorious gushing gardens of delicate petalled tragedies. I have not yet been choked by weeds.

Follow these stretch marks while I tell you how I have grown into myself. How I have expanded to fill spaces others created. You would do well to fill your own space without shame.

Don’t think that this ink was injected into my pores. It has poured from my soul and soaked the silk that keeps all this story in. I am not trying to paint over my sins. I am smearing the start of chapters I’m scared to begin.

God calls this body temple. I call this a temple for the gods. Beautiful, only because the windows are stained glass and my lips are broken cross mounted on the face brick wall. Unmoving.

In the moment before death, I am unmoving whether I stay or go.