I sat, sticking to a stool in the middle of our cramped kitchen. The scent of boiled vegetables on the stove saturated the summer air while I fidgeted nervously, fearing the end result of a bi-annual haircut. I wanted nothing more than to join the shrieking, playful cries of my younger sisters outside. Continue reading A Slip of Scissors: Flash fiction
Hold me a little closer and drown out the lies. Their words are becoming truth, snakes under my skin.
I can no longer find the quiet spaces I used to retreat to. She has been taken from me. My secrets have been snatched, still untold, but not mine to tell anymore.
I feel like the dull ache in your legs after a Thursday night shift. Like the emptiness of being awake at 3 Am. All the time.
I can taste hostility in the back of my throat. Sour grapes, hard to bite into. I scrape my tongue with a tooth brush laden with paste as Mum always told me that was how you got rid of bad breath.
Her words rest on my tongue now.
The edging of lace on my grandmother’s table. My fingertips pull at the edges. Photographs, paintings, of those who do not want my eyes there are screaming at me. I am wasting away in my own way. On the inside I am dying, drying. A dried, feeble daisy.
There is no brightness in the hollow of now. The sound is screeching, moving to the beat of a thousand electro hits. It’s a dark tunnel. Most people think and fear loudly in 140 characters or less. I fear permanency.
If the cold rain could wash us away, down the sidewalk, to a drain. If we could run through the cobblestones and create irregular rectangle patterns through the cracks of less accepting times, well, maybe, that would be for the best. Quieter at least.
“I drink too much tea,” she said while making herself a mug. She lived in contradictions, she smiled in the face of irony and always added three heaped sugars.
“Stop, ” I said. ” You’ll become an instant diabetic.”
“I’m sure that’s not how it works.” She replied, the corner of her mouth inching upwards to create that dimple on her left cheek I loved. Continue reading Oyster
That old school friend
I like them
conversation halts in unconventional places
grasping at straws to fill the silent spaces
taking great pains to never insult
with sour opinion
that’s our flavor now
a fragile connection
of mutual infatuation
with the past
but I have to leave at four.
Tonight I am left with feelings of profound emptiness that would make a good poem if I had the willpower.
You are the main act tonight. I’m devoted to our situation. I’m undertaking a critical analysis of everything we’ve said to each other over the past five months. Easy enough. Meaningful conversation fails me when you’re around. I usually opt for meager nodding or lame pleasantries if I’m feeling brave.
I rarely do. Continue reading 11:00pm