Tag:Literature with a capital L

I am not a withered flower I am not a cool, blue background I am not a head of smoke I am not a cartoon rain cloud I am not a beflowered gilded cage – beauty? I spit on it. I am the tsunami that crushes you and the earthquake that squeezes you and the …
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Inorganic. Not grown – made. Placed – and out of place. Here – but not of here. I am a hundred separate splinters scattered across a single flat plane, each in the same different location. I am a fundamental stasis. Touch me: you cannot be stopped. Caress the barnacles, fondle the lichens: I have been …
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I am stitching. My shoulder hurts. I’ve used it too much. Nevertheless, I continue to stitch. I will persist until I am destroyed. If I were brave enough to stitch through my skin I would bandage myself in thread tight like a Pharaoh’s wrappings. (Perhaps I am like them – a tragic, inevitable consequence of …
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Peel off my skin – unmarked, whole, pale. A near perfect hide, ready for the tanner’s dye. Scrape off the fat and boil it down, burn it hot to light your way. Or if seeing with me disgusts you utterly – whisk it with lye, and wash me down the sink. Pluck out my nails, …
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