carvingbackbone

one time i sat in the back of a gas station: blazing heat, dirty feet. cross-legged on the trunk of my car, i stared at a blank canvas of sketchbook paper. i imagined the works of the best: pastel foliage, vintage portraits, and watercolour cherry blossoms. i decided my work was no good; so i crumpled it into a ball and it exploded raindrops, wrapped a sheet around me, and folded itself into a paper boat. one time i looked into the mirror: dissatisfaction was my gut reaction. procuring my curves under apathetic haze, i fought to restrain myself from violence. i considered the figure of my own young self. slicing bones, fragile floa

one time i sat in the back of a gas station: blazing heat, dirty feet. cross-legged on the trunk of my car, i stared at a blank canvas of sketchbook paper. i imagined the works of the best: pastel foliage, vintage portraits, and watercolour cherry blossoms. i decided my work was no good; so i crumpled it into a ball and it exploded raindrops, wrapped a sheet around me, and folded itself into a paper boat. one time i looked into the mirror: dissatisfaction was my gut reaction. procuring my curves under apathetic haze, i fought to restrain myself from violence. i considered the figure of my own young self. slicing bones, fragile floa

I knew Janie since I knew my own name.  Amicably sweet; reserved in a delicate shyness.  She always saved my seat in church, sang in the choir, played the piano.  She was gentle, unassuming - the one we all looked up to. Recently, she'd grown even quieter, visibly and physically absent.  Just like every Sunday prior, I showed up at her doorstep and let myself in.  After calling her name, I found myself standing in an empty room, devoid of sunshine – in a cluttered, disheveled mess.  Where on earth was Janie?  Beneath a tilted lampshade sat a stack of loose papers.  Scribbled haphazardly in black sharpie, the top sheet read:          

dear littlest one,      i hope my words reach your tiny beating heart      because i'll never get to know your face,             to feel your fingers and toes,             or whisper in your ear.      but a heart is all you need to hear me.             so, i'm going to talk,             ..and i know that you'll listen.  

in my seat in the sanctuary with virgin white light cascading over my arms like a spotlight on my presence, i feel my skin about to burn a hole right through the pew-- my ring about to eat the very flesh and bone from my finger. as the congregation turns to watch acidic tears erode canyons in my cheeks they know that i'm the girl who tainted their Sunday when i touched foot in the doorway with my crimson sins, staining all before me that'd once been holy. in horror and shame i sit with my head in my hands, curled upon my knees, praying for redemption-- and know there's no girl who deserves it less. i promised with my life, and i

it's happening again; the past 11 nights in a row, always by 3:48 am. from the corner of a still, dead house; no light beyond the inescapable sliver of a fading crescent - its glow only peeks through a crack in the 12-foot ceiling above my bed. i've changed rooms since i returned to this house, praying to keep the presence of unfamiliarity; but nothing can detach me from this. no, this came back with me. like clockwork, my fingernails claw feverishly at the bedspread, face buries hard into the sheets. jaw wired shut, through the gaps in my bared teeth, my throat spasms to steal any air. my knees pull in tighter to my chest,

the truth i made you promise to tell me. the truth i wasn't ready to hear. ..never expected to hear. you claim it was a mistake: confused, a cluttered mind and stress pervading your thoughts; betrayal, fear and a guarded heart that froze you.. well i was freezing when i walked outside in twenty degrees at three in the morning a place to clear my head a street to turn teardrops into ice slopes on chafed cheeks a pavement my feet couldn't feel beneath me because no feeling existed in my body like the clawing at my arm that burned in four red lines carved from the same fingernails you fell in love with the night before for scratching

i slept in the woods last night with no coat and missing shoes; i made my bed in the snow, buried my face against the ice, and felt nothing. skin sinking to pale blues with every hour, (a faded variety against the colourless drapery called my complexion). my veins crackled and snapped, icicles forming inside. numb to the bone and core as i was the day you left. staring into a dead sky, past fusain tree limbs, the sound of something corporate seemed to take to the passing wind. its pounding piano and cutting words should have stung like the frostbite, but instead swept me unconscious. but i am Kristie not Konstantine, and you sp

and i said i'm sorry, but i have a love-hate relationship with bones. right now i love them. ...and i hate it.

conor has an old song, “i’ve been eating for you”. what if i added a ‘not’? i just stared into a bowl of soup longer than i’ve stared through my own contacts. never more abhorrent of the pieces i was stabbing vilely. ...as if i could murder something inanimate. spinning noodles that cannot even be spun, in a soup with no broth. oh wait, you thought this was a 'food thing'? well, you’re wrong. i grabbed pencil and paper; my crutch to devour the truth, eating more of that than i consume calories. i’ve been writing on bathroom walls for three nights in a row. my mind, a saltless dinner yet i

Midnight’s Monologue. I cannot seem to explicate it; Every attempt is weak, pathetic. My words are cheap and meaningless; Discrediting the inner phrenetic. Recurrent, incessant, And spoken in verses; Though rationale, intellect-- Form the pack that disperses. Feeling, emotion? Have been numbed from commotion. All distraction is greeted by unknown annoyance. As for honesty, health? Unknown to myself. I’m warped into instinctive avoidance. Dig into soil, Untouched by my hands; I long not to ignore The song in the sands. Stifled before, Unacknowledged in verb; I want to give voice To the thoughts that disturb. Bu