Unseen-reality

        eight years ago i was different, i had never been loved, i had never witnessed my grey tabby moan and contract as her kittens breathed their first ounce of oxygen, and i thought that art was simply something you colored in a 20-cent coloring book. my father would've said that i was exclusively extroverted, and even a touch of arrogance would appear on the most unlikely of days. it intensified in myself to paint. i had seen sally haley's paintings when my best friend's neighbor had been in his teenage art phase, (he had side bangs and blonde streaks that embellished his hair) and i loved the curve of her strokes, i could taste the ind

the crystal sand was methamphetamine in my granduous pores, and luring yet nonchalant daydreams of you dissipated like an alacritous kaleidoscope in my eyelids, soft yet severe.

she was laying primitively, head in her drenched palms, face blotched crimson and speckled with tuesday's tears. her crisp jeans were tainted from my pungent fingerprints, i shouldn't have bathed in the tattered midnight light with her. ( cleanse me. ) i kneeled in front of her, (i am lower than her in this moment- submissive.) forgive me she outstretched her fingers like an agrestic duck's webbed foot, and clutched my hair. my fingers scavenged for her cheekbones and she told me she loved me. you are forgiven, as my child, as your mother. blood flickered from the tips of her ginger hair, and she uttered slick and mischievous syll

lurking     recollections  of    tossled  moonbeams were the patterns that radiated  from   her  crescent skin. she arched  her back, (like a yawning cat on a milky    sunday morning) and felt  the rhythmic    croon of  her   spine as it        sighed         (exhausted).  

my  ribbed throat  had  dissolved, you were its  epitome. your  rustling  tongue was  amber  whiskey, curving  and   burning    its electricity into  my  skin. you  weaved wires, red and  blue,  yellow and       green, and wrapped  yourself around  me.

her eyes were pale comet explosions, motionless exhibits of  beauty. but   there were  craters in her pupils,  unfaltering, and             tumbling. she became detached,     hysterical. her skin  decomposing,    shattering. but when i told her i loved    her, when i reached  for her, her    eyelashes   unfurled and her  cheeks held newly birthed   fawn.

i    spluttered her name,       and it frothed     from my   whimpering lips,   foaming white     and    frosty. i    couldn't  remind  her that  the  speckled bruises like          freckles under my    redundant spine    were      healing and fading, like the     meek   summer       rain but    the    trace of   her    curved   fingernails underneath my silent lips would      always     remain.   and   the splattered    blood on  the  wrinkled    couch was       merely   a     stain.

 he had these charcoal eyes that left a trail of ash behind them, and i wanted to re-ignite them to watch them transform into light fire and burn into my pale flesh. his accent was loose and boyish and from new zealand, and he reminded me of the carefree dancing palm trees i used to drive by in my silver toyota. i was fifteen when he asked me if he could speak to me, and i spoke as a hushed whisper,  only if your intentions are well.  and he was older and had this long consistent stream of black hair down to his shoulders, and i thought about how sensual hair was, how it was limp and chaotic and got caught in between our lips when we flas

i. summer ghosts are swerving and shrieking in their muddy nightgowns, epileptic and afraid of your daughter's nightlight. ii. atmospheric propaganda is inhaled into premature lungs; newborn tendrils of white smoke. iii. the foaming ocean is ferocious, spitting and sloshing, its whole body rotating and bending. it rises on its heavy legs, consuming the nineteen-year-olds in their sunset bikinis, always devouring but never content.