then he wavedhis fingers are harp strings,tall blades of grass, cowering with a breeze,a howl escaping them.the notes with the wind curve across dunes,mountainous joints curl with each pull,sand escapes through protective eyelashes,spreading its wings, gritty feathers,enveloping a woman,wearing time on her face like a veil,she imagines the rugged stringsvibrating against her satin fingersare the throats of songbirds,cut from their beaks.her tears and soft sobs write songs for the harphe left near a window from which shesaw him smile to her for the last time.
To Build A HopeThere is a place without joy. It is the end of everything. A hollowed tree filled with needles and lighters, nails and razor blades and cigarettes embedded in rotten lungs. A painting without edges, born of monsters and shards of might-have-beens. There is a place where a child used to play, a child that lasted for a billionth of a blink. There is a place and it is my mind.There was a time when I did not sleep. When my feet drummed on spiked gravel from dawn till dawn. When the numbers on a counter dictated everything I consumed. When a bite of lettuce meant an extra 50 crunches. Food was life and life was food and life was not living. Living meant hell trapped within my head in a place without joy. There was a time I was dying.There was a bed and a skeleton. 12 stabs in each arm to find a shrivelled blood vessel. Drip. Drip. Drip. "This will give you strength," they said. "This will make you fat," I heard. Drip. Drip. Drip. And the radio crackled and sang. Crackled and sang a