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
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.
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverlike two blades of grassheavy with morning dewbut you're the first frost of november.