On browsing the f-list
I found this:
The Dark Garden
They bloomed, apples on my throat. Hot red, the bruisy throb of purple. A
path to follow, like crumbs thrown down, but not like crumbs. Like a trail of
blood leading to a gruesome scene, but not gruesome. As a teenager I
couldn't kiss a boy without blooming. He'd pluck flowers from my throat with
his mouth. I don't know where I went.
I liked the dark garden. We liked it. Blossoms dipped with their own sodden
weight above us. It was like sleeping, but not like sleeping. It was like being
fully awake inside a dream. Lips and teeth were tools. The familiar smell of
spit. In the distance, a circle of burning, approaching. But not approaching.
I miss the narcotic air, the insular boughs. My neck is so white. Years
have softened the way we touch, have placed hands on our throats as if to say
easy, easy.
~Traci Burns
In other stuff. Kiki, if you see this before I call you, then you should give me a call.
The Dark Garden
They bloomed, apples on my throat. Hot red, the bruisy throb of purple. A
path to follow, like crumbs thrown down, but not like crumbs. Like a trail of
blood leading to a gruesome scene, but not gruesome. As a teenager I
couldn't kiss a boy without blooming. He'd pluck flowers from my throat with
his mouth. I don't know where I went.
I liked the dark garden. We liked it. Blossoms dipped with their own sodden
weight above us. It was like sleeping, but not like sleeping. It was like being
fully awake inside a dream. Lips and teeth were tools. The familiar smell of
spit. In the distance, a circle of burning, approaching. But not approaching.
I miss the narcotic air, the insular boughs. My neck is so white. Years
have softened the way we touch, have placed hands on our throats as if to say
easy, easy.
~Traci Burns
In other stuff. Kiki, if you see this before I call you, then you should give me a call.