AQuillOfMyOwn

Statistic: The average human sheds enough tears during his/her lifetime to fill 20 buckets. Fact: I’m not average. I wish I were. I must have shed oceans of shame by now. Its never enough to fill my heart.

dizzying                       whirling          carousel your face           your lips     those hands              a smile                   a tear      a moan             &#

I'm sitting on a filthy crumb-filled carpet full of ground-in raisins and toast crumbs wearing a yellow hard-hat several sizes too small and I wouldn't be anywhere else. I've been awake all night; cuddling and singing stumbling from one room to another, desperate to fix it all and failing in my every effort but I wouldn't have been anywhere else. We play monotonously. Car goes up, car goes down and a small commanding voice directs the action and I am tired, so tired I don't understand the game but I wouldn't be anywhere else. I receive a kiss, more snot than lips, without thinking I wipe his nose and mouth with my hands, deposit

Take the softest silk, I said,  and tear it into shreds. Take the smoothest porcelain  and smash it to the ground. That's my heart -                        Don't start, he said, pressing a finger against my lips and giving me that same sweet smile that drew me in.                        Don't start - he pulled his fingertip across my mouth then kissed me with the same delicate gentleness which first stunned me. His bind around my soul tightened with his words -                                                                     Don't start, my love,  don't complain. Be still, my beautiful angel, don't cry.  My lashes met my

that sweet nothing (everything) something that you whispered in my apprehensive ear which made the hairs on my neck stand straight one by one like tiny soldiers you called into rank. that sweet something (nothing) everything trickled past my eardrum, where the soldiers beat a rhythm with my heartbeat, oozed stickily into my mouth and the sickly, saccharine taste was cloying on my tongue, involuntarily my mouth rebelled, and spat those syrupy words away, rejecting every last drop.

I. Jenny Dwayne Her words were tangled in filaments. She cupped her hand in front of her mouth when speaking, cradled the sounds like children, keeping them close in case she had to try to pull them back. Maybe she was ashamed when they were stocky and short, and stumbled, not quite ringing out with confidence. In her apartment, instead of slippers, she strapped on high-heels, dreaming of elegance. But though she clicked on the pastel floor-tiles, chipping the gray roses in the kitchen, and left finger smears on the metal refrigerator door as she grabbed it for balance, she could not glide. And so the red-strapped heels did not step over th