the taste of medicine on his tongue is sour,
bitter and ugly.
it seeps into his bones and
'fixes' him.
but i never saw anything wrong in the first place,
and if anything were ever unnatural,
it would be the way his eyes
glow slightly,
hazed over and unfocused
under the influence of a thousand drugs
that tamp down his brain,
until he speaks with a deadened tone,
and finds cracks in the wall funny.
a spoon full of lies makes the medicine go down-
'of course, if you take this,
we'll let you out.'
'everything's ok,
just swallow, swallow,
swallow.'
i haven't seen an ocean-hearted boy in
four years, two months, and seventeen days.
they repla
my heart ran away. by smallsincerities, literature
Literature
my heart ran away.
home is where the heart is,
they whisper, nails dragging harshly across the pale skin
on the inside of my arms-
and i don't mind, because at least then
there are other things that hurt more,
much more, like the
criss-crossed tracks of syringes,
marking their travel voyages,
mapping out a galaxy on the parchment stretched across my bones.
you've been here, here and here.
up and down, up and down, up and down.
down, down, down.
you never managed to get back up, did you?
if home is where the heart is,
then mine is buried in the center of a white-washed forest,
swimming in a sea of blood-
but i'm still holding it into my chest with both ha
mythology has a thing for crushing people. by smallsincerities, literature
Literature
mythology has a thing for crushing people.
atlas must have been one hell of a snail,
carrying the weight of his home,
the world,
across his bowed shoulders-
he's dragging around a giant rock
with 7 billion constantly dying souls,
and 98 billion dead ones.
sisyphus has nothing on this.
they say that she has a perennial sickness running thickly through her veins,
and that her heartbeat,
meant to build her up and keep her alive,
are breaking her down,
molecule
by
molecule.
but she is a girl with blue blood in her veins,
deoxygenated but beautiful; she is always breathless,
breathing in and in and in, but never getting enough air
the doctors say it's because her voices are beating
fluid into her lungs, drowning her.
every night, she sits on a windowsill,
and watches the moon rise from the dark horizon,
cupped by pale clouds.
and every night, she finds something
incredible and unique and amazing about that pale,
silver glob
letters from myself. by smallsincerities, literature
Literature
letters from myself.
Dear you;
can you remember a girl who watched white butterflies,
and learned never to touch, because their wings were precious and fragile and out of reach,
and if she tried to touch them, they'd crumble beneath her fingers?
Dear you;
I can remember a child who had a friend with a name in the Holy Script,
and how that child became an athiest
about the same time that she realised she would never be able to
stand a million years in a white place with strangers,
how could she, when she couldn't even
stand still and not panic
for five minutes when her
mother went to buy milk because
they had run out of it,
again?
Dear you;
or maybe it was wh
turn 7.
have your best friend ask you
'do you know how to lie?'
find out what it means
and make it your life,
'cause if reality was good enough,
we wouldn't be cheating each other of the truth, anyway.
there are no gods tonight, only stars. by smallsincerities, literature
Literature
there are no gods tonight, only stars.
she is all
gap toothed grins and giggles,
twirling in her room
to the ticking of her clock.
there are stars on her ceiling,
and she counts them,
one, two, three.
and then she is four.
she takes up dancing, and
when she is seven, her teacher
tells her to eat a little bit less.
'it's better
for dancing, you know.'
the boy behind her calls her
a fat cow, and she ignores him.
she keeps dancing,
and the teacher stops smiling.
the boy's words ring in her ears,
day and night.
she quits dancing,
stops wearing skirts and dresses.
the years go by quickly,
and one night,
she is sixteen.
she looks up,
and there are stars,
plastered across the s
whispers in the middle of the night by smallsincerities, literature
Literature
whispers in the middle of the night
real life,
she says softly,
real life tastes like copper-
like blood
pooling in your mouth,
when you bite your tongue too hard;
it's bittersweet and leaves
a nasty aftertaste,
but it keeps you alive.
'baby,' she says shakily, 'baby, mummy might have to go to heaven soon.'
the little girl jumps excitedly, up and down, up and down. she spins, and her skirt swirls around her chubby little legs, yellow and vibrant. she's wearing a shirt, with 'you are my sunshine!' scrawled on it messily.
'that's awesome, mummy! will you take some photos for me? will you, will you? I wanna see angels, mummy. can you show me angels, pretty please?' she wraps her tiny, tanned hands around her mother's pale, bony ones. 'please, mummy?'
there's no answer, and after a bit, she stops hopping from one foot to the other in anticipation, and looks up. her mother ha
i am sand.
downtrodden but golden, and layered upon the ground.
i am nothing rare or valuable,
until i've been consumed by an inferno,
and cast into another's mould.
you are the wind,
zephyrs blanketing your torso,
and i am docile,
wrapped tightly around your twisting arms.
some nights, we dance alone.
the earth shakes beneath our feet,
and we are glorious.
but sand is silent, and
inevitably, you grow tired of me.
even i cannot cling to your limbs for long.
i fall to the ground, forgotten, again and again.
(some days, i try to remind you
that without me, you are
nothing,
nothing but a wailing child, sweeping
across desolate plains, alo