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I exhale in the dark, smoke coming out like anomalies in search of sadness to cling on to. My lips reek of desperation, my fingers twitch for solicitation and my body pieces the wreckage I can't fix. I envision myself like a rose with the thorns cut off; unguarded, unruly, undignified.
Hush, I tell my brain, clouded ironically by the same wisps of melancholy I released mere seconds ago because that was all it could find. Now who will I confide in, on this never-ending tunnel of woe that can eventually turn the nightmares into bearable terrors? Who will I see that can scare the tendrils away with either a simple flick of the wrist, or the satisfyingly straightforward stomp that extinguishes all forms of hatred?
YOU ARE READING
Words That Fill Longer Days.
Poetry'"We should try to make a collage, OK?" Fiona Apple suggests as she sits on the floor of a New York hotel room. Last night's effort, painted and pasted onto the newspaper sports section, says, IN THE CASE OF A SHORTER GIRL STUDYING THE WORDS THAT FI...
