midnight whispers

a blood rose blooms
for the skeletal audience
their wheezing breath
still here
still here
skulls rest their cheeks a single socket viewing askew
dripping petals
flowing and pooling
the naked rose remains

a child walks beside me
whispering forgotten memories
her hand gently grabs the
seam of my trousers
smiling, carefree hair
absorbent, watchful eyes
I remember she was happy
she pours her secrets
and walks inside my knees
touching the places
that remember

my stride shortens and slows
to keep her
whispering from
those secret stories to
those hidden spaces
calling to memory
until the witching hour
has past

No commentary aside from: I got a post in in February!

notes to a stranger

Secrets were everywhere. She liked to hide in the open air. Private thoughts placed on placid strangers. They slept or turned away, and, oop, into their pocket her embarrassment went. Oh the release. Oh the freedom. To open the cage, to just get that obsession or judgment or sadness or rage or hopelessness outside of her body.

I don't believe I'll ever fall in love.
No matter how much I do, the fact that I'm not thin makes me feel like a failure.
I'm so disappointed that my parents are human.
Why do I need validation from someone else to feel complete?

Each one made the day a little bit stronger or brighter and wove her self into the city.

If you have not read PostSecret, you really should check it out. Getting things outside of my body is essential to keeping myself as sane as possible.