GaYtAcOs

My body is a war zone. Blood oozes and appeal has drained out of it a long time ago. Men and women no longer see the flesh as a beautiful landscape with valleys and hills all seamlessly connected. Instead they see where their son fell. Where his body lay. Where I eventually swallowed him whole, only to spit him back out in the form of spoiled, tainted soil; soil that grows crooked, dying trees. My body is broken. It is where men fall. My body is where things go to die. It’s not whole. It’s a rotten corps under the ground with maggots crawling from the eyes. Hands reaching through the sternum, reaching for fresh air, but finding o

My body is a war zone. Blood oozes and appeal has drained out of it a long time ago. Men and women no longer see it as a beautiful landscape with valleys and hills all seamlessly connected. Instead they see where their son fell. Where his body lay. Where I eventually swallowed him whole, only to spit him back out in the form of spoiled, tainted soil; soil that grows crooked, dying trees. My body is broken. My body is where men fall. My body Is A War zone.

As the wind howls, and rain patters against my window, the iPod plays softly in the background and the warmth emitting from you and the covers surrounds me in a little ball and I know the cold and wet cannot touch me

By now, she’s been sitting in that dingy booth for an hour or two. The same booth they sat together as teenagers; laughing, kissing, flirting and drinking. Bitter red whine has already stained her teeth and the mascara and lipstick she’d put on while wondering which shade I’d like best on her has smeared and turned her face from beautiful to cheap. Like the cigarette she lights as the waiter comes an refills the glass so she can swirl it around before knocking it back wishing it was harder… but she gave that up last year. By now she’s been sitting in that ripped, ratty booth for hours waiting on me…on a

All she ever wanted was someone to hold her through the night,someone to share the warmth of her blankets. Warm arms that would keep her so close she could feel his heart beating steadily against her back. She wanted someone to wake up to, not just fall asleep with. There was the boy in the apartment above her who, sometimes, crawled in between her sheets and took comfort in hugging her to him. In the morning though, he was no where to be seen and she would normally be found on the floor scrubbing and bleaching it until the fumes made her too dizzy to think. There was the boy who never wanted to share her bed. He'd call though, always in th

More and more, I've been becoming a recluse and whenever you leave, it feels almost as painful as a breakup would between myself and chocolate. Except it's worse and an almost physical pain seems to radiate from my chest, through my bones and straight to my fast beating heart. I don't think that would happen if I gave up chocolate. Needless to say, the first day after you leave is my day to be a depressed person who listens to every sappy song I can think of. And on those days, I confirm that whoever said that long-distance isn't so bad should either have a brain transplant or be shot. On those first days of getting used to being on my own

Chapter 1 When I woke up, the sky was grey and rain had begun to patter softly against the window. The blanket I’d scrounged from the back of a random van on the side of the road was emitting little warmth. I lay there for a while listening. On days like this, my father would have said that the sun was taking its well-earned rest.  He would insist that it came down and hid in a cave somewhere. A sad smile came to my face. I hadn’t seen him since the morning before the raid. They’d come in the middle of the night. Breaking down the door and dragging my mother and I from bed. A scar now graced my hip where the gravel had tor

 When I was a small child, before the war, my father and I would go out to the far edge of town and star gaze. I remember my father would pull me close and point up at the dark night sky, telling stories of Hercules, the warrior, and Cassiopeia, the vain. I would listen as his breath puffed in the cool night air, and his soft, deep voice painted tales that he told as though they were a movie playing in front of my eyes. I remember how his strong arms would look as they pointed to one star after the other. Showing me how they connected to form the bodies of figures in the atmosphere. My mother had always told me that my father was a dreamer. B

 When she loves, she loves completely. Love, to her, is black and white. There are no shades of grey. The lines are clear and, to her, it’s a “do or don’t” deal. In her world, love was never something to be played with. You didn’t claim to be in it when you weren’t, and you didn’t say you weren’t when you were. Love had always been a stain that she’d wanted to have imprinted into her fabric. She didn’t want the slight green tint of grass or the, slightly tougher, coffee stain. No, she wanted sharpie…..I wanted sharpie. I didn’t want the one night stands that left the