amphibian.The first thing I noticed was that all the animals were gone. Montreal’s squares were devoid of pigeons, the apartment windows void of cats’ faces. The fossilised, primeval crevices of my brain began to stir with awakening, a strange fear slipping beneath every step I took. The sidewalks seemed to breathe, skin moistened and alive under a late spring shower as I made my way to the Botanical Gardens that morning.amphibian. by comatose-comet
The rain had stopped, but a light drizzle continued to fall, delayed, from the imposing skyscrapers and outstretched balconies far above me. I had forgotten my umbrella. It had been a rush this morning – she had texted me when I was still half-asleep and bedsore, asking to meet a few hours early. Of course, I had read that message only ten minutes before her newly specified time and one of my socks was already slipping off in my shoe, the skin beginning to rub as I paced the streets towards her. I imagined her, stood under a pink lace umbrella, white cotton dr
the slow waltz of a morning rush, but not.Died on a Friday morning before the commutersthe slow waltz of a morning rush, but not. by comatose-comet
rose, in the unpeopled hours of fox-play and
crow-calling, watching the curtains begin to glow
pregnant with morning light and I glowing too
with something heavier still. It pulled me,
anchor through cotton sheets, I sank into an atom
and burst, filling the room with a sigh and then
nothing, as the sparrows began to stir and the
alarm clocks chorused, the men and women and
the city too rubbing sleep from their eyes and
stretching up to ceiling highs, hundreds of feet
stepping out of hundreds of doors, the metro gates
welcoming the first early passengers, the parks
their first day-gazers, the newspaper stands their
first look at yesterday’s news. The sun slipping its
fingers mother-like through the unbrushed curls of
boys and girls, the last wave of arrivals washing up
on the pavements below my window as the elderly
men straighten their waistcoats, as the women
hold their arms as
an elegy in birdsong.Attic apartment, birds nesting between roof-tiles, I hear them scratch and I hear them cry. The rustle of their mother’s wings, the quiet sounds of sacrifice and hunger, these pink-fleshed chicks inherit their parent’s strength and swallow it down with clacking beaks, I hear the slow devour of motherhood, the gentle expansion of growing wings sprouting feathers.an elegy in birdsong. by comatose-comet
My bed-sheets awash with haze, outside the city shivers in the winter air and gathers itself into suits, newspapers, morning commutes, polite conversation and I watch the sun catch my ceiling with unblinking stares, prying its way across the room, frothing up tidal at the edges of my bed and always stopping short. Shadows turn to grey and I listen to the birds feed, the birds cry, the birds quivering with hunger that runs deeper than stomachs. Somewhere, far from the dull ache of my head, the weight of my ribs, my stomach sinks with quicksand slowness, swallowing up every ounce of stale atmosphere, black hole rippli
star-painting, scar-gazing.She used to tie my wrists up with Orion’s belt, her hands tracing constellations across my skin and naming them after Greek gods whose broken jaws spill sadder stories still. We made love with open windows and moonlight, her face a collection of distance and void swimming with brighter jewels. I let her prick the stars across my arms, her brows knotted and her lips drawn, her needle a silent composer stitching my sinews up with mythology and divine sins. It took her two weeks to trace the August sky across my arms and chest; I lay passive with flickering eyes and watched her work, wincing occasionally as she tattooed the pole star above my heart, stretching the wound to sit prominent and black in my inverse skyscape. She would tell me the legends as she worked, squinting up out of the open window, lips murmuring distractedly about Hercules and Zeus and Poseidon, weaving their stories into my skin as the Fates threaded destiny into Athena’s brow and Demeter’s bow and Hstar-painting, scar-gazing. by comatose-comet
AKA my book shelf
1. 'The Sound and the Fury' - William Faulkner
2. 'Mrs Dalloway' - Virginia Woolf
3. 'Thirteen Reasons Why' - Jay Asher
4. 'Dangerous Liaisons' - Pierre Choderlos de Laclos
5. 'The Importance of Being Earnest' [Play] - Oscar Wilde
6. 'As I Lay Dying' - William Faulkner
7. 'Pride and Prejudice' - Jane Austen
8. 'The Well of Loneliness' - Raclyffe Hall
9. 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' - Stephen Chbosky
10. 'The Book Thief' - Markus Zusak
11. 'The Secret History' - Donna Tartt
12. 'The Catcher in the Rye' - J.D Salinger
13. 'De Profundis' - Oscar Wilde
14. 'The Waves' - Virginia Woolf
15. 'twenty love poems an a song of despair' [Poetry] - Pablo Neruda
16. 'Mandala' - Kim Song-dong
17. 'The Iliad' - Homer
18. 'The Outsiders' - S E Hinton
19. 'Walk in the Woods' - Bill Bryson
20. 'To Kill a Mockingbird' - Harper Lee
21. 'Maurice' - E.M. Forster
22. 'The Road' - Cormac McCarthy
23. 'Salome' [Play] - Oscar Wilde
Hi, I'm Kelsey
Even though I'm supposed to be doing things with my life I keep ending up procrastinating here and pretending to be able to write.
Lived for a year in China, the time difference was mental and even though I'm back in the UK I swear pieces of me are living seven hours in the future, dancing on the other side of the world. Also lived in Paris for four months and I miss the eclairs immensely
23 | F | Sagittarius | Hopeless skeptic | Sold my soul to Hussie | Johzenji | Obsessed with tartan | 浪迹天涯 |
[...] but existence is believing / we know for whom we mourn and who is grieving.
The Month of OctoberHugh Everett's ashes are in the dumpster behind the restaurant I work at. I know because they start moving on Monday. By Tuesday, there is a writhing charred leg and parts of his open torso. Wednesday, he speaks to me for the first time.
"What year is it?"
"I think you might implode if you knew."
"Makes sense. Do you smoke, doll?"
I light a cigarette for him, having pulled it with quivering fingers from my apron, and put it in his mouth. He leans up against a garbage bag leaking shake mix and puffs, exhaling clouds.
"This is weak. Lady cigarettes."
He rips off the filter with his teeth. He only has three fingers on his left hand and his right arm is a stump. At least his eyes have grown in.
"Do you know why I left academic physics?"
"To make models for the Pentagon?"
He takes a long drag.
"A model, you see, is a representation of an ideal, a situation that can only occur exactly that way within a given set of circumstances. In reality, we can only create
atlasBorn into the eye of a dwindling hurricane, Atlas grew to be a boy of medium height and insufficient interest to his mother and, in general, the world.
Prairie, Atlas' mother, disappeared into the muted sunshine on the afternoon of his tenth birthday. As you would expect in this sort of tale, she had left no clear indication of her whereabouts, and so Atlas was left standing in the middle of the kitchen alone.
Curiously nonchalant, Atlas sat himself at the table and proceeded to eat two thirds of his birthday cake with a tarnished fork. It was not until his stomach was sick with the weight of the rich, brown cake that Atlas considered the possibility of contacting the police.
Precisely twenty two minutes later, the police arrived with the sirens on their battered patrol car wailing; Atlas did not like the noise, so he hid. So it was that Arthur, the portly police officer, found Atlas huddled behind the floral armchair, his head sandwiched between a pair of cushions.
After the careful e
Houses by the SeaI remember when you kissed my hand
Like softly pouring rain
There's not a single fracture in my soul
That dared to stay the same
I still feel your fingers laced in mine
Trying not to change the past
And this everything you left with me
Is endless. It is vast.
My head is filled with could-have-beens
And houses by the sea
While Gods of grey remind me
That we do not love for free
I will never touch your hand again
We are finite, laced with pain
But on nights when whispers haunt me
I'll pretend you're in the rain
I'll pretend you paint the sunsets
And the shapes inside the clouds
I'll pretend that I'd have no regrets
If I'd dared to love out loud
against a brittle sky
crusted with mist and rime
shredded braids of vapor
and let me fall
as angels do
to walk through gloamingthis is the treasure we seek:
wings out of tune with the world
& names to be swallowed like berries,
dark forest stains on the fingers.
oh to have forest stains on these fingers
this is the treasure we hold:
the forest has always been here.
and here, i was a weary wanderer
and my fire held no magic, we were no wild things, we watched
as the silence picked up our broken pieces to examine
our weakness, as we could not break it in return,
wisdom in vain.
i run back and take
all that is left and i believe in the magic
that always warmed my skin
now, i keep a jar of ashes.
and here, let me place it
gently next to your pillow, a touch and a whisper,
a gift for good dreams. i still remember
the should have been beauty and the beauty that was.
and now, sometimes,
i am a robin.
(as wild as the city lets anything be,
not fearing fences, not finding the open sky
but baptised by the moon between pines.)
i think icarus had ptsd//you would too if you’d spent your life dreaming of flight and then you took a fall too hard and too long and felt the candlewax melting down your body and the feathers peeling off your wings and the scorch marks and bruises on your skin and if your last few minutes were a blur, if you’d spent a life leading up to this moment and you took a step ahead and crossed the line and then had to fall like bruised knees and five year olds scaling these walls
((forever out of reach. out of mind.))
to feel the wind curled around you, to taste escape, to feel release on your skin and to see the world as a whole, not filtered through jailcell bars
((you’d always wanted out))
as a child you watch your father beaten bruised bleeding, protecting you at the cost of himself. he weaves you wings and tells you not to fly too close to the sun, boy, the sun will scorch you
you would, if all you’d heard was violence and whispers and looks, everyone wanted to break you, a childhood of s
ui love u
be the same if yo_
weren't in my world
or in my life
i'm feeling like
spilling all my words
o_t and it'll burn in yo_r
lap and _nder yo_r shirt
beca_se it's too goddamn
i can't hide my feelings;
i can't imagine missing
one letter and having only
twenty five to try to fill in
none of them are the same
as yo_, i don't give a f_ck what
i f_cking love yo_
whether they like it
OolongSomehow, we survived
by huddling in our fortress
until the ceasefire
of hardships dealt
and harsh words spoken
It's coming on autumn now,
blown in on the wind,
soothes our knotted throats
like the first taste of oolong.
We are mending
with the seasons,
clinging to each other
with love devoid of fear
to become our boldest selves.
06142016the coincidence of almond milk
expiring on your fathers birthday,
of leaving your food too long
on the stove, of a gnat
falling into your soup.
of closing your door
on a hot night knowing
the air doesn’t circulate
if you do, of taking a shower
with your phone resting
on the bathroom window
sill, of messaging a friend
who’s not your friend,
of leaving your clothes
in the wash, of telling
a friend that is not your
friend that you love them
when you don’t. of phone calls
so full of promise you could
bloom. of nights so silent
you could slip away
of hearing i love you’s
while thinking of
gnats. of calling
your mother by her first
name, refusing to call
your father by anything but.
your body isn't a means to attain forgivenessit doesn’t have to be perfect;
it doesn’t have to be neat,
tied up, origami
in a soft little bow my body
is not a gift
my body is a home
that I don’t mind sharing,
it is a well worn bed
it squeaks, rusted springs
but it welcomes you home, I
welcome you home.
I don’t know how many flaws I have
but science tells me that if I stretched them
end to end,
they could wrap three times around
the immensity of the apology you say
with your flesh.
your skin doesn’t need to say sorry
for covering the stardust inside,
you don’t have to apologise
for taking up space
when you and space are made of the same things–
you are beautiful.
you don’t have to be perfect.
you don’t have to be neat
with a soft little bow.
you have the expanse of the universe
you are a gift of your own,
not for giving
but fully forgiven.
I am always, always
here to welcome you home.
an hour after losingwhen i walk into the bathroom, with dawn
breaking her fingers to squeeze her hands through the windows
at the end of the hall, i am surprised to see a girl at the corner sink.
i expected to be alone to wipe at my face, to press gentle fingers
against the tender skin of my neck, to pull up my shirt
and check the visibility of my ribs
and the flutter of my heart, to stare at my eyes in the shitty mirror
in the shitty lighting and calculate all the little changes that a boy’s hands
can wreak on a body in under an hour. but she
is there at the corner sink, scrubbing at her red and irritated cheeks
like she is lady macbeth trying to erase the ghost of a touch
that never left a physical mark. i have makeup and sweat sticking
to my skin and knots in my hair desperate fingers left behind
and i’m not sure my shirt is my shirt and i just want
to be alone to examine the damages and count the casualties
of a war whose victor i could not point to,
and really, the only reason i walked in