there’s a lovely gash right at the top of my hand. puffy lips the color of berries curve like a smile, and inside are several rows of pointy scabbed teeth. i feel so convinced at times that i’ll lift it to my ear, hoping it might breathe pretty secrets to me, though it never does.
there is a story in your hands, the way they move and feel. there are words written in the flesh of your palms and in your hilly white knuckles: ten skinny dancers weave through a tumbling amber river and spill out onto a coastal stretch of collarbone. they strum a happy rhythm, slip past sloping breasts and find rest in the angle of your waist, and suddenly i too wish to speak the language of your fingertips.
it makes me really happy when people remember me, i dont know
apologies spill from my lips like bile, thin and insincere and unbroken, as you raise your heavy hands. i’m sorry, again, but i am quivering like a startled insect.
it is the the first, prettiest pearl of blood that seeps from split skin; indescribable, the color of wine and berries, and just as sweet.
when you go through a very serious experience with someone, i find it very hard to look at them the next time you meet, regardless of whether or not the experience was good or bad.
lovely, shameful flower: too many lips have plucked at your petals and sucked from them the sweet silky nectar of your core.
she is a fairy, dull-eyed and bright-lipped. her laughter is honey-sweet, a musical hum that persists as you fasten wild-flowers into the sleek yellow ringlets of her hair. but in your most private moments, where your secret self seeps like a disease from your nail-beds, you forsake her music and light and reach instead for the wings of a sleepy grey moth. The moth, neither beautiful nor graceful, will drink the sorrow in your fingertips with her curling grey antennae and wipe your tears into her furry grey wings. as you return to your fairy, the moth will allow herself the smallest, saddest smile. the smile is meant for you, because she knows you will never see it.
i am never going to be anything more than a sparrow, perched nimbly at the pads of your fingertips; though i would have liked to be the dove you hold fast to your breast.
coastal queen, pelagic princess, with pale lamps for eyes and billowing robes woven from glittering fish scales and silver thread. her breasts are coral slopes, her fingers are fluttering petals of sea-anemone, her knees are twin seashells, rosy and knocking. a school of fish dart through her streaming hair like so many silver bullets, as the current murmurs restlessly over her wild, upturned face.
