"It's so dark in here."

"I know."

"I miss the sun."

"I know."

"Do you remember the sun anymore? What it felt like?"

"...Not really. Do you?"

"I remember it blinked sometimes."

"No it didn't...

It's summer now, outside."

"Summer?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I've been counting. Scratching lines into the floor while you were asleep."

"I didn't hear you."

"You were asleep."

"Where are the lines?"

"Under my shackle, so they don't see. I count them, you know, over and over. That's how I know it's summer."

"Can I count them too?"

"No."

"...Oh."

"I wish I'd never counted them."

"...How long is a day?"

"What?"

"How do you know when to make the lines?"

"...

I forgot there were days."

"Oh...

You didn't forget summer."

"No."

"It was warm."

"Yes."

"Maybe it's summer now. Maybe it's warm out there...

Were we warm? When we were outside?"

"Yes."

"I would like to forget."

"Summer?"

"I don't know...

No...

I want to forget how to talk."

"..."

"It hurts."

"I know."

#microfiction #weeklysnippets #summer

I prowl the world with a hand on my blade

I answer to few, I know nothing of friends.

Betrayal has hardened this monster they made

I bow only to chaos, a means to an end.

I do what I must to get what I need

I see only what I can take in their eyes.

I live for the day when my anger is freed

I smile behind the mask of my lies.

I will break you with words or I’ll break you with flames

You are nothing but what you can offer to me.

I’ll give you no mercy, I grant only pain

So pray for your death if you wish to be free.

I learned long ago there was only one way

The rest is a lie, there is no other life.

They bleed at your feet and you do as you may

Or they step on your back and you die by their knife.

I don’t call it love

It is only memorizing her outfits

And making constellations out of the chips in her nail polish

Pretending the curls in her hair, strawberry blonde and sweet, were put there for someone who looks like me

It is merely storing memories of us inside hollows of willow trees

Using their swaying leaves as a shroud to hide our shared moments

We’re not in love

We’re just two souls made of the same stardust

Just two daydreams running parallel

Just two flower children trading daisy chains and flimsy crowns

Because we don’t need money where we’re going

We just need hope and flushed cheeks and running so fast you can’t see the blades of grass as you pass them

It’s not romantic, I swear

It’s just kicking rocks out of her way so she won’t trip because of their carelessness

It’s only clasped hands and running spring water washing away secret sins

It’s just that she doesn’t understand I listen when she speaks and wait patiently when she stutters

And I dance over the same puddles with her

I write all my best poems about her

And they’re not good, but she says they are anyway

So I keep writing about rosemary overflowing from hand-weaved baskets and poppy petals blushing in the space between her dimples

And she likes it when I romanticize the curve of her shoulders and the bend in her elbow

I don’t want it to stop

Because it’s not love

It doesn’t burn and break and splinter and cut, jagged edge gnawing at uncertainty

It takes root and stretches up where life was just a cigarette daydream, something to turn over in your palm like a piece of unidentifiable foreign currency

Something fleeting and never tarnishing

My sketchbook isn’t tainted by her

It is filled with curls and red lips and lovely girls who are not love

Weaving

She watches from the floor as skilled, calloused hands weave a bright blanket. Sometimes, she is allowed to help hold the yarn. (She always strokes the unfinished blanket, she wants it to remember that she helped).

Weaving

The blanket is almost done, spreading over the taut strings of the loom. Red. Cream. Blue. Pink. She hides beneath, pretends it is her own little tent.

Weaving

She makes the tassels, they are red and cream and beautiful. She shows them to everyone. She carries them in her pocket until the blanket is finished. They look even prettier sewn on.

Weaving

She wants the blanket with her everywhere, it is so big she can barely carry it, but she staggers around with the fabric bunched in her arms. “Look at my blanket!”

Weaving

She runs to hide beneath the loom, dragging her blanket behind her, tripping over the pretty tassels. She leaves a bloody trail in her wake. Footprints from her small shoes glisten on the floor, red and sticky. Blood on the blanket. Blood on her hair. Her breaths are loud in her ears, she shoves the crumpled blanket against the wall and buries her face in it.

Weaving

They drag her from beneath the loom. She sobs, clinging to her blanket. They pry it from her little hands, she watches it fall, stained with smears of red.

The sandcastle stands proudly in the middle of a freshly dug moat.

The tide surges higher and higher, filling the moat, until it swallows the castle altogether.

The smooth water laps up the beach.

Beneath the water, bubbles surround the underwater castle as someone laughs, and a small grey hand reaches out to touch the unexpected new plaything.

#microfiction

1-

Fire burning bright

Light my path tonight

Dying in the wind

Light begins to thin

Fire, flickering flame

Guide me all the same

///

2-

Fire burning bright

Light my path tonight

Flickering in the cold

Will you share your soul?

The coals are burning blue

If you die I will die too

No more breath to shout

Fuel is running out

Lost beneath the wind

Never found again

behind locked doors

a little girl sits,

words rolling from her tongue like bullets.

"princess," they tell her, "your words should be gentle.

like the petals of a summer rose,

or a ripple in the pond."

she scoffs.

"the thorns of roses leave scars,

and the pond drowns children.

nature births temporary beings, not gentle ones.

come winter neither will see the day."

I will speak loudly-

each word a bullet.

permanant.

unforgettable.

... lethal.