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“I heard police or ambulancemen, standing in our house, say, “She must have provoked him,” or, “Mrs Stewart, it takes two to make a fight.” They had no idea. The truth is my mother did nothing to deserve the violence she endured. She did not provoke my father, and even if she had, violence is an unacceptable way of dealing with conflict. Violence is a choice a man makes and he alone is responsible for it.”-Patrick Stewart
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Ghosts in the walls
You were no sun-kissed force in this house. Can you hear the whispers? They are like ghosts filling the atmosphere with their colossal gravity. Look long enough, the moments drift fast—you might even hear their wings open mid-flight, you might even shake inside yourself.
We are reaching out into the darkness, searching, you and I, unaware of how close we really are. Sometimes I hear you shuffling around, singing to yourself as you saunter from one room to the next, and though your voice is blunted by the brick, I stop…I listen…and I wonder if you can hear me too.
They leave their small imprints—damaged hallucinations quivering with each step each creek. There are many of them, they were left here to rot and wither with time, an ache published deep inside your tears—they feel it too.
There is only I beyond, lonely I. When my hands find a surface, I push against it, hoping for a doorway to give or for the glass to puncture its frame, but all I feel is the grime of neglect on these walls, a sticky film on my finger tips.
And now I am sure that where sleep used to lie I feel the ghost of you around me; cold night whispers on my neck, slipping over my shoulders like tiny rivers in search of the ocean - and I wonder if I ever reach into your world in this way, if I ever make it into your thoughts.
Follow them, they will lead you to the roof – look down and see the distance.
Listen here, when the traffic calms, turn the radio down – this space is your ear to the wall.______________________
A collaboration between mickeymichal and loqui (italic text)Photo by mickeymichal
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War takes them here, too.
She furrows and sinks into the stones, knees bleeding with scar tissue from the years before, she has no home to call her own, a wordless breeze flows over the field, an open cut above her forehead that bleeds and bleeds and bleeds,
“Oh sergeant, why did you leave me here alone?”
She mumbles into the ground and sinks her hand into his name, a lifeless gaze looking back at her she gasps as her blood mingles with the grey, she quickly tries to wipe it away— but it’s worse, it’s worse and it’s clotted at his name. Red quickly seeps in deep they are becoming one and she is not doing well, not well at all,
“Come back please, I can’t do this on my own!”
She holds her stomach in the spring day and she is heavy with grief, a woman with no means of escape, no comfort to utter for the love growing inside of her, she can’t love on her own,
“You’re suppose to be here and love him, too.”
She stops only to feel him kick and she hugs herself tighter, she gets up slowly and places a white rose on the small cross, she heard him whisper,
“You must go take care of my child.”
She sobbed hard into her limp, she made it to the edge of the road— someone yelled,
“Lady, are you hurt? Oh gosh you’re bleeding,”
she looked up and saw the man’s blue eyes,
she didn’t live to see the child’s spirit as it held the same as her lover.Loading... -
I found a closed box of munchkins on the street so I naturally took it and ate from it.
Then when people asked to have some I told them I found it on the street and they didn’t want it anymore so I had it all TO MYSELF MUWHAHAHA.
That might have been poor judgement me being a biology major and knowing what microbes can do to you but I lived. I took a chance. Those munchkins did NOT disappoint me. Thank you, Santa.
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