#rejectscorner
I told myself this before I had pulled the blinds down, leaving the room drenched in an artificial darkness. I sat on the cold, half-tiled floor of our bathroom. They were words I would repeat over and over in an attempt to make them stick. Felix tried to help. After all, he was the one who instilled the theory of halves in me. He sat, slumped, back pushed against the door I had hastily locked when I tore into the bathroom.
L'ÉPHÉMÈRE REVIEW: ISSUE VII: CREPÚSCULO Where anything and everything can happen.
Click here to read CICATRIX; short story written by Madeleine Dawn and published by L'ÉPHÉMÈRE REVIEW.
i.boy feeds on light — a hasty poem i wrote last night for a bps prompt.
october is starved / half-skeletal across cheeks crinkled / over in fog-ridden light / october is visible ribs and a fragile wristbone and choking on mouthfuls of / bad meat. october turns its back on you / its spine set like a clenched jaw / under too-thin skin / october is a bad hip / and sixteen poems about hating yourself / october forgets to drink water / has dilated pupils / blown out knees &— / listen, october is /trying/ to be human / october is breathing electric air / & taking any small boned thing that wets its apetite / right with it / october is wild / october is primal / & famished / to be famished / is the very concept of hunger / which is / to desire / and the very root of being starved / which is to / abandon that which you / desire most.
dig what’s hollow out of me, past skin that ripens & is unceremoniously peeled away. something or someone reminding me i have a voice. that i have a voice and it reverberates like a backhanded slap. the opposite of which is silence. a silence that prickles hotly at my eyelids. heavy & rolled back. the skull exposed. ribcage a box of fried cables. a green-red glow in evenings. the hand that feeds you, and starves you in the same breath. the fingers bent backwards & acrobat-like. thin and undeserving. the mouth pulled into a taut line. a telephone wire, birdless & humming. craving touch, like the tip of a wing. the horizon upon which, these bone-tired mornings are fleeting. a sudden shock of white, & maybe you’d like me better like that. my body turned inside out. my body in the distance. my body a suggestion of light. and the light is plenty here, gutted & left brutally maimed, its spine crushed & heels chafed. its resolve skinned alive.
