My mum
used to call me argumentative
"Chantelle
you have an answer
to everything"
Teen years
fall
like cement
Slow but heavy
Before you know it
You're on too deep
struggling for breath
Damp pillows
Emotions
like spilt milk
everywhere
With the scent
outstaying its welcome
days later
Don't cry over
Spilt milk
Words belonging in a diary
Aloud in an
hours slot
Begs the question
What happens
When
the kid
with all the answers
Becomes
a woman
with
Unanswerable questions
About the Creator
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtisa day ago in Humans
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