These horizontal cuts ooze dark matter. Revelling my ethos slowly manifesting while plaguing my being. I hate you is how I started writing our love poem, to this paradoxical relationship.
I fear writing this allegory that may turn into part of our nuptials. I don't know what the best part of you is but if I had more time I'd start by examining the parts you feel most vulnerable, then I'd gracefully place my hands around your waist slowly moving them up while tracing your figure to the top then whispering in your ear
"My Queen I have not found fault"
Forgive me. For this is the first time I've become apologetic while unhooking your bra and squeezing your breast with right hand. I've foreshadowed every detail of my demise without the rebirth.
Because I want us to drown in each others love leaving no space to breathe but I fear loving you, and I've based it all on the one person that shattered me so allow me to be apologetic cause I want to give you my shattered piece while crying on my knees stating won't you love me back because here are my broken pieces on bleeding palms.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
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