helenlorraine

Her eyes lit up, the way cigarettes do crashing onto the highwayÕs skin, orange sparks of cancer glimpsing into reality and dissipating. Fearsome pride, a drive for something better and a will to surpass the others, drowning, lay beneath a fluorescent white skin. She breathed in the acrid smoke of green, huff huff puff and release. Repeated several times, until the green turned to morphed black and gray.  Beautiful new ambition seeped into her fingertips. Her body tingled from the drugs and the inspiration. ÒYes, pride, I have you! I am good I am good, I am beautifulÉ oh I am so much more than this.Ó Brain says this to mou

There are invisible crooked limbs reaching up into your ribs, grabbing like claws and tearing at your still beating heart like thin fabric on glass. Shreds of the undesirable organ floating within you, how to get rid of its' remnants is the only question and yet to open yourself up and pour them out is a difficult thing to ask as well. In your dreams, your thin hands reach inside you like roots to piece the puzzle of flesh back together, but if only skin was translucent in reality everyone could see just how raw your body is.

I didn't mind walking into my room and setting down my bag, and I definitely didn't mind when my nurse, Martha, asked me if I wanted a glass of water, the only thing I minded was that they didn't put me near the window. My roommate, whose name was Samantha, had the window bed and she got to look out on the spans of fall trees, my favorite season and colors.  I couldn't ask to get the bed of course, I'm sure Samantha loved it and I didn't have it in me to ask her to move. One of the aids, named Andrew, had to come in and inspect my bags before Martha could help me put them away, and Samantha wasn't in the room anyways to help, she was at her i

Desperately, my nails finding the flesh of your hands, I'm hoping you'll tell me why you're making a constant movement downward onto this body. Your crush is much like the waves, pounding and merciless, constant and powerful, but painfully stuck in its pattern. Your eyes are no longer the brushed gold of kings, but are now the red tongue of the serpents that serve them. If I had closed my mouth a minute before or if the ring of the bottom of the bottle was more permanent on the dining table I might not be feeling your knuckle slide across my skin. Instead of the porcelain smooth feel of your skin during love I feel the sandpaper of your overw