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rachel-altvater
Creative Writing/Disaster Studies major. First word was "book," at nine months old.
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Red-stained fingers match the Taste of rust. I wipe my mouth again.           The fire rises in my cheekbones And descends upon my throat; Lower sanctums, beware— Forehead ripple lava pits, Eyes like San Andreas. The only way out is through Sky blue inundation. I drink. Matron jar, round And cool to the Touch Dripping life From her hands To mine. Embers dwindle. One last cough to push the Smoke from my breath— My ribs are paper bag empty.
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Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
Hungry
Red-stained fingers match the Taste of rust. I wipe my mouth again.           The fire rises in my cheekbones And descends upon my throat; Lower sanctums, beware— Forehead ripple lava pits, Eyes like San Andreas. The only way out is through Sky blue inundation. I drink. Matron jar, round And cool to the Touch Dripping life From her hands To mine. Embers dwindle. One last cough to push the Smoke from my breath— My ribs are paper bag empty.
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