Why do spring and autumn look the same here? Tears always taste saltier in April. May flowers never come. Why, on the day I felt most afraid, did the water in the creek stand still? Doesn’t the water care about me? Does this creek not weep for the dying trees around it? For the fish whose corpses quietly float down on it’s floor?
This crow seems to know. Alone, he squawks, mauking my pain.
Maybe I’m the stranger, The irrelevant dot in a map more complex than my cogged brain can understand. Or maybe the world does dance all around me each day, Choosing to ignore my thoughts and actions. But it’s selfish to think like that, right? Or perhaps that’s just me falling in love with myself.
Wrote this outside after my friend said she’d try to **** herself and another friend rallied her mom and made sure was okay. She was. I always come back to my creek.
Sickly sweet boys fill honey combs like goblin hands in tiny gloves. They taste like gummy vows and glass letters. These boys will rot you from the inside out, painting organs with grainy sugar, which dissolves to sour acid. Beware!
Sickly sweet boys know the right flavours, yet their labels are flawed. Always lick before biting. Toothaches are common, but sugar rushes won’t last forever.
Sickly sweet boys don’t stay sweet for long. Candy loses tang over time, coating is just coating. Inside is a viperous liquid that oozes like oil. Ebony, boiling, sticky. Your tongue will never be pink again.