The color of death is not black, is not white. Not red, not gold. Think: ashen skin. Think: where did the blood go? Think: pale, so ******* pale. Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again. Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow. That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes back and forth in the bag hanging above the bed. My mother’s hands: white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms. The constant hum of telemetry, the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood. The human body has no ******* idea what to do when there is too much or too little of really anything. Think: blood vessel bursting. Think: cells mutating. Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks, from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long. Goes three weeks long. The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick. I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth. I’ve read the books. I’ve heard the talks from morticians. They’ve made my grandfather tan, but I know what’s underneath the foundation: grey.
writing your grief prompt nine: choose any color. let your mind follow that color to a memory, or a scene, or a story of any kind
i hate my body i hate my body i hate my body i hate my body i hate my body no matter the exercise the diet the anything i never seem to lose weight and it ***** cause i hate my reflection more than anything tbh
Dipped in crimson The sky bruised blue at the edges Just like on her jaws etched Didn't complain, could she?
Air of ash and smoke masked The aura of captivity dusk to dawn, Using white lighters to see whats infront Says he was a poet by heart But recited with scars With poetry scrambled behind Cigarette packets Recital was rather peculiar She was his muse, and well used Couldn't leave, could she?
A storm reckless if left both unbound Like Bonnie and Clyde Begs to not fall in love You might be shot, or left stranded At the eye of the storm Leaving you wondering why storms are Named after people
It was definitely worth a try to let my heart go astray, just so it could know how far it can venture. It is a different emotion that it came back ragged and bruised, what is more beautiful is the scars it carries now they glow in this darkness, almost like stars illuminating my lonliest nights. It ventured through storms and draughts went all the way and jumped off the edge of love, betrayal, promises and hope. What came back was a shattered piece smiling through the cracks. After all the bloodshed of its dying laughter and unknown disaster, It was definitely worth a try. "The scars heal in shapes of roses with no thorns"
"Falling in love" irony of this expression is pure genius.