The Daughter makes toothpicks from treebones while she waits. She uses them to pick hunger out from her mouth. Her week’s first real dinner will happen soon. From wildebeest migration to their awaiting dinner table, still undercooked meat sits in that aged iron skillet they tell nobody they own.
She waits. She’s accustomed to waiting, like her mother, the Hunter. Sometimes a day's worth of strength and calories came from a meal of dandelions and winter water while the Hunter is out waiting for her traps to ****** a life. So they wait.
Through the door comes Man. He's watercolorist emptied of mental flowers to create. His hands are bandaged and hold a toasted loaf of pumperknickle bread. The Hunter and Man kiss and wait and think in the quiet sizzle of meat.
Romanticism of rebellion they could do without, the couple. Survivorship comes in vulnerability of sweat-soaked underclothes from sleepterrors. But instead of wallowing in tears they make art of blackbirds and mockingbirds while waiting to **** them for survival.
~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of February 2021. Written 21st of January 2021.
you're a stranger in a myth where there is no official beginning or ending and i'm not worth your spark in my darkness nor every explosion you leave for me. now im stowed in all that is left of you when it seems this cruel world doesn't need me and i can't recall what inviting lies you've said when embers on my skin singe deep.
At night, stars are trying to being perfect by twinkling. Moon just keeping his stunning look. But she who always being herself born with dark circles and having thin spectacles is still writing poetry by using her untidy heart...