winter’s been a persistent dove on my shoulder, spreading her wings, igniting snow. we keep leading dead horses to the water in hopes to quench an unnamable thirst. dull fires thrum a silent disco inside me, my ribs are porcelain wind chimes, crooning like the old saints once did, relegating forgotten prophecies to the bone-dry sky, torching poppies in their wake
my boy keeps his baby blues glued to the calendar, july’s something sacred, half-cherished, july is a death in the fields, a knight with his sword drawn. he mentions his father less & less these days, i’ve come to believe this lesson in practiced forgetfulness is healthy
we talked about getting lost in the woods, building our own little house, adorning it with scar tissue & floating candles & moose skulls.
hot milk on the kitchen table, fairy lights against the ceiling, something pink glowing from outside the window, a view of a lazy lake, maybe a moth-trap
last night i dreamt i was seven again and my mother was braiding my hair and teaching me how to paint, i still keep all her drawings tucked into my jacket pocket, they reflect summers lost & never unearthed again
i plan on having another cat, we already have two but the rescue shelter is getting overcrowded & needs our help
outside, a baby rosy-faced lovebird landed on the fountain, she had a broken wing so she’s going to live with us until she’s fully healed
this monday it rained & rained until the trees burned a lazarus green & the foxes came out to play, they devoured a few fruit & craneflies
they’re broadcasting another storm on tv, but their predictions are often inaccurate, so we’re going to go about our regular activities anyway
his grandmother’s coming to visit tomorrow, i have to: i. set the table ii. repaint the guest bedroom iii. grab some pliers from the tool shed iv. bake cinnamon pie v. return her perfume
on tuesday, i’m dyeing my hair a peacock green
i still have to schedule my next thrift store visit
the bumblebees are coming out again, i’ve been feeling like there’s a peach pit stuck in my throat, the local party store is hosting an early halloween sale, a group of high school kids etched their names into our sidewalk, and there’s another full moon coming soon
Sadly thing about my life is when my close friend and my family doesn’t know what I’m trying to do. When I spend my time in my room making art or poem. They thought that it just wasting my time and it doesn’t worth at all. And my friend think that I’m not good with art but still doing it and it wasting my time. Why not? I love it. Art make me feel good and positive so why not? I choose make art instead of go to club doing some bad thing. Am I right?
Person C is the child of A and B. They’re going through relationship problems (as a teen or adult) and find a journal waiting for them from Parent A. The journal is the rough story of all the good and bad that took place between A and B. How they met, dated, broke up, then reconnected and fell back in love, told in A’s POV.
Bonus: C sends/gives the book back when their done reading it and B had no idea about it. B reads it and realizes just how much they went through with A.