broken things, broken bones,
broken lies of hearts beating
the blues, a rhythm, a tattoo
of red ink-stained skin. a cry
of the tongue, the twisted tongue
that is molded by society
to speak things, anything, clean things,
brave things, beautiful things.
 not broken things. not macabre things.
no red ink pooling from
a rip in the medium. no salty,
bitter tears that squeeze
through the eyelids. the eyes that have
witnessed brokenness. we gather the
broken bits of our shattered lives
around us like a blanket, a wall,
between us and them,
a lie in the face of condemnation.
 shivering, i bare my soul in
the face of darkness, that constant,
harmful companion: the one who
knows my name, the taste of it
upon the lips, the shape of the
words as they leave the tongue,
a tongue not twisted and broken like mine,
but silver and fair and beautiful
and horrible. not broken.
lies like no other
spin from fair darkness, and i
greet them like an old friend.
the dark knows my name.
when it calls, i lift my head, sucking
in wretched, dirty air to fill
my aching lungs. a ragged breath that
is beautiful in its desperation. my
heart is a live thing in my chest, a reminder,
a beating pain that screams
breathe breathe breathe.
feeling the dread climb up my
spine like death is already upon me,
i look toward the friend, not quite
daring to meet its eyes.
then turn away. to life.
i suck in raw air, my knuckles scraping
the side of my jaw as if to
remind myself by the pain that
i am alive.



The Night Circus

The Circus left that night.
In the darkness—out of all the countless tents that morning—only the Big Top remained, its red and white stripes showing gray in the dim moonlight.  It was drained of color.  Clouds scudded across the sky, casting strangely shaped shadows along the ground—curving and rippling, seeming to rise up from the grass to grope the surroundings. 
Everything had been packed up—vendor’s booths, animal tents, performer’s tents, wagons, trollies—disappearing under the fabric of the big tent.  It was almost like magic.
Nothing breathed that night.  It was quiet; the type of quiet that makes shivers crawl along your skin, or perhaps the kind of quiet that suffocates you.  That is to say, it was not a good quiet.
In the thickness of the dark, unseen by any, a huge cloud left its track in the sky and descended toward the open field where the tent stood, alone.  It came closer and closer, billowing and getting bigger and thicker before finally settling right above the Big Top.  It hung there from an invisible string, the unseen puppeteer using a master’s touch.  Then it enveloped the tent, coming down to the ground and wrapping around it until the tent could no longer be distinguished in the thick whiteness.
Slowly, carefully, the cloud rose back up, higher and higher, carrying the tent within it.  Farther into the sky it flew, until one couldn’t separate it from the other clouds.
The night sky hadn’t changed.  It was the same as ever.  Clouds puffed and evolved into odd configurations; a dragon, an ice cream cone, a trolley flitting across the pockmarked face of the moon.
And one looked rather like a very large Circus tent.
The Circus had gone.


Longing: noun, "a yearning desire"

My heart longs to be free from this life.
To become a wild thing again.
My heart longs to shut out the hurt,
And learn to dance in the rain.

My lips ache to be kissed just once.
They ache to openly speak.
My lips ache reject the pain,
That is keeping my body weak.

My soul burns to climb the mountains,
To feel the eagle soar.
My soul burns to soak in the wildness
From now to evermore.

My fingers yearn to touch the strings,
To coax the music forth.
My fingers yearn to pluck the lyric
And paint each changing chord.

My veins cry a siren's song.
The beating blood within
Turned a bleeding canvas,
This corruption they call a sin.

My heart longs to be free, my friend.
My lips to seal your kiss.
My soul aches to fly away, my friend.
Fingers upon veins in my wrist.


The 777 Challenge: An excerpt from The Nameless Novel

So, I was tagged by the phenomenal Samantha Chaffin for the 777 challenge [check out her writing, now.]  The 777 challenge works like this: you post 7 lines that are found on page 7 of your current novel-in-progress, and then you tag 7 bloggers.

Well.  I break rules.  So I'm posting seven lines found on page seven of chapter TWO in my novel, instead of chapter one.  Because I do things like that.

So this is an excerpt from The Nameless Novel [as I like to call it] because it has no name.  Yet.

Usually, I start out with a name for a novel before I even start writing.  I work from the name up [i.e., The Lightcatcher].  A name ferments in my head, going round and round, before finally demanding that I tell its story.

So this novel has really been frustrating for me because I cannot think of a name.  I just know that a story started forming under my fingertips, nameless, and I had to capture it.

It has the same feel as The Lightcatcher, which is to say it has ocean and wind and sky [because deep in my heart, I long to live in a place like that].  But there are no sentinel balloons or islands or redheaded boys who are strangely enticing.

Instead, there are horses.  And a boy.  And a beach girl with long tangled hair.


Passion, Life, Loud Music

What drives you?  What pursues you?  What thoughts invade your sleep, your dreams, make you wake up in the morning, make you sleepless at night?  What is the reason you cry, you laugh, you love, you breathe.

What is the reason you live?

Today in dance, we were talking about music and how it hits you, and the beat hits you, and you can feel it in your veins.  Music, for me, is more than just pleasant listening material.  I want to feel it.  I want to become the song.  I want to soak my body in its rhythm.

When I'm upset or angry or frustrated or so full of passion I think I'm going to scream if I don't let it out, I turn up my radio in the car and blare it so that I can barely focus on driving.  All I feel is that moment, that anger, that pain.  And at that moment, honestly, I'm not sure that I would care if a semi hit me head-on.


There Was a Princess

"She lived in a castle with birds flying about, day and night, carrying their music in from the surrounding mountains.  She was not a frail, milk-skinned princess as most were won't to think princesses should be.  The mountain air had seeped into her bones from the time she was a little child, feeding her with a love for wild things: a wolf’s howl on the full moon, a Lark’s song on a summer morning, the screech of an eagle as it dives for its prey.  She was lithe, with ruddy cheeks and tangled hair, and her legs were browned from the sun.
"A proper princess indeed.
"Nobody really knew her real name, except for her parents, because everybody called her Rose.  She spent so much time running about in the woods, among the trees and wild things, and plaiting flowers into her hair that she didn’t look a bit like she belonged with a Proper Name.  Rose fit her much better. 
"All day long she dreamed of faraway places, exotic princes and kings, the feeling of a strange mountain’s mist upon her face, a foreign land’s dirt beneath her feet.  With her head full of cobwebs and stars it was a wonder that she ever learned anything.  Every day, when she was convinced to come inside, her tutors had to brush the tangles from her mind with a special little brush.  But every day they gathered again: pictures of tropical birds, colorful plants, lavish spices, faraway ships going to faraway places…  And each time she dreamed, the urge in her little chest to see the world grew stronger and stronger until she thought she might burst from the pure wanting of it.

"I should know.  For that little girl was me."



I want to write a post on pain.  Why?  Because I've experienced it.  Details are too many and too personal to write down in one blog post.  I haven't had an awful life.  I had a wonderful childhood [despite being brought up with serious body-image issues] and I'm happy.  I'm in college, in love with my major, surrounded by supporting friends.

That being said, however, I have gone through pain.  At this point in my life, the taste of pain is very familiar on my tongue.  And I say that because it's true, not because I'm screaming for attention.  Recently, an event in my life took my heart, chewed it up, and spit it back into the school semester.  It was hard to deal with.  It was painful to deal with.  And I'm still trying to come to terms with it.

But I've learned a lot through it: