Someone's set me on fire.
It's disconcerting. All I can see is ice,
frigid snow with -crystalline shards- the color
of [bloodless (lips)] - and here I am
with skin stitched from :silk:, eyes full of /sand/
Burning.
Salt and smoke
whistle softly through the skies, slap against my tongue
in withering blasts of winter wind. It's
something the sky does to you, you see, when you're soaring
with both hands stretched out so far
You've forgotten what they were reaching for.
I don't remember when I lost my way.
From plaster hands she feeds me wind, and wind
Numbs, Drains, Burns
me from the inside out
with every desperate breath I take
"Why isn't Barbie a brunette?"
"Because it's Barbie, she's been blonde since the fifties."
"You're blonde."
"Yup."
I glanced at the row of highlighter pink plastic boxes as we looked through the Girl's aisle at Wal-Mart. The fluorescent lights beat down on us and the neon glare had begun to hurt my eyes.
"She has blue eyes too, just like you."
"My eyes aren't blue, they're gray."
"Blue."
"Gray!"
I promised my little sister that I would pick her up a toy from Wal-Mart when I came down from college for the holiday season. I had to admit, her method of inquiry was beginning to grate on my nerves. I loved her, but it had been non-stop si
"Snow...Snow! Open your eyes!" Finn pleaded, clutching the girl's lovely, lifeless face in his calloused hands. Though his fingers were rough from years of work in the mines, they acted with delicate precision to caress the loose strands of hair from her face, felt the softness of her cheek as the blush of life faded away.
Tears crept into his eyes as he tore them away from her face to look at his six companions. His fellow dwarfs wore matching expressions of sorrow, even irritable Seamus.
Laying her head gently onto the ground, Finn reached down to pluck the fruit from the girl's still clinging hand. The apple had already begun to brown an
They said he collected stars -
plucked them one
by
one
from the abyss
left dangling off
the clothesline
with his father's best
summer suit.
He could feel the future
in their shiny points
and the sharp prick
of something maddening
glowing under their silver skins;
and when he held them
under water
they breathed,
their embers glowing -
tiny spines curling up
to tell him stories.
But their laugh
was what he loved best -
sea breeze and green glass
and the whistle of a dandelion
shedding its blustery mane
across the pebbles
of the pond.
What everyone knows about Delilah is that she's gorgeous. She's tiny and permanently pre-teen in appearance, with cartoon-big eyes and perfect skin. Her body is immaculate; she runs around the lake every morning, ear buds jammed in, tiny feet pounding furiously as she runs almost impossibly fast. Everyone knows she knots feathers in her hair, ties them to her clothing, hangs them from her rearview mirror. She's childlike, with her tiny wrists and her wide sad eyes, and so everyone touches her head or pulls her to their body or picks her up and dumps her over their shoulder, which makes her shriek and giggle but I know it also makes her a litt