Original
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Unwilling survivors, we strain these waters for warmth. Suspended in sea-salt and brine, preserve this moment – the lines between blue, brown and bright; driven splinters into submerged shoulders. Boards which seem to know all and see all. The scent of silence. Dread treading water. Everywhere but nowhere. Anything but everything. If we rebuilt ourselves
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You once asked why I followed you, kept with you at all. I said I knew it was right. This is how I knew then: weights left my face, my fingers fragile, hushing breaths. I feel you even when you’re not here. Father always told me that there’s a special place in Hell, just for
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End of the queue and start of the process. Threading eye of needle, delicate contortion of self, steel embraces shoulder. Forced myself through it: square block into circle; all to find a home and throw myself into it. The wave breaks the shore, the man emulates the wave. Wave breaks shore into grain; man breaks
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Forced myself through it, the square into the circle. Is that all that it takes? To sculpt myself into you? I feel it: needle subverts the skin. Dreaded word latches to eardrum, underside of tongue. Inertia unbirths itself.
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Trepidation creeps on the spine, a tightrope act. We are both audience and whipped animal. Who will hold my hand? Hopefully myself. Every day I see is its own dying breath. This is the future we walk towards, a destination we cannot afford, a world of our own choosing but not of our making. This
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death: it looms, above our car i can hear her, knocking on the sunroof a cloud, she; our car nothing but a coffin when the two of you fight over us i am reminded that i, too, am but dirt i suppose that’s all we were. when the car stops at a red light when
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Stifle your stomach. Unswallow the thigh; grind chicks to bloody mist. White men in suits hung out to dry: unclothed all this meat’s the same mess. Unfill the vein, empty the conscience. Blank it. Blanche the brain. In this diet skinless breasts are but vital. Who washes away the blood does not matter. The product
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draft 5 after a lot of feedback from fellow participants of #SingPoWriMo. Much thanks to all. This is hopefully the last draft: I am content as is.
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Prompt for Day 24:
ugly stage 