scribblechic

Playing at uncertain beginnings.

I carry your memory like marbles against my tongue, a weight that pushes against my thoughts even as it holds my words in silence. Your name is soundless in my mouth, a single memory among decades of stolen minutes. On a cold night, in a month I cannot remember and a town I have long since abandoned, we gathered near to where we first met. 

or

Stranded in a hopeless acceptance of unhappy desperation, I sit anxiously in fear of loosing something I do not want. I have gathered my spirit into tidy fictions of credibility; lines of manipulated truths that presume qualifications for tasks I am ill equipped to perform. Whatever delusions of grandeur I posses are daydreams borrowed from storylines of another’s telling. 

Tagged: Fiction, Writing