It’s Friday evening and it smells like thunderstorms. The palm trees creak above our heads, dry leaves rattling like snakes in the desert heat. Even as the sun sinks behind the mountains, the concrete around us gives off so much heat it’s like having a second sun. I close my eyes for a moment. Listen.
Behind the noise of the palm trees are the birds as they settle in for the night. It might be cooler now but the sun is going and they won’t be able to see. I almost feel bad for them. A full day of foraging wasted, grounded due to the mirage-inducing, oven-baked temperature. My toes dip into the pool in front of me. There’s the taste of lime on my lips, the remnants of a paleta I was eating a few moments before.
When I open my eyes again, the sun is just a sliver peeking over the ridge. Clouds have covered half the sky to the east, a heavy purple, pink just outlining the edges. I wait for a clap of thunder somewhere in the distance. I’m disappointed. The rain isn’t coming for us today and I have better things to do than wait.
my skin / blisters under the heat of your / anger, burning like ethanol, blue-hot. / nobody can see it. / and your hands / kerosene / leave scorch marks /on my body / pull ragged breaths / and pained screams from / the depths of my soul. / it sets my lungs on fire. /can’t you hear them? / or have the flames / drowned them out?
i. buttercup – hippocampus | ii. dream – priscilla ahn | iii. into the wild – sasha | iv. smile – mikky echo | v. technicolor beat – oh wonder | vi. bloom – the paper kites | vii. intertwined – dodie | viii. somewhere only we know – lily allen
many springs have come and gone, but for her, youth is a permanent state of being. flowers never fade beneath her feet. the sun is in her smile. she reminds you of a girl you once knew as a child. come play, she beckons. you follow, feeling the chill of winter fade in her grasp. in her field of eternal spring, you are reborn.
[the devouring] blood on her tongue. his still-beating heart, warm in her hands, and love, the sweetest taste, on her lips. a man with glassy eyes and strained breaths, helpless. such a slow devouring, each piece better than the last. fingers licked clean, bloody lips, and a last breath. her crooked smile, his last thought. there is beauty in death when rotten words no longer fall from rotten lips.
[the burial] her fingers, elegant white bones now claws in his shirt. oh poor soul, better a baptism of blood than a girl’s broken heart. the words of a broken heart with something almost like love. but it vanishes with the body at the bottom of the ocean.
↳ @inkstay dare to write | 500 prompts | vile romance
soft green. new growth poking through winter-hardened ground. tendrils reaching for sunlight hidden by clouds, weak but hopeful. they will cover the land.
ethereal, like a ghost. he glides just on the periphery. mist from the fields burns off with the coming dawn and he goes with it, light too blinding, too much like him. he is everywhere and nowhere. it is a lonely existence.
son of an overbearing father. he knows he is a replacement, but even this love is better than none. still, he longs for something other than military propriety and a cool facade. in this world, rebel is a dangerous word. he must be perfect. sometimes he wonders why he tries so hard to fit the mold. he asks the world but it has no answer.
veil-piercer. eyes that can see the shadows that lurk in everyone and in everything. spirits moving about unseen by all, he has learned not everything is as it seems. they walk around with human skins. he is afraid.
stubborn, the fire in his soul a kiln to make the malleable immalleable. it burns a path through the heart. if there are no emotions, there are fewer obstacles in his way and he already has enough. better to be an empty vessel.
a boy made out of mud and moths. the further he is from Her, the closer he is to Him, the comforting earth of his childhood. worn hands touch the soft skin of the divine. dark woods conceal words that cannot be said in Her light.
abandoned. centuries’ worth of wind and rain wear him down like clay pottery found in a long forgotten city by archaeologists. there is no use for him, broken among the ruins. the kilns have cooled and the fires that made him hard have left him fragile. he is left to pick up the pieces of his own cracked belief.
loyal to a fault. he is the protector, courage making him immeasurably reckless. give him a cause and all the passion he has ever felt will pour into it. find him a target and he will destroy. see stubborn (1).