Lotus Granma Moon's hands are amorphous: topographical maps of time. Three great clefts dominate her left, and as she squeezes the cabbage shoots, they deepen. The juice pours from the mouths of her knuckles down the ashen terrain of her hand, like rivers. As her right hand, gripping the foliage, hesitates, the earth quakes. Last year's storms have left her tendons rusted. Her fingers, unable to hold anymore, snap like a spring. Granma curses, sucks the sore on her hand, and lays it back down on the chopping board. It pinks under the cold air, revealing the venous lotus beneath. Stolen of the rivers' hiss, the kitchen is silent, its muteness a testament to the indifference of nature in the face of the genome.
The moratorium is shattered by a steady splinter of footsteps. It is Mr. No Face, and his expression is free of the trials of tim
Cut From The TeamI've developed a method for biting my nails. An algorithm, although math is far from my strong suit. Rip, rip, peal, chew. Rip, tear. Suck.
Right brain: this is cannibalism. Left brain: stop romanticizing.
Lips: scrape below teeth in sad attempt to rid mind of seizure.
Seventy-five cent cherry cola lip stain, first date blush, store bought mascara. Those lips were made for bubble gum. Your turn. In my head, I fit pink balloons between the consonants. You-inflate-r tur-inflate-n.
Harbinger. That hoodie used to have sleeves.
"Harbinger." It comes purple out of my throat, a bruise. "Why can you call him Bryce." This is violet, tinted by the conversation of the nightcrimsonand lost amidst it: