daymoose

Master of Ravens 1 My little brother is nine years old the first time I decide to kill him. During the night, snow fell over the jagged wreckage of our land. In the morning I realize he will follow me outside if I call to him. Like an awkward-limbed colt he'll stumble through the snowdrifts, and I can leave him to the ice and wind in the shadow of a three-walled building. No one will see me. Our father will think he has gotten lost on his own. I too will cry when they find his body. When the mourning is done, however, I will be my father's true and only son. 'Cam,' he will call to me, and I'll kneel down before him. My father. Master of

It is dusk and we are tired, or maybe this is the sunrise and we've been here all night, sharing stolen white rum and cigarettes and secrets. We lose time in this field in the hills, when our parents think we're sleeping but we are climbing too-tall trees and howling with coyotes and telling ourselves that tonight, we can be complete again. We are blood, this boy and I, we are natives in a sea of pilgrims and we do not yet speak their tongue; we are the dark eyed children who scream at night when they can no longer hear. As our smoke clears, I tell him the names of every constellation my crippled mind can remember and he tells me that six ho

clouds shed: not tears, but clothes, which transcend to swaddle us in threads finer than those of the spider we trade our skin for theirs most would hide to shelter themselves, but i was never meant for roofs and hot chocolate, (more like barefeet and lightning) scuttling across my skin are so many words you already know, making speech obsolete. there's a melody in our muscles, that brings your heart to my lips- keeping time with the descent of heaven's nectar, drip dropping to soothe sahara eyes you drink the rainwater from my hair with a hand at the base of my skull and your wrist pressed to my cheek, i can f

I write like a madwoman. Scribbling across the page my pencil burns Deep into the paper; the smell of smoke Signals the creative fire Raging within my mind. Flames lick across the rampaging lines, Scorching the letters into permanent Semblances of being. Words takes shape, Large and feral, as I cry in the pain, the Strength of emotion, And the primal need to translate This Into language. Feel the ecstasy and relief, The catharsis in these words as they Tumble onto the page, baring souls to a level We never knew existed. For here we are free, in the paper we are alone. The chains which hold our minds in place are lost; Th

good morning dear one, how are you today? please look outside, the suns come to play! come with me for a while, ill show you around, and give you a glimpse of this beautiful town. now close your eyes, love. and then count to three. now open your eyes. what can you see? can you see the sky touch the oceans edge? can you hear the waves crash against the rocks ledge? can you feel the breeze bringing water through your hair? can you taste the excitement, and smell the sweet air? here in these wonders, the world is ours. 'cause we're here together, despite all our scars. and theres nothing you could say to push me away, and nothing yo

The waves were crashing against the rocks at the foot of the cliff. Wind whipped her hair around her face and chapped her cheeks. The sky was clear but she thought she could smell a storm in the air. She shivered and pulled her coat more tightly around her small frame. It seemed strange to be worried about the cold at a time like this. At a time when the whole world should have stopped dead on its axis, should have frozen in whatever beautiful, grotesque, horrific, joyful moment it had been in the midst of. It seemed strange to care about the goosebumps on her arms when the rest of the world was dead to her, when all the meaning had narrowed