Writers and Artists

date a girl who writes
 
There is blackness on the soles of my feet that spread throughout my body like a plague preparing my body for a morgue; already tossed in the flirting flames. If a stranger found my ashes sprawled in the dirt among the covered earth, they would believe that I was once the source that kept the fire blazing. 

IMG_8870Maybe a burning love letter or a broken branch that was ripped limb from limb to sustain another life form. This ignited light was alive, it had lungs that breathed sweet oxygen from within the dome of the world.

This devouring element lived inside my belly that was filled from all those late night meanderings and early morning turmoil. It was not luminosity, but a faint red glow that only grew with increasing sadness and romanticized madness. Incandescence slept in the stones that made up my house and a path for my feet. I never quite noticed the scintillation as my toes curled up and broke off one by one, all for the reasons of loss- It wasn’t til then that I realized I was falling apart, inside and out. I left a trail of ashes and scarred stubs. 
If an artist were to find these remains, they would turn all this ugly into something creatively beautiful. But if a writer were to fix their eyes upon the same matter, they would grow quiet, because they know, they too are scattered and looking for themselves again.

 

 

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