chiaroscuro

 there is a column of sandstone on which the foamed waves beat i erect a house a shack a hideaway behind the column and i live in it every day the waves beat against the column and the layers reveal themselves i watch the strata manifest and i wonder if i'm safe because there's only so long before i have to reveal my self to the relentless sea inevitability draws on me dawns on me and i realize a crisis  how long socially acceptable already they're asking me where the sand should move i wrack my brain but my battered shack is already cringing apart nails popping out rivets dislodging and the base shifting like undulating worms upon sand i had a plan i had tabs open like doorways to parallel dimensions where i'm capable but in the end i slink to my seawreathed shack behind the sandstone column  with its belly carved out yielding to the looming constancy of endless ocean.

speed 10 rocketing overfast hyper run overcompensate my feet become pinwheels i am running because everything go so fast to keep up is normalcy, panting flecked with white bloody foam it is a threshold understood sign the box go forth proceed and yet they don't see the sweat pouring in rivulets is this not normal? check engine light on blinking flashing piercing epilepsy trigger warning  the whole world is a trigger warning spoilers ahead! there is no head just a severed animated corpse lumbering lumber dead trees headstones in a copse we watch the encroaching severity and we shrug just a door not a corrupted force i am scared money is scared and bloated  i cannot find a foothold on this spinning  green and blue and brown and white and reddened treadmill i and the all of us are birthed upon.

 frost coats the surface of my emotion steadily falling snow dots the frozen water, lending it an air of mystery, intrigue, depth i see the fathomless abyss, the temptation despite the looming thalassophobia my fingers are pink with exposure, my mouth parts with damp heat every breath i gasp in sends spirals of snow into my veins i wish for oblivion,  wish for exhilaration there are metal blades on my feet, i wobble across the ice unsteady on my feet, knees knocking, breath stuttering i want to chip my teeth on the ice, i want to lick the frost and be immobilized i want ice to silver my tongue  black ice, reddened ice, the snow that dots my hair and tumbles around my huddled shoulders the other bank beckons  it's too tantalizing, the concept of opposites, foils, an ear reddened by blood and so i skate across the lake, feet pumping, eyes wide, fingers stretching  the ice quivers under my weight, water buckling and the sheets shuddering but from the way i'm shooting across the su

unexpected dagger born not really out of spite or mean-spiritedness just something hurtful  cutting to the quick from one whom I had just been lauding  dramatic irony i was just remembering something from the blur of the witching hour i hate how mundane it all is the argument, the single line  but what hurts more is the Pieta watching and who only held the child and not the stricken fallen.

i examined my nails. they were okay. just worn from where i hemmed them to rounded, if a little crooked edges. sometimes there would be a flat plateau where the nail clippers cleaved a line instead of rounding an edge.  there were my lunulas. little moons. the one on my thumb was the biggest. it looked like a moonrise. i had five moons on each hand. a celestial body buried under chapped cuticles, chipping nail polish. i had painted my nails weeks ago.  i used opi nail polish. i had coated each nail in three different polish. a pale blush base, then a shimmery overcoat, and then a dusting of glitter for the very top. it made my fingers twinkle whenever i waved them in the air. it distracted from the uneven cuts of my tips.  sometimes i would paint them iridescent, other times very dark. i had a black/brown polish with no gloss. it swallowed all the light and gave length to my thin fingers. spider hands, i had. i didn't wear that color often because i chipped them too often and it le

today i flew over a freshly birthed heart made of green and tussocks fresh flowers budding in dew richly perfumed graces wispy as all the swathes of silks in the world i would like to be a little less ambitious centered around some less wild mania let me find some golden-eyed child chase me into the fey hills of endurance where ruins whisper and stones sing where the kindest things cradle  and the harshest evils murmur