soft hearts, electric souls

the thing about having so many horrible things done to you when you are young, at the age in which you are developing your sense of awe at the universe, is that awe and fear feel the same. nothing seems incredible to me unless it scares me. unless it twists my stomach into knots. in this essay i will

the video camera in a yellow bin in his closet
where he keeps a painting, some kindergarten artwork,
a few small tokens of our lives - 
he says its filled with things that are special.
i’ve never seen what’s on those tapes.

the angel pin he gave me for protection
even though he didn’t want us to believe in anything other than god.
i had to wear it whenever he asked,
even when it made my insides try to crawl out my ears.

the fairy glistening from a second-floor windowsill
that felt more like home
than our manor ever did.

the country we don’t speak of
the language we don’t use anymore
her words still hanging in the air,
“I didn’t love you.”

the books of poetry piled on the floor.
nothing has ever worked my brain into knots
like trying to get through the jabberwocky
without thinking of how to get out of what comes next…

a blanket
a VCR
him on the couch, beside me
i can’t seem to remember how any of these movies end.

surfacing from a dream with that same sick feeling
of finding the bobbin all these threads wind back to
of following these thoughts through to their conclusions
plucking all the crystal stars from the sky, one by one
then waking up, dropping them all

can’t you hear the screaming?
can’t you hear the sound of a thousand glass hearts breaking?

 a. ciarra

lionfloss:

by Alexey Demidov

(via expressions-of-nature)