(this ID is still a work in progress) (still sorry)
dust bunnyi keep you in a rabbit peltdust bunny by LadyBitterblue
small warmth, handful of heart
as you were
meadows pass through rain-
the days of ungrowth- and never
blossom again in spring
there was a smell about
the grass, whispering
softly of sun
and it was always cinder
people are all fox-faced, here
- but what would you know of red, unlit spark in the night, you stand
unwrapped, unearthed, yet settled
breathing your first air
with lungs too big to whisper, now too tall for flight
and you will settle
into teeth and fight, soon enough, far from the summer sun that kissed you
-r discarded skin
i keep your fur. i keep you there, always the rabbit, all wrapped in memory, wide-eyed, bright.
i keep my hands forever free of bite and love the dust.
introducing: the ballroomas we, on silent feet, traipse through, the ballroom is old and empty. only a passing place now. we know of what lies behind, beyond, above it, but we know nothing within.introducing: the ballroom by LadyBitterblue
I have a reflection in the polished golden floor - it is merely a silhouette. smears of softblue spring sky, moonlight, and pink peonies. here, I am my wishing; I am wild white wishing poured into skin.
shadow, wearing fox fur and ferret paws, dashes vividly through the gold. he is dances, darling, a translucent dark. he is named. more thought than word, more mine than of stories, but he is named and he could whirl with them if there were words.
they are in Venice, strung along streetlights; they float behind clouds; they hide in old pages, in poems, the earliest hours of the morning, scattered and shy. if called on by right thoughts, drawn in with hands of magic, they all assemble here.
my head is filled with flowers, feathers, eleven kinds of silly things; my hands are made of faux moonlight. my hands hold nothing
nothing as softsparks into september skies, for a momentnothing as soft by LadyBitterblue
near-fireflies, a hundred dreams
of unlived stories in this dance. and nothing
is as soft as the blue of dusk, wearing its first veil of dark.
we watch; the geese are wild and go south. (the wind pulls them along
in frayed out ribbons)
we watch and become south, our very own warmth,
with nowhere to go.
night settles here, blinking wild white eyes.
(i set myself in bone, bleached bright under this gaze
and nothing is as soft.)
a small painting of sufferingI have billions of pieces of glass driven into my skin, and I can't name them all for you, not right now (and not later because most of their names are blood on my tongue, the sound cracking the earth beneath my heartforest), but I can tell you: they're here. they're singing louder than my soul ever could. billions of glass shards with sharp bites. I am nearly vanished under them.a small painting of suffering by LadyBitterblue
the new ones for today are a name and a twitch of wings under my fingertips. how strange, that a dead thing should keep company to the dying. how strange i should still have fingertips, not made of glass, softer than sharp. there is only a scant sliver of me left.
(- resembling the moon. the moon is waxing; I am not.)
and somehow, a life can be filled with so much pain it comes close to bursting, but still hold empty spaces in it. empty spaces which bleed something sick and rotten from their edges, dead remains of love.
my stay in this depth of hell has come to be much less short-term than expected. this is a