Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The scritch-scratch of metal against ice fills my ears—cold permeating throughout slick skin and blue velvet, fingers frozen in icicles—and as I skidded across white, I felt my heart calm. Paradoxical difference compared to the chaotic hurricane I try to make it out to be. I breathe in storm shavings taped onto the transparent walls and watch the double-lined image of saturated wings. Cerulean hued shadows linger in my vision, a halo of luminescent tragedy.
Twirling like a triple axel or quad and then spinning into fissures beneath—or simply that I am descending (into what I cannot say). I try to rationalize it. Descending is easier than ascension. You collapse and you either lose or gain something. You breathe and you return what you owe. You speak and it's always better to keep silent. The braided phrases pass through my head like desaturated light. It feels almost unreal, like the dreams half-forgotten.
It's been a long time, I surmise. Since the sky collapsed around me and my heart curled into itself. The clouds, once filtered amber through the golden-hour, drawn with the scratchy edges of a portraiture's rough draft. My hands twitch for the phantom weight of a knife-sharpened 4B graphite pencil. My lungs gasp for divinity.
(I still permeate the bitter aftertaste of a heart left unspoken)
The scenery blurs together in a fiesta frenzy as my feet touch the dizzying world. Leftover shards of bitten-off lettersleave me heaving—
