swimming in something new, a different and almost familiar blue of stinging eyes and soothed smoothed skin. deciding to choke on lies you never told is a performance art, never for myself as much as I'd like it to seem, and I still haven't learned if that was a mistake. choices are multilateral for a reason, right?
more of the moon than the sun these days, still touching me gently, but more like a nocturnally unfolded petal than the skin of a peach. summer to winter, day to night - do I change with the seasons? with the sky? --
grabbing fistfuls of thunder and spinning them in my hands and swallowing them whole, shoving a stone of thunder down my windpipe into the space behind my sternum that sometimes threatens to crack with emptiness and aches for a touch, to blossom near my lungs and remind me not to stay silent. wearing the sky instead of walking in it; draped around my shoulders, as gently as I used to insist the feet touching it must be, no more peach skin bruises. then snatching lightning from the clouds to throw into my eyes - never mistaking myself for a shadow again.
About the Creator
The Reluctant Reporter
"You can't send me!" "There is no-one else. It's you or no-one, and that is not an option." Ameera looked at the fat paunch and florid face of her boss, a man who lived for the story and the kudos it brought him but who rarely gave consideration to the people behind the drama. When had he become so hard? She reckoned that by the end of the year, he'd be dead, collapsed from a heart attack and she struggled to conjure any sympathy in that moment and instantly felt ashamed at displaying the same lack of compassion that he had.
By Rachel Deeming7 days ago in Fiction
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