Hiding from the Sun

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Her eyes were not used to the light.

It was difficult to look at the world.

It hurt.

She was constantly blinking,



only able to see the world halfway.

She felt like her eyes were always about to collapse,

they seemed to provide less protection than normal eyes.

She cringed at the sun,

the golden rays that seared the balls of her eyes,



and burned.

She loathed the summer.

The glaring, fluorescent blue skies,

and endless blood-orange sunsets.

In the summer even the nights seemed too bright.

She wished she could hide until winter,

where the skies were gun greys

and soft purples and lavenders

or in her sleep where everything was a muted pearl blue,

in dreams where stars were fatter,

bloated with dust,

where she could hide from the sun.




I fear I have forgotten my name. However the thing I find more troubling is not that I forgot it, but how quickly I forgot it. I knew it just a moment ago after all. I was striding down a street, grey, concrete, careful not to step on the cracks when it slipped from my fingers. In the exact moment that it fell, a gust of wind picked up, pulling it out of my reach. I watched it drift away, silvery, wispy, spreading smoky tendrils, diluting in the air. Of course I could’ve ran after it, tried to catch it before it disappeared completely, but I just sort of stood there, my body limp, my bones too heavy. It was only afterwards that it hit me and I realized I was nameless.




Sometimes we listen

to things we cannot hear.


Lie on our backs;

with forgotten sight,

our mind washed and blank,

our thoughts swirling above,

in open space,

and silence

so vast and empty

that it carries

the echo of sound,

the echo of a song,

the music of the falling sun,

notes that glitter gold,

before drifting slowly

into frozen horizons.


We listen to voices,

drowned, and dead,

cold and shuddering,

beneath the earth.


We listen to voices,

yet unheard, and unknown,

but imagined.


We listen to sounds,

from an alien world,

foreign and abstract,

like the colors of the sunset,

from an alternate galaxy.


We listen to the meaningless,

until it has meaning.

The Vision


It is coming.

You can feel it.


A tugging in your middle;

just below your navel,

thick clouds above the mountains

morphing into shades of deep,

scarlet and violet,

like bruises expanding on the sky,

converging, spiraling, bleeding clouds,

transforming into whirlpools,

hurricanes, and ardent galaxies.


A wind pulling at your hair,

whipping your face;

the world falling,

at the cusp of cataclysm.


The end is imminent.


Nothing left but to surrender,

close your eyes,

your heart,

your mind,

and propel yourself,


into the vortex.

Neptune Lovers



To the Neptune Lovers,


I used to watch you dancing

in the center of the sky

in your black shoes and black scarfs

stitching stars and lacing planets

into every velvet night


I used to hear you

inventing silver songs

in accents laced with moonlight

and pirouetting in quiet noise above the continents


I used to feel your love

drift in silent swirls from the sky

melting frozen nightmares to peaceful sleep


But now only an empty melody echoes in a hollow dream

and I wonder where did you go?



A creature with shadow-stained hands,

liquid darkness whispering in between

her pale fingers, rising up her arms

in charcoal pattern,

black ink settling softly onto her bleeding

heart. An animal walking

beneath layers of midnight,

hiding behind a veil of shattered thought,

soundless even in the world of silence,

leaving words in place of footprints.

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