I sometimes have the urge to just write, and write, and write. No promises on it being good writing, but hey.
I welcome all forms of critique. Whatever you feel, I'd love to hear your comments.
MoonlightI did not expect to find you here, beneath the women blooming in the moonlight - breathing in the story of their scars.Moonlight by ~iridiana
She Wanted ItSometimes, I stalk you.She Wanted It by ~iridiana
It's always in those desperate moments that come with weekends - when work is over, and there are no thoughts to drive you from my mind, no exhaustion to dull the memories of everything you did.
I have a special account, for this purpose and this purpose alone. I can't see all of your information, but oh - the time I've spent, scrutinising the smiles you adorn on your profile pictures. Hoping, wishing, praying to pull at strings of misery, hiding behind your teeth.
Are you well? Fit? Healthy?
No matter how hard I pore over what you reveal to the world, I can't find any trace of guilt in your eyes - can't detect the slightest hint of remorse in your relaxed pose.
Do you think of me? Do you think of that night? Or is it enough, to tell yourself she wanted it?
Published FictionHere is what I disliked about the place: it was efficient. Efficiency hung in the air and clung to the ties and blouses and pressed skirts and trousers of those around me. Clung like the scent of disinfectant; like industrial bleach, bleeding out the money in my words. I twisted, inwardly. This was not the place to bring my prose.Published Fiction by ~iridiana
T936126/JRWe're laid out on the porch, breathing in cool air and watching the sky slowly drown in its own fire. There's a silence between us, but somehow it feels different: sticky and caught up, like the words in her throat. She's been running over the creases of the paper in her hands as though in prayer, folding and unfolding, but never quite finding the courage to lay the whole thing bare between us. It ain't like one of those trashy bits of paper spiralling on the breath of the wind. No. This one's different. I get the sense that even if we tossed it, it'd be way too heavy to travel further than the spaces between our ribs.T936126/JR by ~iridiana
"Dear Mrs. [surname],"
Ain't even kidding. That's how this chapter of her life begun. No Mrs. Scott, No Mrs. This-or-that. Simply, Mrs. [surname]. She bore the law her memories, her heart: heck, a truckload of courage, at that. The system took it in, chewed it up, and decided from hence onwards, she was Mrs. [surname]. Risk versus reward. Money in, m
Sticks and bonessheSticks and bones by `cality
There are snowflakes
in her eyes;
she's the type of girl
who keeps her secrets
between the ridges
of her vertebrae,
the nerves. One
gasp after another,
petal skin is
s t r e t c h e d
over her (sparrow's)
[she couldn't bring herself to
Instead of Good-Byes She never says good-bye. I know it annoys most of the others. At parties, get togethers, coffee shops, any time she can slip away quickly without being too rude, she does. Just gone, like a summer cloud burst or that stack of pancakes you get at two in the morning after skipping supper and going bar hopping.Instead of Good-Byes by ~AnUrbanNomad
I can understand their frustration. We look around, start asking if anyone saw her leave or how long she'd been gone. It bothers me too sometimes. But I also understand why she does it. She has one rule, make things as painless and hassle free as possible. Going around the room, making sure she got everyone was a hassle, so she didn't do it. Good byes are painful, they seem permanent even when you know they aren't. I'm not saying I agreed but I understood.
We are all grad students, we had all just met, f
deluge"mary," you said, "the rain isdeluge by ~sliverofciel
having you on your knees at gunpoint
is like being five years old again and seeing
ma with earthquakes spilling from
her lips; like watching god
i don't know how we went from
Precipitation to the trigger.
you are used to girls carrying
satchels full of downpour to your
i am used to falling in love with
the waterglass clink of your
heartbeat is shat.ter.ing
glass embeds in
Willow bonesShe has butterflies in her spine,Willow bones by `cality
but they're pressed and
grey and dead
(just like the flowers
in her scrapbook).
Under winking lights,
she sings fairytales
from her bed, lost
sheets and pills,
as Mummy cries
softly into bone-fingers,
and Daddy, he
he curls his hands
around warm whisky bottles
and tries to