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Week 14/ April 3, 2026 - Writing practice
10 Metaphors A Week
1. Adroit fingers with a rubix cube
Like watching a spider weave a web in reverse
2. I was done
Let the myoglobin pool
3. Displayed and unwanted
Like browned ground meat
Under fluorescent grocery store lights
Metaphor practice
Like a miner with an ink-covered pickaxe, I searched the caves of my mind for an elusive treasure- metaphors.
Some were shining and precious, ready to be cut, polished and written; others were rough and dull, for use in the first draft, if at all. My eyes, untrained in the dark, could not easily tell the difference.
- My mind is the echo of a pure bell note fading into silence; a note struck in jubilation after having swallowed a sentence shaped perfectly by someone else’s hands. (the dawn with its paunch full of thousands of tiny, clamouring birds — Lispector)
- My mind is a fragile membrane being punctured by spears of thoughts.
- My mind is a goldfish swimming in circles while a single eye, freakishly distorted by the curvature of the glass bowl, examines it from the outside.
- My mind is a deadly dagger slicing keenly through a leaf spinning amongst the stars in the wake of a passing asteroid.
- My mind is a delicate spiderweb quivering with the arrival of each fly of afterthought.
- My mind is a filthy pit of sticky molasses bubbling wetly and beneath it, unseen by my eye, something swims.
- My mind is an agitated swarm of bees.
- My mind is space debris.
- My mind is a faintly groaning husk of a creature being eaten alive.
-My mind is a petrified flower.
- My mind is a swathe of colours alive to the delight of using the word ‘swathe’ twice in a sentence about itself.
- My mind has a mind of its own.
- My mind is either a dead leaf or the thin layer of frost that shrouds it.
- My mind is an open sore.
- My mind is a most fantastic acrobat, the cleverest one for whom the crowd swells to a roar as she balances upon a tightrope spun from the finest thread of emotions while executing the dangerous trick of all: the trick of avoiding hindsight
- My mind is an injured acrobat.
- My mind is a bronze coin glinting on the sidewalk; pretty to look at but of little value.
- My mind is a broken music box.
- My mind is a neon sign on an abandoned strip club with half the letters lit up, flickering tiredly in the dark.
- My mind is the jingling of a belt being unbuckled by an unshaven man with bloodshot eyes in a squalid gas station urinal.
- My mind believes itself to be worthy of descriptives such as ‘kaleidoscopic mandala’ or 'cosmic hummingbird’ even if it can’t yet figure out how to apply such sweet nothings to itself.
- My mind is a trace of butterfly saliva left on some freshly blooming chrysanthemums.
- My mind is some corrupted software with a constant background theme of the Windows 1995 error message.
- My mind! is the sucking, gurgling sound made by a blocked kitchen sink full of dirty dishwater when it finally clears up after a week of blockage. Such moments are always thrilling.
- My mind is a bit of grit stuck inside my shoe that I can’t seem to remove no matter how hard I shake it.
- My mind is a parenthesis without anything in between.
- No! My mind is a universe barely contained by any parentheses within a cat’s digestive system, nestled close to a hairball.
- Sometimes my mind is a lone dustmote lit up by a sunbeam in a cavernous darkness. I’ve noticed this happening most when we’re crumpled together in bed and she opens her eyes, smiles and whispers, 'hey.’ I hate these moments because it’s even darker when the sunbeam fades.
- My mind is a cassette with all the tape guts spilled out.
- My mind is the chalk outline drawn around a body at a crime scene.
- My mind is a staccato patchwork of songs criss-crossed together like electricity wires on long, long utility poles and thank god for that.
- My mind is a pixel.
- My mind is that one glass the bartender keeps polishing with an old rag cleaner than the glass itself.
- My mind is a bird trapped in a room full of naked, sparking voltage wires.
- My mind is a wound that needs to be constantly cauterized with song words.
Don't let the wolf into your straw house. It's your last fucking one. So don't come crying when your life blows up In your goddamned face. you pig. you swine. you'd rather pork an improper version of a 'nice guy'. Sweetheart, A heart for breakfast, Just leaves your body for dinner...
Big bad wolfs are better left behind.
our love was the beautiful new blossoms of May, bathing in the orange sunlight. and now, it is October, and it lays on the ground, withering, awaiting to be just another irrelevant crunch under your footstep.
this fleeting romance has run its course.
Her tears were moonlight, shimmering on her face and illuminating the pain he'd been too blind to see.
