#metephor

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

We’re two growing foxes that play in the night. You stand, nose in the air, whilst I bite at the white sock at your ankle and instead of warning me off, you nudge at me with your whiskers in a gesture looking for more touch. The white patch over your eye flickers a reflection of the moonlight and we dart under a car when a set of footsteps heads home from work in the early hours of the morning. Your black eyes tell us the direction home but we stay out longer, taking the slow way back. You amble on your toes and I trot, legs longer, faster, but circling back to brush tails when it feels like you’re too far behind. It feels like that a lot lately. We look for home, though it has been within us all night and your ears prick up when I howl that at the moon. You love statements such as this, you love all the circle time and the “so tell me how does it feel?” You ask if home is not the rain hitting the roof of a building we are inside of. You ask if home is not the shine of a road and its open stretch before us. You ask, licking the redder rough patch behind my ear, if home is not the knowing of cats eyes and the fall that we always land on our feet. I shake my head, wolfish in the flash of teeth, a hyenas laugh that erupts from my bouncing bones. This, I tell you, I tell you and I tell you, when you’re on your back and my nose is on the soft parts of your belly where the breath rises and falls within the fur there that is untouched. This, I tell you when you tilt your head at my laboured admission because you call me Arctic for a reason and I don’t ever shiver, a fire made of fox. You blink slow and upon a tremble I tell you it’s what home is made of.

[thesmallestwhaleshark]

Im so angry im gonna die before the phrase "i have eyes in the back of my head" becomes more than a metaphor

[aesthetickingbo]

Conversations are like Ping Pong

Sometimes, if you're both skilled, the game is fun and smooth, or agressive and competitive, but there is almost constant movement.

Sometimes, if one or both of you are less skilled you miss the ball, and have to laugh it off and start again.

Sometimes, the person you're playing with has no skills and keeps missing. It's especially worse if they're too afraid or intimidated to serve, and after a while is just feels like you're attacking them with ping pong balls.

[that-witch-with-free-time]

You know logic tells you to suck it up. You also know your emotions when hurt tell you to cry. So you stand, numbly, serving those in front of you.

[kitt-draws]

Dust on the edge of forever

A flash fiction by Vanessa Gordon

We are all beautiful broken creatures.

A tapestry of words written on crumpled scrap paper tied together with colourful twine.

Parts of this rich cosmic blanket is stained by the ink blots of hurt, and anxiety-

Consuming all in its path, a singularity.

But the threads of those most prominent in our lives hasten to darn over them.

Sometimes the paper shimmers, glittering and iridescent like the clearest glassiest lake, the ribbons of creative flow cascading, a glinting waterfall as bright as we can stand, if only we could open our eyes fully, and not go insane.

Some fonts are scrawly and illegible, others elegant and overstated.

I pick and choose from my tapestry what I believe you wish to see, weaving a poem of my design which I hope will sing in tune with yours.

Some of my scraps fall away, like burning newspaper flaking away into black.

We are all chimeras, wonderful patchwork zombies.

I am space dust, floating on an endless cosmos. stretching out past time and dimension, dispersing until my words are the wink of a star, or the whisper of movement on the moons wan surface.

Only now does this spontaneous massive cluster of verse exist, the code that makes me me, soon I will be dust, on the edge of forever.

[neen-93-blog]

faded

[original-pulse]

Our love was the rain that fell from the branches after the storm had long subsided. Rhi