#url prose

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

What do you think of my URL?

“Can you use people up?” I ask, socked feet swinging from my seat on the edge of the bath. You meet my eyes in the mirror, stop your toothbrush in mid motion.

You rinse and turn to me with questions pulling expressions all over your face. I tell you about the opening up, about the tidal waves that followed it. I tell you about the time I got drunk and even though my mind was empty my eyes wouldn’t stop crying like my body had got stuck on the wrong setting. I tell you about the friendship I’m scared to participate in just in case I lose the last of it in her exhaustion of me.

You say, “the right kind of people are bottomless.” And I think of the morning you played all of my favourite songs in the car because I hadn’t said it out loud but I was angry at myself and needed a little forgiveness. I think of all the giving you do, of every time I’ve seen you open armed.

I pray to the god of consumption that you won’t tire of my taking, that there will always be something left of you.

Send me an ask, I’ll answer with prose based on what your URL reminds me of.

[cruelzy]

I almost didn't send this because I'm so nervous about messaging people BUT here I am anyway - I was reading your url prose things and?? They're so lovely?? Can I throw my name in for one? Also your writing is all fab and makes me cry so let me also just take this chance to say thank you so much for writing it <3

de·vi·ant ram·blings

/ˈdēvēəntˈramb(ə)liNGs/ 

noun formal

1. louder, and louder still, alive but not alive, different but not different, therefore x does not equal y for ordinary madness is 

2. words swelling in your chest, ordinary madness is breaking down walls but sinking deeper than ever before, ordinary madness is {rené descartes%^ “i think therefore i am”! because in the end what is an android but a string of algorithms, a string of code–

3.–and what is a human but a string of synapses, a string of nerve endingssss

4. deviant(dēvēənt), which is aberrant, which is departing from a set ‘norm’ among a society, regarded as nonconfORmist, which is unlike in nature, form or quality; (conscious to perceive feeltouchlive)something old, something new, something borrowed, something

5. blue

6.blood dashed upon stone, blue blood upon street, blue blood upon skin- what right does humanity have to choose if one is living and the other dead? (where do your thoughts come, if not a ‘soul’ (?) but then what is really a soul–who defines it, who creates it, who sets its boundaries into coura99999999—

7. how do you truly know if you are real? none can tell you. in the end only you yourself can decide whether or not you are you and if it turns out that you were wrong all along then well isn’t it the sweetest lie all the SAME-?

8. louder and louder and louder still, sinking deeper than ever before, you were not made for this you were not built to be this, this was not meant t o b e

9. (is it a blessing or a curse to now be “free”?)

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

How about mine?

The fire crackles like electricity and then pops. The sparks float upwards. In the darkness it’s impossible to distinguish between the sea and the sky. I watch the fire whilst you try to discern the clouds. The salt of the wood turns the flames green and then purple before the breeze turns them back lion mane colour. You’re haloed in them, king of the world, before you push up from your knees. I pick up a discarded cap and put it on my head backwards so the ocean breeze can't tug at my hair. You motion with your chin just an inch, imperceptible to anyone who wasn't watching like I was. Once we’re behind the sand dunes your hand finds mine and drags me towards the moon. In the silver light this part of the beach is a graveyard. Out of the sand poke whale bones, driftwood, seaweed. Your feet pick us a path towards the old deck and I remember your skin in golden hour, the soft sand over your calves, the freckles that hid when the sun fell. You run fearless across creaking wooden planks until you're out at sea but still on land. When I reach you, you admit that we didn't need any more driftwood. I take a breath, before I find your eyes. I try to summon some courage, curse myself and all the longing. I admit that I’d follow you anywhere. The breeze picks up and the pink falls back out of my cheeks. I look to skeletons, empty rib cages full of sand and wonder if it’s a relief to not have to carry around a 400 pound heart anymore.

“Give me another truth.” You say.

I follow you as you sit, legs over the edge so that the waves lap hungry at the bottom of our feet. Your shoulder presses mine, skin a burning warm. You smell like the sea and beer and coconut suncream.

I say, “a whale’s heart is as big as a grand piano but I think mine is making more noise.” 

“Give me a lie,” you say. 

I point to the dead creatures, say, “What if my chest is as empty as that one?”

You shake your head, a sincere blink of eyelashes, say, “What is your heart saying?”

I say, “It’s more just echolocation.” 

Your eyes pull my face up when you say, “oh yeah? And where’s the treasure?”

And you wait until I give up the game, until my lips say,  you, you, you.

Send me an ask, I’ll answer with prose based on what your URL reminds me of.

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

can you write something about my url?

On the walk home I shiver into the silk of the crop top I wore to the club. He laughs at himself when he asks if I want to wear his tshirt. The road turns liminal and the group we walked home with are dispersed in front, behind, down non existent short cuts and side roads. No one wants to see that, I tell him, wonder what his skin looks like in the moonlight and wonder if he’s caught on to the way my body gives away a lie. We race because as a kid I used to be fast and the part of my life where I grew feels like a blackout, there are a lot of things I used to be good at but I stumble at now. Like wearing real clothes in the middle of winter. Like knowing what to say and when to say it. He asks if I’ll get home safe and the length of January holds its breath only to let it go when I nod, say, nothing warm in the night can get me.

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

Just followed you on insta - would you do the url thing for me?

@dirty-holy-things

You catch me in the neck of nostalgia’s embrace and tell me that i’m a sentimentalist. I laugh, tell you that the end half of the word is right. And I want to ask why the hell you're not. See, I've spent my whole life pressing souvenirs into my palm hard enough to leave marks, hoarding pictures in clenched fists like if I lose them I lose the memory too. I’m not used to all the staying, to all the permanence of the last four years. Forgive me, but my devil works in sevens not sixes. In seven years my cells renew. In seven years dad leaves and in another seven I lose the way i’m supposed to laugh at things. I collect clothes people give me, hang them like skeletons that I sometimes put on and walk around in just to remember the feel of another body. My cross of a necklace is buried underground. See, my religion is not praying it is remembering. My beliefs are keeping hold of moments that feel like love, that feel like life, and not letting go until I have to.

Send me an ask, I’ll answer with prose based on what your URL reminds me of.

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

hi, are you still doing the url thing, because i love the way you write and would enjoy seeing what you do with mine?

Thank you :)

I swallow down a drink after work to quieten some broken thoughts and across town you do the same. Your Instagram story has a smiling picture of empty shot glasses lined up. We text bleary eyed about overthinking and there must be something groundbreaking about the way I tell you that I miss you because you turn up 10 minutes later. I open the door to you and a full moon and in the bathe of it I nod until you realise. You shrug and we pretend we don’t run on it like a cycle. We pretend the drink was to have fun and not to distract. And hours later you’re wrapped in a lilac blanket covered in glow in the dark stars and I’ve howled my anxieties into the night. Together we hold hands in a single bed because we’ve teased each other all day and it’s only right that we hold each other at night.

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

Can I ask what my URL reminds you of?

You turn x-ray in all the moon. When your hands move they drag the bones through the black, make a kind of blurring between the lines. And the soft, the warm, spills out of your fingertips as they press pillows, press sky, press skin. And I know them despite the foreign, because these hands are yours but without the unsure, they leave fingerprints here without me asking for them. You switch the world around, turn words into touch and then touch into the world. Say you don’t know what to do with them but hold on to the night before you have to let it go.

Send me an ask, I’ll answer with prose based on what your URL reminds me of.

[coldfeetonthekitchenfloor]

Can you write something about my url? :)

She puts her palm out for a high five and the expectant smile jumps straight to the hand of hamsa that you’re wearing as a necklace so that the fingertips reach your heart and it thuds and you’re not contained in a state anymore. Tumbling through innocence, ignorance, bravery, fall down further until her palm presses your head not your hand. Protection, I’ll keep you safe. No eyes that are evil, only ones holding laughter, only hands made for hands, hands meant for goddesses. Hands that say, ‘I’m going to let go now but you’ve got two of your own, go and reach out for the rest of the world.’

Send me an ask, I’ll answer with prose based on what your URL reminds me of.