witches in the dreamhouse

basic brain excretions

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fighting dysphoria one over-identification w/faery creatures at a time

more @ www.faerysarereal.tumblr.com

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st asaph

shimmer, without origins, as st asaph plaits my spinal chord. small deaths, sugar grit seamed over by new skin. that is mechanical, that is a device, that is not a living thing.. and she faltered, as would anyone, is it a Tuesday, this leaving of bruises?

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annotations

time peels back, then i place the sour scent of the wound: yellowing, blood trace and mother spit of the just-born kitten, blue eyed, sightless and mewling for the warm. you have been with me, yes it is always almost enough, is love in its shape of us

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37

no songs to sing, stung mouth of spun universe trembles and a Vowel falls out, holding itself in its self, unloveable. How high we

Dreamed them, our bright devoted hospitals: sutures dissolving pink as sugar on held tongues and the money, not earned but gathered in like tulips, to flare then wilt on the windowsills come morning.

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g(h)o(st)

that they may unwing us, embodied out of history, that we should die not Infinite but seized, severed. don’t you know i love you because you know? but

will love you also in some future hospital, kiss you where it will never hurt (as it has always hurt) ever again. welded into this wound uniform i am devout. choose a

death for you which is all the life allotted to us without. call agony bravery. mispronounce.

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aches

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screenshot from some vid about lifelike robots

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a.m. (very in progress)

am not seventeen am not the boy children around six to eight years old on the overground on the way to football practice who chirruped and kicked who did not choose who may not yet tremble in the face of am not answering her when she says do you ever wish you were just born-

no i do not want to build a little shack here on the edge of tears, though lucrative it seems a corrosive career

unstitch brain to embroider joy but manage it, you were there and darlin we were bioluminiscent

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Harry Clarke illustration for Edgar Allan Poe story

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a slowing of bodily responses

cornered, misgendered, edged off the precipice of an ordinary-for-everyone-else-in-the-room moment i clasp the image of some future boy laughing with my teeth, hold him hard in the place where my ribcage meets, he speaks in a voice i recognise, warm from the dream. these days i am hardly here, mer-child, half submerged in mostly fantasy, reading fairy tales again: see the fox is after all the banished king. see the dead girl turned at last to a prince.