“In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.” -Madeline Miller, “The Song Of Achilles.”


Message to Readers

I wrote this in a rush :). Feel like I need to start stockpiling metaphors or something.

That Doesn’t Belong to You

August 22, 2019


You’ve wandered into a dream that’s not your own.

I understand, it’s not your fault. Not all of the world’s hardships are and you’re still trying to get a handle on that new power of yours. It’s okay, I don’t blame you.

But you’ve wandered into a far off dream and you can’t tell if it’s a nightmare or not. The sun streams through the leaves, washing the world in gold but it also passes across old bones, bleached ones. Are they an animal’s? The hope that flickers in your chest is endearing. Almost so in that I want to run my hands through your hair. You press on before I can, a world unfurling at the sound of your footsteps.

The trees move to accommodate you and you pretend not to see. Your chest swells each time you take a breath. The world wants you heavy, wants you unable to fly away. I’d tell you to stop breathing but you’d whine and talk of life. Life. You’re  quixotic about life. Not a single branch brushes your shoulders. I almost want to smite one of the trunks to give you a scare. Maybe you’d be snapped out of your daze then.

A river burbles along. An old song twists through its depths. You drink some water to slake your thirst and catch one of the lyrics. I am too far away to hear it but I know from the way your lips go slack and how your eyes glaze over a little more that it was familiar. Familiar and sweet. You take more steps and start leaving imprints in the moss. This isn’t even your dream. Please don’t make a mess.

The clearing you step into feels like an ending. There’s a gravestone stuck crookedly in the middle of it, like it fell from the sky. You put both hands on top of your head and intertwine your fingers. It’s the best protection you can muster up against falling headstones. Flowers sway gently around the grave but curiously, they don’t encroach upon it. They create an empty oblong space around it. This being’s remains were not fertile and that makes you take pause. Liquid eyes travel the length of the emptiness and the bones! Are the bones not too far away from their resting grounds?

You wake up and ignore the grey sharpness of dread in your stomach.


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  • August 22, 2019 - 6:06am (Now Viewing)

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