i.
Concept: We’re sitting by the root of a tree and the grass is glowing about our feet. I have flowers laced in my hair and my heart is warm
ii.
not from the sizzle of weeping lava,
the smouldering of ignored feeling,
and not from the pulse of thick blood bubbling out,
bleeding across soft skin, but,
from the sun and precious books
made of comforting paper.
iii.
Her, my brain: why don’t you… can’t you… see this article… this man died today, was just shot by police… your vote makes citizenship… of me and them… our friendship is slipping… has slipped, covering the town in earth: people are missing… where are you?
Me: *sighs* idk
iv.
Somewhere between
melting point and success
or
somewhere between
fairy magic and html,
the girl,
fights subtly, not to be enmeshed in
apples and essays and
Instagram and oil paint and
u…
she teases her soul from her chest,
although she tries not to
(mind you, the tears are dry),
and leaves it in places she’s never been
and with people she’s never seen,
rather, met.
Will they fight with her?
v.
It’s the least you could do…
Seen: 12:42
vi.
And I ought to take a bite
of this peach. I ought to dare,
but just because I’ve unlearnt
everything in relation to you,
or to them, my heart still trembles
when I think of me in relation to them…
or you… Or you,
when we have violets
in our hair.
Sometimes, I feel it scraping against rib bone
and I learn
why they told us that we feel
from our hearts,
where our bodies are constant,
steady and sure,
and not from our brains,
where we are soft and squishy,
and where tissue is made
of little more than concepts.
It’s a shame they lied,
I misunderstood for so long,
let my heart and brain become
one… I like that about me…
but, me, or her, and me, we…
ought to be,
considering the girl we were,
so much more than
neurons and red blood cells.
Concept: We’re sitting by the root of a tree and the grass is glowing about our feet. I have flowers laced in my hair and my heart is warm
ii.
not from the sizzle of weeping lava,
the smouldering of ignored feeling,
and not from the pulse of thick blood bubbling out,
bleeding across soft skin, but,
from the sun and precious books
made of comforting paper.
iii.
Her, my brain: why don’t you… can’t you… see this article… this man died today, was just shot by police… your vote makes citizenship… of me and them… our friendship is slipping… has slipped, covering the town in earth: people are missing… where are you?
Me: *sighs* idk
iv.
Somewhere between
melting point and success
or
somewhere between
fairy magic and html,
the girl,
fights subtly, not to be enmeshed in
apples and essays and
Instagram and oil paint and
u…
she teases her soul from her chest,
although she tries not to
(mind you, the tears are dry),
and leaves it in places she’s never been
and with people she’s never seen,
rather, met.
Will they fight with her?
v.
It’s the least you could do…
Seen: 12:42
vi.
And I ought to take a bite
of this peach. I ought to dare,
but just because I’ve unlearnt
everything in relation to you,
or to them, my heart still trembles
when I think of me in relation to them…
or you… Or you,
when we have violets
in our hair.
Sometimes, I feel it scraping against rib bone
and I learn
why they told us that we feel
from our hearts,
where our bodies are constant,
steady and sure,
and not from our brains,
where we are soft and squishy,
and where tissue is made
of little more than concepts.
It’s a shame they lied,
I misunderstood for so long,
let my heart and brain become
one… I like that about me…
but, me, or her, and me, we…
ought to be,
considering the girl we were,
so much more than
neurons and red blood cells.
✱✱✱
| Niamh McNulty is a 17 y/o Scottish girl who spends the majority of her time thinking about politics and magic. She has previously been published in Dead King Magazine. |
