No One Loves Me ...

Wanted: Replacement Parts

I am building a heart of laughter. It runs a little like clockwork without the grinding, ticking seconds. Fits and starts to keep no beat (except the drumbeat thrumping feet) and pealing out odd hours. I can show you where the chuckles clump. Where giggles swim like goldfish between the gears. Where phrases ring right and clang wrong and all the pings like cooling metal in between. And when it’s done, and shined just right, I’ll hammer in a few dents where memory fingers sqeezed. And chisel in these cracks like creases in the spines of books I’ve read too much.

by My Mental Milkcrate

Twenty-five words and counting

There is no way of knowing what this post is about. Where it might lead. All you know for sure are the twenty-five words I have written. This post may end in tears or lift your battered soul. It might be the best thing you have ever read or become the saddest moment in your life. You may wish, with all your heart, that I had never written it.  That you had never found it. Your brain is now trying to second-guess what this post is about. How it might end. If it's even worth the effort to read. Maybe it's a tragedy. Or just a pointless collection of words. But until you read this post in its entirety. You will never know for sure...   I love you.

Uncategorized

In capital black biro letters on my left foot it says RIGHT. And on the right, LEFT. Put your best foot forward. As if we’re not confused enough.

Everything is suspended again, least of all, lastly, my shirt on the line and a checkered tea towel caught in the branches of the birch tree, stolen, dug up in the dead of one night with a trowel and ten split fingernails.

Counting down the weeks and days backwards. Exploring the roof of your mouth with no torch, not sure which way the right way up, meeting teeth and tongue barriers in the bottomless topless dark.

And a bloody trace of determined weak nails between the serrations of rib cage, from when we were angry or I was restless, flattened under a close suffocating ceiling. Or maybe just bored, or dreaming.

by goddamn right

This is what I whisper against your neck in the middle of the night

I don't like to talk about loving you. I can't break it into crumbs and lick it from my fingers. And even if I could, it wouldn't taste as good as watching your hands slice celery for stir fry.

by My Mental Milkcrate