Because | Weekday Emelie Top

It's not so far below the surface. You don't even have to dig. I'm not hiding it, but I am afraid of showing it. It sees through the same blurry eyes, watches as my fingers get thinner against the window when the sun shines through. When I retract my hand and cover my eyes I still feel it, skeletal without a skeleton, creeping around the projection room. It casts shadows on a dark screen, making faces I've never seen. They stare and they smile in ways that make me cringe. I hug myself closer until my heart pushes against my arms, until my whole body shakes and I'm left gasping for breaths I can't take. If I don't contain it, it will do the things it could do. I know it's mind because it's mine. And though I'm stronger than it, it won't let me say it.


(photo via weekday.com)

Fall | Shakuhachi Mauve Petal Party Dress

She's sitting in a chair by a window. The chair is resting on four legs. Now two. Now one. The window is open. It's pouring outside, it's not so bad inside. The lecturer is rambling on about fecal matter. Other students are struggling to listen. Some listen easy. Some already know. A leaf gets bullied by the rain and receives a blow by the wind. The leaf wields a falling twig and starts slashing raindrops in two as it defies gravity. The shower of liquid orbs becomes more vehement and slaps the leaf from all directions. Left. Up. Diagonal. They call for reinforcement. The wind blows again and sends the leaf spinning in a tornado with its kin. They rattle and vibrate and try to grab each other but they're so soggy their grasp keeps slipping. The rain is winning. Wait, the leaf. It's getting up. It drew tribal marks on its face with mud and it's putting a plastic cup over itself. The rain laughs. But as each droplet falls to the ground and disintegrates its laughter ceases. The leaf is yelling in victory in its plastic cup and stomping on the wet ground. She falls off her chair. Everyone's awake now. And staring.

It's not hard to fall on the ground.
But it's easier to fall into the sky.


(photo via BonaDrag.com)

Child | Golden Mother-Of Pearl Shell On A Thick Resin Silver Rimmed Wavy Bangle

He was anxious for the microscope that was due to be delivered that day. He wanted to be home, needed to be home, to receive it from the new postal guy because the old postal guy refused to deliver to the kid's house again. He pulled on his mother's white skirt that flared out like a carnival tent. She bought some cotton candy and offered some to him, but he shook his head so vigorously that his glasses fell off. Before he could retrieve them from the confetti-speckled road, his mother grabbed his arm and pulled him off towards some other thing that easily distracts. And his glasses were left to stare at the hundreds of feet that stood before his way home.


(photo via AnOtherMag.com)

My Ball | Low Luv X Erin Wasson Hematite Round Ring in Gold

Mother was getting the rest of my stuff out of the car and talking to the coach whilst leaving very provocatively (for her age) against the door of the car. Dad was off getting hot dogs, probably with a side of whiskey.

And there I was, lying on the field on battle, waiting for the ball to start rolling.

It wasn't my first game, and I wasn't a good player. I was brilliant. The coach loved my skills. The other players loved my consideration for the team. The audience loved my goals. I just loved the grass and the ball's ability to roll over it in accordance to my foot's command.

My boot studs piercing the dirt and blades of grass; a stunning tragedy. Yet with all that destruction, rom afar a field was still a field. The grass would still grow and the dirt wasn't going anywhere.

Oh and when it rains? Hallelujah! Mud splattering everywhere, onto the shirts and shorts of the runners and swirling with the blood from skinned knees and elbows. I'd smear the mud on my face, readying myself for the primitivity of competition. It's a rough game, football. Don't think the opposition won't play foul and spit in your eye when it comes to victory. Remember: They want the trophy as badly as you do.

'Chase! Better start warming up!' Gary was shouting, but I didn't want to get up yet.

'I'm just stretching my calves,' I shouted back.

I curled my toes under my feet and made it look like I was really stretching them. I sort of was anyway, since I was in that position.

I stared out at the other little-uns getting ready for the game. They all looked so small from down here. Then I saw a beetle, perched on a grass blade close to my eye. It was the size of the football from my perspective. Gary nearly kicked it.

Speaking of the devil, Gary went on to grab my ankles and dragged me into the center of the field.

'Get a move on, man! We'll be starting anytime now!' he shouted.

He likes to shout.

I got up and started kicking the ball around, ran a few laps, stretched my legs (I really did). Mother was sitting with Dad on the bleachers. She waved at me and smiled, showing off her shiny white teeth. Dad was happily eating his hot dog. There was mustard on his shirt. He smiled at me with his thumb up, then grabbed Mother's hand. She looked at him and giggled, wiping a smidgen of ketchup from his cheek.

My studs were ready to stab, my legs were strong and eager to carry my weight across the field, and my eyes were as sharp as ever. I kicked the.. Hey that's my ball!


(photo via RevolveClothing.com)

The Dead Speak | Acne Oxide Metallic Crinkled-Leather Pouch

I see you.

Your body lay out like a slab of meat

Reeking with silence and too much make-up

But there are so many thoughts flying through my head

Strapped with noisy jetpacks.

I hear your voice, you dead,

When I’m alive and

Blacking out with my eyes open.

(photo via Net-A-Porter.com)

Two | Pamela Love Rose-Tone Bronze Triangle Ring

We are the two inside your head.
We are the incorporeal things you dread.

Your fury,
You're mad.

Wasn't it Franklin who said three can keep a secret if two of them are dead?
We may not be alive, but we are certainly not dead.


(photo via Net-A-Porter.com)

Here | Nobuyoshi Araki, 1997

She left her prince by the edge of the sea, at the bottom of the stairs, where she climbed to the top of the tower. Her feet curled off each stair, bare with sand buried in the mounds of her toes and cracks in her heels. Gastrocnemius muscles in her calves bulged and softened with every step. Lean lines shot straight up her legs. The way up was dark and coated with pitch - a natural road. And she climbed slowly, carefully, deferentially. She bit her lips until they bloomed red and licked the salty traces that never belong on a rose. The messy waves of her hair were gathered into a braid, trailing from the crown of her head to the tattoo on the small of her back. It was a dragon, twisted in slumber but with fire still burning at the tip of its tail. Her ponytail swung from side to side over the flame. She was near the top. She threw off her top. Sticky walls caught it and framed it in an artless gallery. The door swung out at her touch and she collapsed on the bed. The window was open and a faint voice was whispering down down down. But here she stayed, staring at a cloudless sky, waiting for one or some to wander up, up, up.


(photo via AnOtherMag.com)

Either | Ludevine Extreme Cat Eye Ring

Could I, for a moment, be incorporeal? I could be the glitch in the system, that fraction-of-a-second blackout; something that never lingers long enough to catch the next twitch. Let me invade the cove of thought that nobody listens to because they don't care. I can sneak through the gap above, beside, underneath, and assimilate you. There's a wink and a catch and a cough; I am none of these. In retrospect, I was never material or made of material. Perhaps I wish I was, so I could understand what it means to be nothing now. But I'm not important, you are. You're the ragamuffin squatting in the corner of some dirty alley trying to climb a fence that isn't there. Even if you told me there was a way out, I wouldn't believe you. There is no way out. I know this because I am the way out, and you're not letting me in. Why? Reason eludes us all; words even more so when we need them the most. It's okay. There's no real train of thought. Just thought. But I'll let you have one narrow ray of sunshine.
I don't know, either.


(photo via ludevine.com)