Please, don’t touch her painted paper skin, so thin over the spun sugar guts. Don’t pull her by the fraying worm silk tendons to stand on scrap metal joints. Or bid her dance on blown glass bones. Let her lie there, where she left herself.
Please, speak in whispers to the cracked siphon of her ear. And ask no questions; the bellows in her chest are winded, the pipes in her throat rusted closed. She cannot answer, wouldn’t want to. So don’t tell her to smile—and bare the fallen soldiers of her teeth—or ask her name. You won’t use it. Please, leave it with her.
About the Creator
Lauren Everdell
Writer. Chronic sickie. Part-time gorgon. Probably thinking about cyborgs right now.
Website: https://ubiquitousbooks.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/scrawlauren/
bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/scrawlauren.bsky.social
Keep reading
More stories from Lauren Everdell and writers in Poets and other communities.
Remember
Stepping from the shower, swathing your soft folds in the towel warm from the rack, she’s there in the tiny pinkness of feet through the steam, toes wiggling, head bowed over her apple belly and her own yellow towel never wrapped; always hooked cape-like by the hood on the damp head, little bear ears perked and no idea yet what nakedness is, not weighted with the care of it, and when you go before the mirror—in the second before you look—you believe with all the tired songbird in your chest there’ll be no reflection, then laugh at yourself: you never feared being undead, but the first blink shows you smooth, dark brows and unclouded eyes, and the silence becomes everything; the hunting silence like the moment before the killing strike of an owl when something—not you—already knows you will soon die, and it’s not until the second blink shows you colourless hair and deep lines around faded lips that held breath can whistle free between teeth the colour of silver birch bark—happy birthday, Dear—in the bedroom she lays out your history while you shrug into your cardigan; jeans with shredded knees and shit-kicker boots, and that time you wore nothing but dungarees: layers and layers of clothes like the shed leaves of a tree, and on the terrace, there again, she lies in your lifetime of summer suns, straw hat shading her shade of your face, while you walk among wildflowers she planted with slender, clever fingers for these your fading, golden years, and breathe the air, and remember they are the ghosts, not you, not yet.
By Lauren Everdellabout a year ago in Poets
Bruce Lee and The God of War: Kuan Ti
It starts with love.. The Power to the God Of War and Wealth Walk into a Chinese restaurant (even in Oklahoma, USA), a Chinese police station, a kung fu martial arts studio or even a Chinese temple and you often see a red faced warrior holding a heavy quan-do (spear like weapon).
By WILD WAYNE : The Dragon King6 days ago in Chapters
Comments (2)
You have a captivating writing style. I really enjoyed this piece, and it resonates with me a great deal. Great piece!
This resonated so deeply with me. Loved it!