What's this space that lives between our silence?
A hungry void waiting for a whimper.
Tomorrow's empty belly yearning for a feast.
One that may never come — uncertainty never settles comfortably anyway.
What's this pause that lives before the exhale?
Suffocated lungs, a racing heart, the moment before release, a buildup so sweet it swells and sways, seismic, orgasmic.
How much pain should passion cause?
Bruises baked into knees from longing, the lower back from thirsting, the neck from hedonistic hunger.
What is the silence that lives between pleasure and pain?
How many muted decibels?
How many moans echoing, clawing at the lead-stained walls?
About the Creator
The steps to losing a child
Step One: Lose a child. Not what anyone wants to happen and nothing you can do to change it, but you can go through steps to becoming happy again. You can go through steps to loving again. You can go through steps to become a new you because after losing a child you will never be the same person you once were.
By Tabitha Hinkley5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
So visceral. I love it