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I finished my WIP!

Well, by finished, I mean I have a complete first draft that still needs a lot of work, but I’m still pleased with how the ending turned out, even if I completely broke down in tears. There must be some part of me that secretly loves to add sad touches to endings. It’s like I can’t help it. However, given that this WIP involves time travel, I guess I can let myself off, as it was inevitable for the plot.

Anyway, it’s late and I used up the last of my energy trying to type the final words through the rivers of water running from my eyes.

But at least I can say I’m finished (at least for a while, until I’ve decided I’ve left it long enough to go over it with fresh eyes). Hooray!

 

Poetry

Exoskeleton

We are what we are, until

we learn what’s underneath

and what we’ve held back for so long.

Always paying attention to the ticks, but never the softer tocks.

Our outside skins will crack over time,

no matter how much moisturizer is applied

because they’re cocoons

waiting for the right moment

to let us stand on our own legs.

Poetry

Last glance

She leads him

To the mirror pool

Where she tells him to dip his hands and drink.

She doesn’t say when to stop,

And so he continues, draining the pool.

In his belly, the shards of the mirror form, and

He sees not the blood from the wound in his middle,

But the faces of his children as they play,

Oblivious, in the fields below.

Poetry

I wear sky blue ear defenders to dull the threatening hum of the world.

They’re not perfect. They might cork the sharpness,

but they cannot smooth it.

And the times when I need their comfort most,

when the weight of voices, bodies, auras

tries to crush me and all I want is silence,

they become invisible. Strangers direct questions my way

as if they’re not even there. Comments

that need responses I’m too weary,

too flattened, to give.

I can still hear every word, and each one ties me with the cord of obligation

to reach for my social mask,

the one I thought I’d shed months ago.

I wear sky blue ear defenders to dull the threatening hum of the world.

They’re armour to protect me, but even armour

cannot save me from arrows.

Poetry

Powder puff

I stare out at the breeze lifting the fushia flowers from the plant, seeing

only fairies with puffy blossom skirts

and skinny legs dangling out beneath.

When they fall to the ground, I think, ‘Oops, there goes

another one who was too weighed down by her dress.’

Visions like this come often;

bursts of another world thrown

at me like powder at a colour festival.

I drink them up and let them buzz inside me for the rest of the day.