SaffronSunrise

Laguna Loire is a flighty parent. On most nights, the small, two bedroom bungalow is empty. Squall hasn't spent much time in his father's house. He's spent more hours sleeping in his car than in his bed. Maybe it is apart of teenage rebellion like some would like to suggest. Somehow, sleeping in the bed Laguna had gotten him feels like a fuck you to his mother. The mother that Laguna had left behind. When he reappeared into his life, it was clear that Laguna had little idea of what it meant to be a parent. He was awkward as if reading from a script through all their interactions. Finally, when Squall turned sixteen, Laguna had decided that

Laguna Loire is a flighty parent. On most nights, the small, two bedroom bungalow is empty. Squall hasn't spent much time in his father's house. He's spent more hours sleeping in his car than in his bed. Maybe it is apart of teenage rebellion like some would like to suggest. Somehow, sleeping in the bed Laguna had gotten him feels like a fuck you to his mother. The mother that Laguna had left behind. When he reappeared into his life, it was clear that Laguna had little idea of what it meant to be a parent. He was awkward as if reading from a script through all their interactions. Finally, when Squall turned sixteen, Laguna had decided that

And that greatest fear that doth reign in my heart And of that great fear, that consumes my entire being; we spoke naught. Ill thought of were those that could not, would not see the strength of tears. Hot, salty tears that run in rivulets down your face. Do not cry, sweet one; there will be light yet. As the dawn breaks. As the golden fire burns, raging across the horizon. As the sea foam gallops up the shore with the first crack of dawn, the first resounding crash of sea against sand, the first light and life in this, the first day of forever. Feel the heat sear your skin. Turn your face towards the light. Bask in the warmth of a new day

she remembers other lives: fragments of myriad pasts that might once have been her own. they shift, like shards in a kaleidoscope; catch the light and s p l i n t e r a memory into bright and broken chaos of galaxies spun from shivering mirages of worlds long-gone and the glitter-glass symphony of wind-chimes, gently stirred by passing ghosts wakened from unslumber and dragged, blind and weary cross time-worn trails, forever trapped in a music-box waltz to her wretched sigh[and someone else's elegy.] and she's the girl watching, holding fast by silken, poisoned threads by a plea, a promise to let go the silvered whisper

I thrashed, God, and bit at the body you gave me. I gnashed at viscera and fruit, you watched me ripen and fall away like a blister. Now your heart flits and hums, swallowed moth, against my own, against spirit and breast so I ask - Would a lantern do for you, Lord where my tongue falters in drawing you to me? Maker, call me North Star or Elijah at altar, make me more miracle than salt

today, i am a tower. the clocks spin, moving hands not moving me; i am caught in a web of sunlight. breathing in, i feel the names of nature carved inside my walls - like stone is skin is bark. striped sleeves, take my hand, take me to the seaside; i will bury myself in sand and grow with the tides.

The Girl Who Fears the Stars She walks with her eyes lowered to the ground on clear nights.   She focuses with all of her strength on the frozen ground passing beneath her feet.  Every night she must endure this walk after her shift at work, and it feels like a punishment; which she shamefully brought on herself. Months that feel like days ago, she could stare up at the sky and feel something that could not be explained.  Her body warmed and her pulse raced, she could take a whole breath and relieve the feeling or suffocation.  Best of all, she could see his eyes glimmering among them.  

It is building up deep within her fragile body like a heaving monsoon forming over the dry, cracked, heavy heat of an African savannah; an unforgiving and all-consuming storm desperately willing to drown out its less than fleeting welcome. Flickering with ceaseless coils of skin-searing energy like a grey-faced fugitive's adrenaline stricken heartbeat, it is not a bringer of life, but a threat to it—and even the most reckless are hardwired to take flight in the face of such a colossal and uncompromising foe.           Beyond these white-washed walls, the world would have her believe that she is brave, a lioness, an exception confronted

i would be a wolf for you. i would huddle, hungering, over you, and ask you where you had gone when you had died. i would write you love poems in my own teeth, and leave them by your side, so if you ever woke up, you would know i was coming back. but you won't wake up, will you? you are already autumn, slumbering in the spice of rotting leaves. this suits me: wolves do not write love poetry. our only poetry is storms trapped between our ears, fur frozen flat with fear, and the way snow crunches, or leaves crunch, or bones crunch between rusted teeth. i can only write poetry to my dead things— you are only sleeping. i will take my w

what does your november look like? what does your december look like? it looks like, looks like, looks like pale moons of flesh where she glowed under satellites and i thought this feeling was alien. when really, this space was a void that only looked full when light hit it. a lost cosmonaut searching for new planets in emptiness. how empty was this when i first laid in the crater of your arms?

with her willowy limbs lifted like a marionette's, she gracefully stands long-legged & stagnated. through the ashen breath <of her>, the silence beckons the <swathed> flirt that lies underneath. the frigidness of rosed soles causes elfin toes to flitter; softly stepping over the heavy <deep> sleep that falls upon her brumal shattuckite eyes. for if the <swelling> eventide calls, with god's icy caress slitting across wan & saline skin <like rusted razor blades>, it expects an answer from her bow-shaped hexagonite lips. undoing the smooth & silvery buttons of her cotton pinnoite blouse. click, click, cl

she s{l}ips on the vertigo twists of a world revol{v|ution}ing by too slow; in a haze of midnight dust she weaves rapt{ure} evergreen into the ruptures of mo{u}rning, wreathed in the sorrow of a fool's heartbreak. entropy is the final chapter in a{n}ever- resting betrayal mountains high; the {p}act of an uncaring parent piling sorrows onto her children.

autumn feels like change & disappointment holding hands & tastes like bitter half-beginnings. the thing about a half-beginning is it's also half an end. the leaves crunch under my feet sometimes, when they haven't been drowned by a day's worth of rain, but the satisfaction is short-lived, & the consequences are not. & while the leaves died in brilliance, now all they are is dead. maybe that's the best that i can hope for— to go out like a flame, young & burning, burning, burning with potential & hopes & dreams & death. i sense winter before i feel the goosebumps on my skin. i know it's coming, & helplessly, i know i cannot stop it