When glaciers break up due to rising world temperatures, its called calving. I’m calving.
She glitters like she walked out of a Klimt painting.
I feel way cool, like I’m wearing sunglasses even though I’m not.
Para que se produzcan milagros tienes que ser capaz de verlos.
I can unzip the air and disappear inside it.
But sometimes I think Dad suspects. Sometimes I think the toaster suspects.
Not because he looks familiar on the outside this time, but because he feels familiar on the inside.
So much blood’s rushing and gushing to my head it might blow straight off my neck.
I understand. Not the circumstances, but the shame. I understand the quicksand of shame.
And I see that his brown eye has a splash of green in it and the green one a splash of brown. Like Cezanne painted them. Impressionist eyes.
Nor that he’s regarding my face with the same intensity I am his. We’re two paintings staring at each other across a room.
Don’t be sad.” She says it so warmly, it makes the air change color. “It came right through the wall last night.
I’ve forgotten quite how luminous he is, like another species of human that doesn’t have blood but light running through their veins.
For days and days, the rain beat its fists on the roof of our house – evidence of the terrible mistake God had made. Each morning, when I woke I listened for the tireless pounding, looked at the drear through the window and was relieved that at least the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.
What’s your major, Lennie? Oh yeah: Dorkology.
And there are horses galloping inside her. I can hear them.
Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things.
I’m in self-imposed exile, cradled between split branches, in my favorite tree in the woods behind school. I’ve been coming here every day at lunch, hiding out until the bell rings, whittling words into the branches with my pen, allowing my heart to break in private.
Parents aren’t allowed to kiss like this!
There’s nothing giggly about Heather usually. She’s the opposite; hanging out with her is like sitting in an empty church. That’s why I like her. She’s quiet and serious and a thousand years old and seems like she can talk to the wind.