Thoronium

there’s this boy i work with. he is five. he wears long sleeves and shorts with holes in them that are only kept together with small clothespins and thin threads. his hair is always cut close to his skin, though his bangs are left just long enough so it covers his eyes and i know no one can see them. but i always watch him. only sometimes i will allow myself to watch over someone else, even though i know this boy will only continue to follow me. he asks me to play, he asks me to speak, and sometimes, he even asks me to hold his hand. they are always cold and strong, with calluses and chipped nails that dig rough into my skin, and

she slept through a car crash that almost killed her. through whitewhite walls, and dreams where her lover dies. nobody thought she'd make it, but she woke up a few months later with flowers in her hair and ash in her airway; trying to remember how to start all over, but forgetting to remember how to live. fall slipped from her open eyes and winter crawled in for a long hibernation of not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow. to her the clouds looked sick and pale like they might let everything inside them out, but she opened up wide instead, spilling blood where there was none to be spilled. her heart slipped down the street and with unsteady ha

i.never become a writer. you will become a perfectionist, picking life apart with a magpie's eye, hunting for the beautiful bits until you can make yourself a sparkling throne in the center of a junkyard. ii.you will write when you're sad. you will write when you're happy. whenever you feel something, you will vomit the emotion out into some sort of literature. when you're finished, you'll be empty and surrounded by pages and pages of everything you once were. iii.you will try to make pain sound delicious, painting over the ragged wounds with pink paint and candy-coat lies. you will learn how to decorate graveyards. everyone will play

01. yesterday, i wrote your name on a slip of paper and folded it into an origami star. it hangs on my bonsai tree (little trees for big wishes) as a just-in-case hope for those times when it feels like absolutely nothing can make me happy. sometimes, when even stars and little trees aren't enough to make me happy, i cut down the paper stars and pretend that it is a meteorite shower in my bedroom, but sometimes that just makes it worse because i realize that shooting stars are actually falling stars; we are all just stars that have forgotten the happy-thoughts that made us fly, it's just that some of us are blaz