a girl holding her throat, reading backwards

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-03-12T12:51:00

2004-03-12T17:49:46Z

i have relocated

if you really want to know then ask

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-03-05T20:22:00

2004-03-06T01:20:14Z

this is the end

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-29T21:45:00

2004-03-01T02:43:23Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-29T11:44:00

2004-02-29T16:43:53Z

6.

she is aged. two decades resting against her skin, against the lines beneath her eyes, in her chest. but they still whisper youth. they do not see her wilting valves and veins. a premature movement of hands. they see her face beneath the round sun and pass her by as vagrant youth. the young will never learn. and it is when she lies down to sleep. imagination takes her turn. pulling on all the strings attached to her heart and lungs. vital organs too still to work while the sleeping disease takes hold. a sleeping, jerking marionette. a landscape of emotion she whispers. i have to write. the words push from under her skin, indentations of knowledge pulling through. above her collarbone the letters r and k and l break the skin. in the space beside her elbow and wrist words surface and dive again. but they will not form in the skin of her tongue. a thick organ that adheres to its only rules and books. only her body can tell you. small metal typewriter teeth working from within.

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-28T20:25:00

2004-02-29T01:27:17Z

4.
memory. a room with three walls. a window painted green. the everlasting heat and weight of vegetation. a room with wooden floors and tired walls. a vintage girl sitting deep. a dusted sunshine slipping through. a vine sliding its growth inside a photograph of a dead woman and her child. and yet we like to think everyone is still living. a southern sigh runs across her backbone. she listens with her hands against her throat as a man begins his digging in the yard. there is too much heat and sun for him. too much weight to bear. this life he did not ask for. digging against dirt as hard as bone. her imagination slips from her wrists just when her head is turned. she was listening to the birds again. the walls come down and there is too much to bear. an occasion for all things.
and the windows were painted a cruel green.

5.
five is missing

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-28T10:03:00

2004-02-28T15:01:59Z

3.
a liquid heat. a heat producing liquid. a drop rolling down a curved bone. and back again. the air a mass of emotion, foreign and blind. a timid tongue with too many words to force out and beyond. sitting with her head forward, a sickness stirring behind closed eyes. a mind that cannot and will not contain all. she is sitting like a book closed. ink bleeding between her hands, words floating between her hips. a heat she cannot contain and yet her imagination eggs her on. it is there, beyond your hands. bones connected to bones, a cradle to rest on. a massive code of the heart. open one valve and another shatters. one and zero one and zero. there are tricks to this trade. lying back and waiting.
a sun that will never err, never stop bursting. she lets fear slip beside her, another shoulder pressed to hers. a back seat full of fictional characters and emotion. the skin beneath the wrists she says. is it true? is there some secret hidden there. delicate bird like bones, a tired mess. is it true if you just move this bone over to the side a little? look deep. there is a tiny organ hidden there. a tiny heart beating its beat. no one speaks of it but it is there. a second heart for us. a medical book mystery i promise. but listen dear. fear in her red dress and diamonds falling. it is a second heart, just smaller in size and fluid. but just don’t press too hard.... or it will burst like seeded fruit.

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-27T13:11:00

2004-02-27T18:09:29Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-27T13:10:00

2004-02-27T18:08:50Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-26T13:38:00

2004-02-26T18:36:43Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-26T10:24:00

2004-02-26T15:24:19Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-24T21:24:00

2004-02-25T02:24:58Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-23T11:36:00

2004-02-23T16:34:55Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-23T09:57:00

2004-02-23T14:56:40Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-23T09:43:00

2004-02-23T14:44:35Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-19T16:25:00

2004-02-19T21:24:06Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-19T15:28:00

2004-02-19T20:28:06Z

yes, its mine

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-18T11:42:00

2004-02-18T16:42:15Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-18T11:41:00

2004-02-18T16:41:32Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-18T11:40:00

2004-02-18T16:40:47Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-17T17:20:00

2004-02-17T22:20:37Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-17T17:18:00

2004-02-17T22:18:59Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-17T10:59:00

2004-02-17T15:57:39Z

2.
light bleeding like paper and water against rock and weight. light pulling up the night like hands needing to feel touch. light and dark can’t coexist but we wake up to their battle every morning. and so she lifted her head and listened to imagination turning over again. a book getting lost between the dust and bones turned white from guilt and fear. the natural selections of the heart. time slipping her hands between the land and the air. water hitting hard in the base of her throat. knowledge sitting up straight and weary. a night of too many words, a dam lying broken. a cough racking the silence, an echo of everything to come. a common place.
so she sat up straighter and avoided the light and the mirrors. shifting away from the road and the night. imagination lying back down but still lucid and ripe. she knew every dream was true and full. a reality built out of a city.

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-16T16:23:00

2004-02-16T21:21:36Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-16T16:14:00

2004-02-16T21:16:58Z

i_breatheyou_in @ 2004-02-16T15:35:00

2004-02-16T20:33:45Z

and all the motels were full and swollen. travelers stranded and killing time and one another. just a passerby, just like the girls before her. hair getting caught in her mouth, silvered rings against a torn steering wheel. cigarettes on the dashboard and bottles underfoot. an imagination ripe and organic in a common place. knowledge bleeding all over the landscape. words into music and words again. the edges are sliding. a photograph sliding around on the back seat, devoid of edges or images. a page from a book. a book burned and reddened. a rose leaking letters and ink, a piece of knowledge leaking through. a page. a page of a photograph. the one.
curled in her hands, driving and turning, imagination so ripe she can’t close her eyes without succumbing to it, without drowning in it. a homemade trap. ink and wood and steel. pieces of glass cut in the shapes of the heart and the mind. the intersecting parts and glass screws. valve upon open valve, she whispers into hardened wind. every way is opened.
speaking in tongues and feeling quiet. the sleeping disease grasping her wrists and pulling her down. left alone in a room so full of this beating organ she could not breath. memory rushing her. memory pushing against and between. her ribs too small to contain such a heart. and finally between the bones bleached too bright she stopped and breathed in the fallen night sky. placed her head back and let inertia take its hold.