Showcase | 015

Sep 2, 20134 min read

Deviation Actions

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Published: Sep 2, 2013

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The main focus of The-Asterismos is to celebrate and provide exposure for your excellent literature deviations. Each Sunday, I will be taking the time to feature a number of outstanding pieces submitted to the group during the past week. I encourage you to browse through the work below! Each deviant featured is very worthy of your support.

FragmentsI call them fragments, the parts of me that were too exhausted to stay. He calls them flecks because I am a flake. I wish I was a flake. It sounds prettier than being a fragment. Flakes are like snow. Soothing, falling from the sky on the tip of his tongue that melt and disappear. Fragments are archeological findings of a scarred past we really should not remember.
I want to remember my scars. So I am a fragment.
-
I draw on my legs. When my skin dries out, I use my index finger as a pencil and draw what the clouds are trying to tell me. Sometimes it’s a dog, and sometimes it’s a bear and sometimes it is his face looking at me disapprovingly.
That is when I stop drawing.
-
At night, when the rain falls, I sit at the bay window and pretend to write stories whilst he pretends to sleep. “What are you writing?” he will ask in his asleep voice. “A funny story.” It is not. It is a pale, scary story, and it looks like my skin. “Were you dreamin :thumb394893787:
grayest IIfor weeks i had fallen asleep listening to the melodies leaking out of your ears.
always & inevitably, it would come to this:
the music grew from a tiny seed inside your gut,
spread throughout your entire body, consumed your mind
& boiled your blood until it was too great a force to keep inside you.
at this point, you would leave me behind to go on tour.
it had never been anything but routine until now.
you pretended otherwise, but i felt your holding your breath in your sleep,
& i heard your pen scratching when you thought i was unconscious.
leaving was important, leaving mattered
because this time you felt that there was something
that might not be there when you got back.
your promises were rolling down your chin
as you walked me towards the edge of an abyss,
& i could not trust the ease with which you bared your soul.
we filled our bedroom with the haze of so many cigarettes
that our faces became obscured & we did not have to look at each other.
you stole one of don't say nothey had said,
long before i met you
that the truth is known for its
characteristic
punch in the gut;
it picks at the skin
on your forehead till it
peels off like the zest
of a pregnant orange,
bitter on your fingers
but so sweet
on your tongue.
pain
is a typical symptom
of truth but
no one ever said
that you would exhaust
the sweetness
by the time it was
my turn to listen.

Note: I want to read your re-imagined myths & legends!
See you next week for Showcase 016!

- Jessie

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