It makes me really sad to read all the anon hate the people I follow are receiving today.
I don’t even know what to say.

Molecular Charge

Stumbled blindly unto sun-drenched lawns,
colliding free radicals didn’t break my fall.
Electron explosions right above my head.
The atmospheric imbalance that’s caused -
when Seattle skies meet the sun again.

I would like to offer up a question. I see many ask for their boxes to be filled (I try to take that as literal as possible), but I only have one simple question: why are you following me (and not in the 3am Pike Street yell-back-at-the-creepy-crack-head sort of “why are you following me”)? Answer here , anon or as you are - I would just really love to know. All the best - K

Bruises

I found solace somewhere in between the school house and the back 20 acres, a safe distance from the little creek I was too afraid to cross. I had watched that creek overflow its banks the year before and slowly take over our playground. The wood chips under the swing-sets floating away like sea oats on the tide.
I gently set my wool sweater on the driest pile of leaves I could find. The overgrowth was dying, sweetly reeking of decomposition under an October sky that threatened more rain. My mother would be so upset if I were to soil my school uniform with mud and greenish moss stains. She spent so much time washing, ironing, starching; every pleat perfect, the hemline of my A-line skirt straight every morning. My little blue bowtie never drooped as the other children’s did. I believed that meant my mother loved me more than their mothers’ did. I had the sharpest bowtie in morning line-up, standing next to my best friend, with hers looking more like a haphazard after though.
I sit down on my sweater, far away from the laughter, the occasional scream (Montessori children learn early not to make much noise, something I never quite mastered) and the strict gaze of the teachers, watching over their flock.
I look down at my little hands. They are battered and bruised. I have the perfect excuse. Long hours training at the gymnastics facility, competitions every weekend, even at the age of seven. The compulsory bar routine leaves deep calluses in my palms that blister and burst blood or clear fluid whenever I hold a pen, my mother’s hand or the flagpole in the first grade play.
I form a little fist, looking at the meaty part that bulges up between the base of my thumb and index finger. There are faint hints of yellows and blues there, various stages of healing; but no feat of gymnastics could make those marks.
Just as I sink my little teeth into that meaty bump and cringe as the taste of metal hits my tongue, (the sign for me to let go) my first grade teacher bounds through the thin covering of birch trunks and dying ferns, staring down at my routine. With a yank to one of my perfectly placed pigtails, she has me on my feet, my muddy Mary Jane’s on my wool sweater. It’s surely ruined now, even beyond my mother’s repair.
“I think it’s time I had a word with your parents”.

Internment

Magical apparition -  but aren’t they all?
Four walls can speak,
I heard them;
not the voice of God,
but of men who made false panic
a thing of tidal waves
and charging trains.
Who gave them that power?
They said “crazy”
but they didn’t wear white suits.
Jesus was there,
he sat outside my cell.
I heard him murmur “serenus”
in a place that doesn’t know His name.

Tumblr realization No 2

I need to use this platform to bleed my innermost demons. Good writing won’t come from vague descriptions and half-analogies that I hint at to gaurantee I still fit society’s view of a well-adjusted adult.
Good writing doesn’t come from pretending.
Lying to myself about my life and past will not better me or my writing in any way.
The best Tumblr writers bare their fucked up souls so well, it makes lucid Lithium living look like the key to writing success. I happen to already live there, but am too chicken-shit to tell the tale.

He left me

with all the right words
but no place or way 
to write them down.
His blood fueled my pen,
his spine bound my pages.

///

tonight we would have ate

the top layer of that vanilla cake.

 funny thing we picked vanilla;

we always were the chocolate kind.

I tossed that thing out months before

I knew we would never share it

over a bottle of cheap champagne

I would have sipped my toast

and poured my glass down the kitchen drain.

you would have looked me in the eyes

as we made love as I pretended to be

too raptured with the whole process

to meet your gaze.

I wonder why we’re not eating that cake tonight.

I wonder why we had them add that tier at all.

I dyed my hair from blonde to dark brown.

…
Every time I pass my reflection I freak out and think I’ve been body-snatched.

angry writer

If I am not oppressed by my pedigree, angered at my government, confused by my sexuality or crying for my environment… am I not still a writer?