Blackbird Memory Letters 1

Dear Blackbird, I hope this finds you well and the worms can bring you these scraps that I drop down with saline. I know they've got their own to worry about but maybe they'll be so kind this time. Don't worry about the worms. We all end up their food in the end. If it starts with just your words they might pardon you later, but it's not too bad. Just quiet sometimes.
The music here is too loud sometimes. It hurts my eyes. I cover my ears but the world turns black and deafening with lightning. It's all green and orange and it shakes up through my spine. You want to give up at times. It happens to the best of us. I'm sorry if I ever made you think that wasn't okay. Knowing your limits is good. Like flying. Whoever said you couldn't? Me. Every time I'm at the edge and ready to jump. My heart stops. And I'm gone. Like that time you pulled me from the roof. You laughed and swept me up in your arms and said don't you dare do that again. But I locked you out there once. And it was freezing. We were so obsessed that sometimes cruelty was the only way to handle it. The pain in return for the safety later. Or maybe we were just pushing the limits. Testing the strength of the bond. Infinite. It was silly for us to test it. Like all those people testing the intelligence of monkeys and crows. What do they know about any intelligence but their own? The monkeys and crows though, they know the true extent of it. I came home and the light was different. The house was full of water. I couldn't stay there. I went outside and saw it dripping down the shingles. But my ears were still clogged and I still couldn't see clearly. I tried to remember what season it was but I couldn't feel anything. It could have been freezing or sweltering. I just can't remember. Broken bones lose their nerves. You used to laugh when they said winter made you sad. They didn't understand. Snow was never the problem. We turned white once. Terrified and shaking in the cold. But we didn't hold it against winter. We held it against ourselves. I never could stop blaming myself for that. Don't. Maybe I wanted to be white. Made me appreciate what I was. To hide. To be hidden. To sleep. To be put to sleep. I know. I'm sorry. It's okay, Summer. You only did what you thought was best. Shifting the light. Shining for those who never get a chance to go on before their time. I'm well past my time. It doesn't get any better. It's like those dragons kids imagine. The older they get the less ferocious they become until they turn into stuffed animals you kiss goodnight. Statues that have lost any life of their own. You're afraid of that. Stones turning into butterflies. Cracks revealed as pieces of strings, glued to fool the eye. I just don't want to live in a flat world. You'll never be flat. That's what's most important.
Why does the dew creep up without warning? Maybe you're just asleep. Dreams are funny things. They bring you away and when you return make you believe the world had stopped in your absence. As if you spun the wheel. That's just how it feels sometimes. Always pushing that rock up the hill. Breaking at the knees, sweat pooling on the small of the back. Saline. We see a lot of that. Don't poison the roses. If you still walk, walk beside them. I still walk. It's a mistake I've made again and again. Someday, someday you'll learn how to fly. Trust me.

Smoke on the Horizon

Streaks across the sky
Sunlight you and I
Sunlight you and I
We see the streaks that cut the sky
Open wide, Open wide

Black upon the blue
Sunlight me and you
Sunlight me and you
Stare at the naked bruise
Cut right through, cut right through

The burning in the sky
Sunlight you and I
Sunlight you and I
Watch as the smoke collides
Air has died, air has died

Eating up the blue
Sunlight me and you
Sunlight me and you
There's nothing we can do
Can't break through, can't break through

Empty Shells

Because bombshells are just the trees
After a hurricane
I forgive you

Because embers are just the sunset
After a lightning strike
I forgive you

Because I am just the cartridge
After the shot
You forgive me

Quiver

Move down upon a hollow road
Dreary wind’s gentle tap on your door
The grey bird’s path in willow lanes
Skeletons for evermore

Or lest the snow falls on the ‘morrow
And quiet drapes winter its sheet
Keepsake my sparrow in the morning
In memories ‘til spring we meet

Black Rabbit

You’re my dark, he says
My cold, my marrow
The hills are covered in blood
He says
Run quick, rabbit, run quick

You’re my heels, he says
My strength, my muscle
He gave them all sharp teeth
He says
Go hunt, he told them, go hunt

You’re my bright, he says
My barbed wire, my senseless
They all got filled with hate
He says
They’re coming, soon, they’re coming

You’re my ears, he says
My echoes, my shaking
That shadow’s coming fast
He says
That smoke, ash is where it comes from

You’re my heart, he says
My pulse, my racing
And he pointed to the source
He says
Soon black rabbit, soon it will be bursting

Tiny Dancer

Again and again I found myself touched by the singular desolation of that photograph. There was little in it that made so specific a claim but as a whole it was utterly impossible to ignore the despondency of the delicate figure wrapped around herself when all the air about her waited in vain for her movement. There was energy in the pose she held, her muscles rigid with purpose, but there was a remarkable feeling of weakness hiding in the shadows. Her body seemed to shiver underneath her thin shirt and leggings. I always felt the need to reach out to her but the despair seemed irrevocable and a glass of purely dimensional disabilities kept me from ever reaching her morose form.

She stood upon a stage as if held up by a giant hand, forcing her in front of the eye of scrutiny. She was balanced on the toes of one foot, pushing with all her force against this evil platform. The rest of her body was pulled up in a peculiar fashion similar to a child wrapped tightly in the fetal position. Her arms angled as a splash of ivory down across her raised leg and her hands landed pointing up against the knee in a tight, flat palmed grip so that her form created a series of triangles broken only by the slight curvature of her shoulder blades and head. Her hair draped down over her wayward shoulder and fell with a soft glint that betrayed its fine texture. Her chin tucked between her shoulders into the point where her finger tips and knee cap met, leaving no gap under her neck for light to pass through.

Her feet and ankles were bare, as were her arms and shoulders, and she gave the impression that her clothes may as well have been torn and spoiled for all her marks of abandonment, though they were not. Her black leggings clung to the muscular curvature of her legs like a second skin, terrified that at any moment they could be separated from their wearer. Her shirt stuck nearly as close, pressing like saran wrap over her ribs and spine. It folded in grey creases on her sides like half a sun floating on the horizon of her upper arm and raised thigh. The shirt was dull as the underside of a rain cloud but I knew it to be of a brilliant crimson. So striking it had been on her, a splash of blood from the center of a grey landscape. Even in the monotone landscape it managed to stand out but not so much in the manner of vitality as it had then, rather it was a soft center under which everything else was buried.

Her face wore an expression of detachment. Her furrowed brow and cringing neck spoke of some inner pain as hidden from the observer as her cries were silent. But her eyes were cast down in almost an angelic manner. They were calm and accepting but altogether in a land far too distant for another soul to connect to them. This contrast of both strong and quivering spirit was perhaps what always drew me back to the image. That unique quality that made the audience view her both as a passionate and headstrong individual and as a delicate and withering grace. This fact and perhaps the alternate view which could make this image appear to be taken from an aerial position above a body in its last breath of agony, made me cling nostalgically to this little slip of paper as if I understood. As if I could have done something.

I gave it one last hard stare before finally setting it upon the stone base. Above was her inscription, below was the grass whose roots kept down my memories. I lay a rose delicately on top of it, being careful that the thorns did not hinder the image under its glass covering. I knew every line of the image by heart and knew I’d be lucky to ever lose it from my dreams. I silently bade farewell one last time. As I turned away the impression of the crimson petals upon the mottled grey stone remained on the insides of my eyelids in an eternal haunting. I wanted to stop, to turn around and admit that I was only running from the guilt, but I had to move on. With either indifference or oblivion I had to keep walking. I wiped the back of my hand across my face in one final gesture of absolution and took off down the road.

Dear Readers,

All I've been looking for is some place to put it all down. Some place where it can be final and unfinished simultaneously. These little strings pulled from my brain either in fragments or in delicate braids, they need a home. Certainly some have traversed other places but nowhere has felt quite right yet, so they're trying for here. Please do not send them sprinting away but rather help them adjust and suggest changes for the better. They are for themselves mostly, and partially for myself, but there is still a piece of them for you. Take it. But treat gently- honestly- but gently. That's all I can ask. All the best dear reader. I look forward to hearing from you in the future.
~Black Cat Shining