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Taylor Rhodes
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in Lynchburg, The United States
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November 2013
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the world has already ended. this is purgatory.
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“Is it bad to like the way the scars look on my skin? Oh, the way they feel under my hands. My body’s protecting itself, saying, “No, this barrier of scar tissue is to keep you out.”
― Sixteenth Notes: the breaking of the rose-colored glasses
― Sixteenth Notes: the breaking of the rose-colored glasses
“purple threaded evening. a torn goddess laying on the roof. milk sky. lavender hued moan against hot asphalt. the thickness of evening presses into your throat. polaroids taped to the ceiling. ivy pouring out of the cracks in the wall. i found my courage buried beneath molding books and forgot to lock the door behind me. the old house never forgets. opened my mouth and a dandelion fell out. reached behind my wisdom teeth and found sopping wet seeds. pulled all of my teeth out just to say i could. he drowned himself in a pill bottle and the orange really brought out his demise. lay me down on a bed of ground spices. there’s a song there, i know it. amethyst geode eyes. cracked open. no one saw it coming.
october never loved you.
the moon still doesn’t understand that.”
― calloused: a field journal
october never loved you.
the moon still doesn’t understand that.”
― calloused: a field journal
“holy, holy, holy dawn. my hips rocking into your face. the edge inviting. your name like dry wine on my tongue. your name branded into my inner thigh.”
― calloused: a field journal
― calloused: a field journal
“he walks into the bedroom like he owns it. says, “i wanna be filthy with you.” takes me down hungry. helps me shed my skin. cafuné. he looked at me like i wasn’t something ruined. filled my vicious parts with gold. touched me with too much yearning. he said, “i’d burn for you.” how can he not see we’re the creators of the fire? he growled, “moan for me.” the wolf bit down and i howled into the night.”
― calloused: a field journal
― calloused: a field journal
“highway wildflowers swaying like the ocean. queen anne’s lace like doilies for a tea party never attended. this is a conversation between two parts of yourself. the fever will break soon, but until then i’ll be untangling you from the knots in my windblown hair. i smell like a wet forest, like long grass covered in sequins. i called your name but was drowned out by the thunder. i remember you murmuring, “please,” while you took my shirt off. i remember you and the airy “please” when you pulled me toward you by my legs. i remember “pleeease” while i learned how to let go. i remember your divine “please.” chanting it as if it’d draw a demon out of hiding. “please, please, please.” and i screamed, “yes.”
― calloused: a field journal
― calloused: a field journal
“no one can recover if they won’t admit the wrongdoings.
i won’t recover if i pretend it was all sunshine.
i have to remember his vindictive temper and realize that sheltering the house from the storm wasn’t actually going to make a difference if i still got damaged in the process. because then it’s just another broken house with no one to tell its story.”
― calloused: a field journal
i won’t recover if i pretend it was all sunshine.
i have to remember his vindictive temper and realize that sheltering the house from the storm wasn’t actually going to make a difference if i still got damaged in the process. because then it’s just another broken house with no one to tell its story.”
― calloused: a field journal
“i dreamt i crawled on top of you and kissed your hips, one at a time, my lips a smolder. i straddled your waist and pressed both shaking hands against your torso. spongy, like an old tree on the forest floor. i push and your flesh sinks inwardly, collapsing with decay, a soft shushing sound. a yawning hole where your organs should be. maggots used to live here until your own poison killed them off. i laid my cheek into the loam and three little mushrooms brushed over my eyelid. peat, decomposing matter, all of it, whatever you wish to call it, rested in the cavity of your chest. and there i planted seeds in the hopes something good would come out of you.”
― calloused: a field journal
― calloused: a field journal
