Savoci

I once heard that a person’s eyes are doors to the soul. Hers were a kind of blue found only in distant islands, with specks of pain that told me she shouldn't have known the wisdom she held. Her beauty was the inspiration for great artists, but it was twisted in both despair and hope as she fought a battle with who she was and who she should be. When I looked into her eyes, I didn't believe they were doors. They reminded me more of stain-glass windows, because they told a story I couldn't begin to describe, but I could see inside the stone walls she had built up around herself. She had tucked secrets between memories and fear, to hide

A serenade Of promises And red brick With a jumble Of colours And sounds Which explode On your tongue As sweet as A bud of spring And captivating As her curves

She had gentle lips And ocean eyes My beacon of hope Amongst the lies She had golden skin With a matching heart Beauty uncontested A true work of art She had my soul Entangled in braids But now I know That all art fades

Music flowed Like tattered ribbons Torn from a dress Of silk and sequins There she swayed                               twirling                                              a            figure                         as                                    scattered                                                     as                                     her                           mind Allowing gentle notes To entangle her naked form Swimming through silver And spectators of snow

i. In psychology, association is defined as a connection of ideas, memories or feelings between each other or events. Melissa once had birds in her feet. She knows it because they were stolen. All she has left are the brittle bones and marks that might have been left by feathers, light as a dove’s trace. It’s painful. It makes it hard to walk, and she’s always walking. When The Others took over the city, people like Melissa suffered greatly. People who had pretty birds and other things to lose. But now The Others have lost control to bandits and fledgling rogue groups. The rest of the citizens are just drifting. There&rsquo

And you struggle with your conscience, but in the end you have to let it go. Erase your face.  Scratch it off.  Dig your nails right up underneath your jaw, bury them, gouge it out. This familiarity; rip it off. We grow here too fast, kids with fifty-year old eyes who talk like old women, who smoke and drink and work and wear sandpaper hands and swear like we know what fuck means before it makes sense.  Here's skin and bone and lips and teeth, all the colours of mud.  We're soil and dirt and layers of grime.  We're filth.  We grow stupid, stuck underneath a starless sky, staring up, pretending we remember what it was to be human.  Everythin

       El stands under muted chrome lights, legs splayed apart and left hip cocked out like the jagged end of a lipstick smear. The soft undercurrent of voices drifts from the club crowd up to the stage, quiet murmured conversations below the chink of glasses and clicks of the mike stand slotting into place. If she listens close enough she can almost hear the bare echoes of a young man's laugh, a woman's soft tinkling sigh, the swell of a family's conversation.        "All ready," the man before her grunts around the toothpick hanging out the corner of his sun-cracked mouth. El reaches a hand over to tug at the length of color-faded silk knot