Flash Fiction Writing

bulletproof, in black like a funeral

I told you once of how my breath melted and dripped down my ribcage. You told me that wasn’t possible and said I should stop stretching my words until they had no meaning. Unsurprisingly, my words were right and you were wrong. You turned my breath to icicles that stuck all over my vital organs and made my skin feel like the unexplored Arctic. When the lights shut off and anxiety swarmed like bees in the cracks between my bones, the friction snapped the ice apart and let it all melt down until it was bursting and waterfalling down my ribs. Your ice box soul slammed my velvet heart into a corner and melted me away. I promise you my breath was melting.

But now my breath is growing and sprouting in the early summer sun. I’ll wear black because it makes me feel like sex and power and home and not because I want to disappear. I’ll listen to all the songs I thought belonged to you until they’re mine again and your breath, your eyes, your jaw are dead and gone. I’ll reclaim them one by one and seek a voice that’s full of sunshine and not radiation.
via *

3 Comments

  • meg bird

    "I'll wear black because it makes me feel like sex and power and home and not because I want to disappear. I'll listen to all the songs I thought belonged to you until they're mine again and your breath, your eyes, your jaw are dead and gone."

    This got me. What is it about black? And do you think it's possible to reclaim a song in that way? I hope so. I feel like there are still some that I haven't been able to do that with. Songs that I love, but every time I listen to it, I feel the nostalgia and humiliation all over again.

    You really do stretch words in such extraordinary ways.

    Reply
  • Bone

    Yes, that is exactly what it feels like.

    Reply
  • S.

    You're words are always so enchanting. I'm right there with you for every one.

    S.

    Reply

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