“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”
These are some of the things that inspire me, strike my fancy, or pique my imagination. Most of all, these are the things that remind me that the world is unbelieveably beautiful, though it's sometimes hard to see.
Mother, he is a gentleman.
He is a builder with bricks of moonlight.
He knows the secret places of the earth.
He washes the sleep from the eyes of the souls.
He lets them look on beauty.
He lets them tell him they hate him.
In the mornings, I gather berries and apples.
I scrub his back with rind.
I weave spider-spit, eyelash.
He talks in his sleep: pudding, fire, discus,
the things he misses.
He breathes, Your body is my orchard.
I am undulating grass.
I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers.
Poppies bloom in my veins.
When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.
The night crawls nearer.
The moans of the dead roll and swell.
Mother, we are well.
Tara Mae Mulroy, “Persephone Writes to Her Mother” (via fleurishes)