Scathach

I drink the midnight I meld between The inky disposition Of my lips darkened By your breath.

Maybe my thumb runs through an empty space Between each line of text It’s ten miles long, this crawl of ache This space of time that has run through villages and towns, Stretching across the map of memory It is the vicious beat of the drum, egging you onward Through brutal summer days and inward through a soul’s Time- And it is the same instance of Time That spaces reach between keyboards and words spoke within a breath of each other— Face to face, silken lips touching, an ache of the face reaching out for the answer Off what is my own dream, what is my desire within this night, Do I even know why I am downloading this mu

There are small red dots Bringing my writing closer to the rich insanity it deserves: I’m running on a slight wisp of breath, I’m an exact moment of rush and thirst, It’s a phone call of hushed husky phrases-- No it won’t subside in its’ rich mania Your voice and all of the crushing moments Between these carefully dictated words

Silence has not always been golden for me, since starting to speak at age six. My world was fraught with vivid sensations, images with no names, a listless sense of time and reality. The gap between the world I knew and everyone else's spanned by a hand's breadth, flapping furiously to convey some understanding like a sick sort of Charades. The years etched in my small body did not match those in my eyes—for as time criss-crossed my soul, flecking away at a hope of communication, my years flickered faster than light. In the beginning, it was easy to see beauty in each detail, I could discover joy in such small things. But without the capaci