MistakenMagic
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My stories
Acceptance
My mother drew in my cries in a glittering net from the pit of my stomach.
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- 6734 reads
Ritual
First, the anger. Fingernails scrape lightning on a blackened sky.
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- 2789 reads
Poet, Heal Thyself
The mourners come like bedraggled crows to swarm the casket. I find I have cried for her too many times; my tears are dry, they fall like confetti
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- 6397 reads
A Little Dream of Me
I find myself cradling the pillows; they are pale with grief. They miss the caress of his hair, the brush of his stubble, and the way his snores sent waves across their welcoming bellies.
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- 4193 reads
Conversation With My Thirteen-Year-Old Self
You sit on your dad’s desk chair prodding that pale star-shaped scar on your right thumb, trying to mould it back into the skin. But still it reappears, shining just as before.
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- 4579 reads