MistakenMagic
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My stories
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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- 4956 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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- 3507 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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- 3664 reads
Lipstick On Your Collar
Late again. I pick holes in your story like a moth. I know you were with her. Your fingers recoil guiltily to your pockets.
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- 2194 reads
Siren
I am a mirage born into a cradle of opium dreams. At night you sit in your concave room, basking in the violet artificial glow
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- 2987 reads