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=Scarlettletters
BrendanGifts
Lady in White
Summer House
Queen of the Dead
Poetry
Six feet UnderNothing is what it seems six feet under. I keep catching flies with an open mouth and wonder why voices speak of me from a distance. Footsteps muffle and break the daffodils perched precariously over my head and the sky feels so blue it hurts my eyes. I can hear the secrets that make the grass go green with spite and birds' twitter sounds like little old ladies playing gin rummy and cursing under their breath over the gossip they're missing. But the worst part is I smell the reek of winter seeping through dirt inSix feet Under
by =Scarlettletters
ChanceShe let him get lost in the soft blue noise that crowded behind her eyes and the promises that bloomed like orange lilies on a day gone mad with heat. She knew the danger of her skin where his thumbs caught under her collar and she felt the future swell her ribcage rustling the calm and pushing the sky beyond her limits. But she didn't care, she just wanted to taste what he could offer in the crush of his arms where his muscles ran clean and hard and snapped her lazy dreams to attention, stretching deChance
by =Scarlettletters
MermaidI remember we sat on the beach at sunset and counted the kites, spent sails torn from galleons breaking clouds into spindrift, and watched the seagulls carving August out of blue and white. You wore the sky around your neck, where the day's warmth knotted in a chain, and held shells to my ear like a mermaid stolen from the sea breaking the surface of shimmer and tangled fish over salty oyster beds. I remember the color of your hair lashing against your shirt and your pirate smile like a crooked bird warming the dMermaid
by =Scarlettletters
ScarsYour scars are bright and shiny like a baby's teeth newly cut and grown, or Christmas toys your mother hid up in the attic praying you would never touch. I like their livid edges, how they pucker under my hands like new zippers begging to be left open, and catch the light that spills from my perfect world; and you like the jagged sounds my sighs make, the rush of warm air that keeps you safe and how your fragile heart beats when you unbuckle your skin and the world heals.Scars
by =Scarlettletters
His ScentShe imagined the smell of him - bergamot and lime and something unfamiliar, and his slow walk through her soul like the end of the worldHis Scent
and how his weight would be inescapable and alive with summer. She imagined his touch, warm water in the bath and the rich twist of silk inside her and how she knew he would taste just like that first time in Paris when the streets crawled home and dawn broke in slow thunder.
by =Scarlettletters
JulyOur love is lazy in July and blooms between the curtains bursting the shutters and bentwood rockers in the garden where you sit sipping cool and eating melon lush as pink the juice slowly trickling down and bronzing my skin where your fingers tell stories on my lips gone warm with you.July
by =Scarlettletters
GargoyleBeware the gargoyle, that wizened thing with words like flypaper and sweet oil who can wrap up your life in a paragraph and make you want to be born again. he's got a face your mother could love and a collection of turmoil he wants you to feel just for him. he can make you think his heart beats and you are worth lying for and that the world starts with only you. oh, he will snatch your tender parts with fists like true love and be the pity in your glass when night blinks shame and calls you homeGargoyle
by =Scarlettletters
Dancing with the DeadYou love to dance with the dead, tango warm in the dark and beguiling, as your slippers barely skim the night under the willow spun moon. You let them lead you and pull you close and gently trace the blues of your face, where stars hunt and steal like shadow puppets. You let them court you like lovers and bed you, the intimate twitch of your silk parting under fingers that beg to touch your memories. You let them explore and feast on the mystery of your limbs as they fall against the sky, &nDancing with the Dead
by =Scarlettletters
BirthEvery poet knows the pull of greedy words angry to be born, the twitch of pen like Saint Vitus between the fingers as letters shock the page and ink smirks blue and vicious flooding under knuckles itching the paper like some hot rage of noise demanding a new voice.Birth
by =Scarlettletters
Revolution 7Even when they said it was over it did not stop you from getting off on that revolution stuff. maybe you just loved the smell of change - the way the wind tore down the streets and shook leaves from her hair and how her smile capsized your world or how she got you high on promises and pipe dreams when all the world just wanted to fight. maybe it was how she loved the clash of history sweeping under your feet and dressing you like her hero in rags and patches and making you realize thRevolution 7
by =Scarlettletters
Prose
by =Scarlettletters
Golden EyesHe could feel the coming of summer every year - this young boy with the golden eyes who wandered the village in his bare feet and tattered blue pants which his mother seemed to be forever patching for him. He could feel the warm break in a curl of anticipation that hovered on the horizon before taking the village by surprise in one of those sudden storms that crackles the sky and washes winter down cisterns and wells, bidding a final farewell to the frost and snow that huddled under cellar doors and behind porch steps.Golden Eyes
Summer was the time when villagers tucked their work a day worlds up into their caps and aprons and t
by =Scarlettletters
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Death had tried firey steeds and skeletal horses in the past and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking embarrassed
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