in her loveliness.

i ended up finishing the bit of writing i posted earlier. it’s rather short, only 435 words long. i hope you like it. i like it, although in all honesty i’m not sure how much is there to be found.

———

She dreamed of girls.

She dreamed of their beautiful bodies, the shimmering panoply of skin and hair, brightness, brown and cream and bluish black, their eyes shining out of purple-shadowed hollows. She dreamed of their hair, long and short, waved and straight, she dreamed of running her fingers through it, unknotting, twisting, getting caught in thread upon thread of light. She dreamed of touching them, of tasting the soft spot between the nape of their necks and the broad expanse of back, of gliding her lips down one arm, or another, inhaling that soft warm-sweet smell that only girls have, she dreamed of their eyes and how they would fall shut gently when she got close enough, lashes fluttering in anticipation, she wondered how it would feel, what would it smell like, how would it taste, to kiss a girl.

They were all lovely, in her dreams, and they were all different, no two girls are the same, she thought. And all are lovely. And she was a girl too, she would think, standing bare and cold in front of her mirror in the bathroom at night, placing her hands on her empty hips and wondering what it would be like to place her hands on another girl’s hips, feel the softness there, that’s what she liked about girls, they had that rounded softness, that vulnerability; maybe she could slide her hand just a little bit along the skin and feel the sharp jutting hipbones underneath, that was what a girl was.

But what she wanted most of all was to lose herself, to curl up and crawl into the body of a beautiful girl, rest somewhere between lips and breasts and hips and ankles, quietly loving; she wondered if it were possible to dissolve into someone like a handful of salt in the sea.

If she had one wish that could be granted, she’d wish for nothing more. She’d give herself to the mirage of faces and hands, the shifting of hips and wrists, sink into their warm skin like water poured into sand.

She would be their eyes, the beautiful multicolored eyes that blinked and trembled shut, she would be every hair on their heads, she would be in every swivel and sway of the curves of their hips, she would be in their lungs drawing breath and their dark mouths and tongues feeling air exhaling, she would be in their hands gently roaming like animals through time and space. She would be in them, in every one, she would cease to exist except inside them, inside their loveliness.

She dreamed of girls.

———

^{just as you respect my poetry, please respect my prose and don’t repost it without letting me know/giving credit. kay thanks. :D}

something i came up with on my way home.

prose, for once, although it reads more like poetry. it’s definitely unfinished, i don’t know where it’s going or if it even has a place to go. but it wanted to be written, so i wrote it.

on the drive home

i noticed that the starved grass on either side of the freeway, piled up in huge sloping masses, looked sort of like a really big animal.

so then i wrote this.

- - - - -

From the window of the train the gently rolling hills of dry grass looked like the pale furry underbelly of some vast animal, napping in the wheaty dusk. Nessie Tomkins, seven years old, gazed at the speeding landscape and wondered how long it had been asleep.

She wanted to pet it, and pressed her little fingers against the glass, leaving small sticky prints smudged over the blurry countryside.

“Nessie, don’t,” her mother said absently.

Nessie bit her thumbnail and stared out the window—

and watched as the ground slowly rippled, the golden waves of grass looking more and more hairlike with every breath she held. Some enormous belly. Some gigantic flank. In the middle distance one huge eye blinked open, closed, open.

“Mum, the land’s alive,” she said. There was a rumbling that could be mistaken for a yawn or perhaps far thunder.

“It is, dear,” her mother replied, in the way that mothers do. The sky was grey and filled with ancient breath. An old creature rose, awoke, its body shining and glowing like starving grass.

And Nessie watched.

- - - - -

i suppose it reads a bit like neil gaiman, except not as well executed.

and another excerpt:

Kosmas walks outside of the square, ignoring the flock of pigeons that squabble at his feet, hoping for breadcrumbs or scattered grains of salt. But all Kosmas has in his pockets is sand, grey-brown sand from a beach whose name he can’t quite recall, and when he tosses it on the ground the birds cry out in indignation.

(writing this novel made me want to visit istanbul. i’d still go, if i had the chance.)