The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.
STEPHANIE BRIARThe glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.
STEPHANIE BRIARI fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.
STEPHANIE BRIARWhen I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.
STEPHANIE BRIARStop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.
STEPHANIE BRIARI don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.
STEPHANIE BRIARIt quietly stops my breath to realize that my greatest grand gesture, my last, best act of love was to let you go.
STEPHANIE BRIARI count the stars from whence we came. I name them all for you; my flame.
STEPHANIE BRIARThe pain of your memory is sharp enough to be felt the nails raked along my back by somebody else.
STEPHANIE BRIAROur story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
STEPHANIE BRIARI was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.
STEPHANIE BRIARI erected cities with adoration on my tongue and you burnt mine down in the wake of your love.
STEPHANIE BRIAROur memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
STEPHANIE BRIARTo the oppressed with no seat on the table; dreaming of change and better days, I will pull up a chair, and light fires in your name.
STEPHANIE BRIARI am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.
STEPHANIE BRIARAs if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
STEPHANIE BRIARCreatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
STEPHANIE BRIAR