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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.

Stephanie Briar

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Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
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Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
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In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.
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The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.
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In my dreams we got past the parking lot; you took me past the old, oak door, led me up onto the vacant altar, and offered me to every god whose name you invoked as you worshipped my body.
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“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.
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I pressed the dress to my nose, and found what was left of your ghost. It was then that I remembered how to cry.
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Do I look as good as I remember, Looking back at you from over my shoulder, smug as the devil?
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In my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.
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As 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”.
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Stop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.
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Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.
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When 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.
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Trauma has deep roots indeed, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pull the weeds.
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You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.
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I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.
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