Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
STEPHANIE BRIARCreatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
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 BRIARI would throw down roots with you if I ever had the chance. We’d grow strong in tender shoots, and bloom in burning hands.
STEPHANIE BRIARI am strong. My heart still hopes. My mind still dreams. My soul still craves pouring energy into everything that I love.
STEPHANIE BRIARSome days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.
STEPHANIE BRIARI am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.
STEPHANIE BRIARLight finds you just as I once did: an accident that is no accident.
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 BRIAROur memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
STEPHANIE BRIARI erected cities with adoration on my tongue and you burnt mine down in the wake of your love.
STEPHANIE BRIARHe’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.
STEPHANIE BRIARDo I look as good as I remember, Looking back at you from over my shoulder, smug as the devil?
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 BRIARYou’re preserved inside of me; cadaversque. I both acquiesce and atrophy because of it.
STEPHANIE BRIARLast night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.
STEPHANIE BRIARPoetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.
STEPHANIE BRIAR