Well, I don’t know about good short stories, but it normally takes me at least a few hours to write a story. I normally do it all in one go, and then leave it for a few days, then go back and edit ferociously. I’ll normally edit it over a couple of weeks until it’s at it’s right length and pace and stuff, so yeah, overall the process is a few weeks.

I literally received a cover letter that was the person’s name and the fact that they write poetry. That’s totally fine with me. You can make it long, you can make it short, you can tell me as much or as little as you want about yourself. :]

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Your lips burn when you wet them
and I have mastered the art of focusing
and unfocusing my eyes long enough for nothing
to mean everything again. I wanted to save. 

There are fireflies in my throat
and when I cough, I am the sun
for a fleeting moment. We are heaving
and you told me not to write about the moon. 

The broken cups make a mountain
of shattered things on the floor
and the lights stay on and the couch stays warm
and January trembles on the front porch.

Your fingers are bleeding and they say,
look, look at what we’ve done. 

I think I knew a girl named Luna once,
I think she wore herself down,
I think her waist was a thimble
and we were sewing needles, we were sharp

grins and smirks and messy dissections
in a sweaty lab room after gym, the fan on high,
April murmuring soft weaved thoughts behind us.

I want to save the ones with knuckle
boned scars, the ones who cradle
their insecurities like apologies.
We are heaving and I don’t write
about the moon anymore. 

I wanted to save you too. 

WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MYSELF UNTIL JANUARY.

this is how we unfold;

a mattress is bruised yellow
and water stains the ceiling a moldy grey.
it is 1994 and your mother’s skin
is a flushed tan under the moon’s glare.

it is 1994 and the crickets beat the ground
like a crescendo.

here is the truth:
your father kissed your mother
like a promise. 

19 years later
and people say you have your father’s blue eyes.
i see something like summer in them
and i cannot trust the bunny rabbit in you,
still wavering on flight.

this is how we unfold;

we unfurl like the week-old carnations
from the supermarket that you buy only
when you make a mistake.

here is the truth:
you kissed her like a promise.
you kissed me like a promise. 

omg but i’m actually really liking shameless its filling the gaping hole that skins gen 3 gave me when they started existing.

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