an assortment of excerpts

it feels weird just copy and pasting my class writing into my blog. plus, some of it sucks ass. here's my favorite excerpts

from "stigmata":

"Do you think he will mind?" It’s as if she is confessing a secret—she cups her hands around her lips to hide them from prying eyes that don’t exist. "If I explore, do you think he’ll punish me?"
The bird has no concept of faith.

...

More bubbling laughs dislodge from Eve’s throat, and she chases, arm outstretched. She follows the wide hips of the river and through its curves and ribs as the bird flits onwards in great curls. Her dusty fingers graze its tail once, and the sensation of soft feathers brightens her wild grinning into peals of melody, matching the bird’s chick-a-dee-dee-dees with her own lilting shrieks. 
Wonder and freedom in its infancy follow the two dancers over clay, mud, silt, and shore—over the thirsty bank and onto dew-wet grass. Her bare feet dye with meadow greens and clover purples before they begin to crack over sticks and dry leaves. All the while, the bird trills and sails on breathless laughter, swooping recklessly under branches that grow dense and wild with every heaving inhale of Eve’s lungs.

from "adirondack amish holler":

Fine—human. At least I am something.

...

My nose rests at the junction between her jaw and her neck. My mouth opens involuntarily, and saliva wets the carotid artery running under my lips. I am hungry.
The trees bend over me like blankets, the birds sing lullabies, the moss writes an obituary over bark.
The taste of rust drips carelessly from my tongue. I am sated.

from "gerunds":

Stay, I was thinking, stay, stay, stay, stay, stay. Flashes of sharp canidae teeth wet and dripping invade my mind like manifestations. Claws, and sated hunger, and a snout crinkled within eager organs; the taste of blood and saliva, the smell of slowly rotting stomach, the slickness of intestines sliding and being torn; the pain of shredded skin, the pain of punctured lungs, the pain of death.
Coyotes eat the viscera of their prey first. They prefer the tender lungs, heart, and liver behind the ribs, instead of the muscle or bones. In my mind, I picture such things dripping delicately from the muzzle of the coyote and staining the canvas snow, a painter in his own right. In death, I hope I am finally beautiful.
The coyote cannot read my mind, and thus, does not approach to clamp his hot jaws around my throat and tear. It is a great loss, in this moment, that he stays put. 

playing with that last paragraph: My pleas for death remain unanswered by God, who stands in four-legged quiet on the boundary of the clearing. Praying, I beg Him to come to me; He does not.

from "nice guys finish last (ironically) (the title is ironic) (guys i promise the title's ironic) (guyspl":

her eyes, as red rimmed as they already are, grow yellowed and foamy. she screams, and it’s crooning and sweet to my ears. the others are so deep into their own passion that they do not notice the way she crumples to the ground in abject horror. i know how she must feel—burning and boiling from the inside, organs rotting from the poison.
another drops. a younger beast, furred and hairy. he cries. i cannot get enough.

...

”it’s over?” i ask. she hums in agreement.
the bite of glass is sharp, but sweet. deserved, i know. she carves into my skin, through fat and muscle, to reach my heart.
it is extracted roughly from my chest, and it beats outside of it in my ears.

from untitled imitation:

leaves rustle and swirl in death
grief means nothing to them
when the fire dies
it is not the kindling we mourn
i've discovered that i don't need
a higher power
when my mouth works at need
crawling fingertips explore my own
tangling like ivy together
inseparable
the acid taste of hunger reminds me
that i do not need god to love

from a collection of hastily written haiku:

502
the radiator
across from me is peeling
flaking silver pelt

routine fuss
the band adds a beat
in every other measure
hearts pump in 5/4

treesreach
you introduced me
to folk music and fret boards,
soft hands, and first love

from a messy google doc titled "flexin those muscles yall":

so there is this pit in my stomach, every time i trade my t shirts for hoodies, and every time the sky darkens not with rain, but simply with cold. it cannibalizes my organs. not in the desperate way starvation does, or the shocking way of sickness. it is something full-body, carving away choice cuts of meat from my flank, sinking willful claws into my gray matter, sucking the marrow from my bones

it becomes more difficult to leave my bed. bad news seems to follow me like an affection starved stray cat—the more i ignore it, the more it favors me. i lay and wallow in the anger that arises easily, now, when my roommates play music too loud.

my dog is dying, my tank tops are permanently shelved, and the pit in my stomach grows.

so that's the first half of semester 1! surely there will be more to follow, but as of right now i cannot muster the will to write anything original at all ever. major in english or creative writing, they said! you like writing! 

i do not think i will like writing when i finish my degree