Mrs Fearless Pure-blood Gryffindor by ls269, literature
Literature
Mrs Fearless Pure-blood Gryffindor
O-kaaay, thought Severus slowly, reaching out towards the tree-trunk to steady himself. The important thing now was to not think. Don't follow any of the horrific trains of thought that have suddenly opened up in front of you. Don't consider what this means for the future, and don't imagine her running into Potter as she hurries through the corridors, looking for some shred of hope or comfort
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He slid down the tree-trunk into a sitting position, and stared up at the branches, hardly daring to blink in case it provided an opportunity for his imagination to spring into action. He had to dodge all the dep
Instant, Earnest, Breathless Believer by ls269, literature
Literature
Instant, Earnest, Breathless Believer
There was never going to be a time to sit back and marvel at all the impossible things he'd done and all the hopeless situations he'd lived through. There were too many more of them queuing up to ambush him. So he learned to marvel on the go. He'd never had much to marvel at before, but he was a quick-study and a natural multi-tasker. You didn't stay alive in Spinner's End by dwelling on one thing for too long. He'd seen what that kind of thing had done to his mother. If you wanted to stay alive in Spinner's End as opposed to undead in Spinner's End you kept your thoughts moving.
Voldemort had moved his headquarters to Rodolphu
Its when you open your mouth to kiss me that I remember what I know about Quaaludes. The details are all knit up somewhere deep inside a ball of knowledge because I learned about them in fifth grade which seems a little too early in retrospect doesnt it, and since then Ive wrapped whole yards of other strands of knowledge around that ball and whenever I want to remember what I know about Quaaludes I have to unravel the whole thing just to get to it. But its there. One. They make you tired but it is kind of a verbose tired which sinks you into that three-quarters-down state, the cliffs edge of sleep, but refus
Allow me just this:
your hand
my hand
separate.
1.
I fell into a deep forest. My femur
put forth roots. I did not say: oh Lord,
take me from here
like Rebekah, this is another
barrenness.
My mouth remained resolutely
closed. The moss
grew over me,
in me.
Oh Lord, I am scared.
2.
Mother is reading, brows
at half mast. In the kitchen,
Father organizes sardines
on crackers. Home means
this soft quietude.
Five thousand six hundred
miles away, I am watching a donkey.
It stumbles on three legs; the fourth
is loosely curled, like a child's fist.
There are wild dogs in the fields beyond,
waiting. I am a dog, waiting.
3.
April 1st, 2012
The universe, they say
unravels like a ball of yarn.
Here,
where the white birds sleep
where the ground gives birth
to these secret nightfalls
the body is thin as paper,
folding, finding its edge. Again.
Sharpening, again. Sharper yet.
Again. Sharper still.
All the while, softening with rain.
April 2nd, 2012
Science and aging, as understood
by an amateur in both:
In the democratic fire of muscle
jostling bone, each cell
sweats to propagate, bisecting
in hasty mitosis.
The daughter cell forcefed
with chromosomes, the rope-like telomeres
appearing then disappearing, a tiny
act of God. Infinitesimally
bec
April 5th, 2012
It was the unearthing of everything.
The wind was bestial
and hungry,
it stripped away.
I left the window open.
It meant nothing.
It meant nothing at all.
April 6th, 2012
There is nothing left
to be said so we
say it.
Outside,
the birds and beetles
eat each other.
April 7th, 2012
When outgrowing yourself,
as hermit crabs do,
go down to the waterfront.
Find your new place, call it
precious, make it true
by speaking.
So it is with all things. I love,
I hate, there is an un-tame boar
in my head. I have flown widely
and seen the world to be kind.
Make it true. Construct
your new place, say
you fou
April 10th, 2012
Her eyes were wet but
the cold, distant wind
was blowing through me
and even then, I guess
I started to run away.
April 11th, 2012
Every half-hour the hail
slicks down the red roof.
It hits the ground, primal.
The sky is long-legged
and touches everything,
stooping in a motherly way.
I have never really stopped
feeling like a child.
April 12th, 2012
Waking up to the wet snow
becoming wetter, the imperceptible line
between wet snow and simply wet,
the vagaries of sleeping and waking.
Large and awkward, my hand
grows cold on the glass.
April 13th, 2012
What happened was that
it rained, again, and I was