If I could unspool the thread of our story from the wind that blows through my hair I might wrap us around my fingers Like I do with the stems of the flowers you’ve ripped for me. I might spill us like ink across eggshell parchment, And then name it Chasing Rooftops. I’d etch us […]
x Read more xDo not mistake me for comfort zones and safe spaces. For the gentle whirring of the washing machine and slow dancing in old socks on a late Thursday evening after work. Do not mistake me for dried lavender and incense sticks, scented candles and 80s mixtapes. For the comic books and secondhand paperbacks of classics […]
x Read more xSeveral days ago we requested your quarantine creativity–the poetry, paintings, stories, and photos coming out of your weeks in self-isolation. The submissions continue to flood in, so here is part II of the original Quarantine Creativity post. You can find more here and email your own work to info@artparasites.com! welcome have a seat make yourself comfortable […]
x Read more xIt wasn’t unusual for the phone call to come in the middle of the night; the kinds of people who dialed my father’s number weren’t the type to calculate the time difference with regard to whatever side of the world they were in. To be fair, my father didn’t care much about it, either. I […]
x Read more xI had a bad habit of leaving my stuff at your place. Not because I was forgetful. But because we would always end up fighting. This usually resulted in me storming out on you in a rush and abandoning my belongings. This happened so often that you had a shelf designated to holding my stuff. […]
x Read more xWhen my grandmother was a little girl she dragged her toes to bend the straws of hay to keep the blood from her shadows on the long walk home and my mother told me that when she was a little girl, she learned to walk in a graveyard. It’s not my grandmother’s fault you see […]
x Read more xYou think I’m a sigh seller Deep soul dweller Travelling muse But I’m just a Former fortune teller And a trapeze artist Without a net –Circus Artist The hands that froze painting starry nights, the thrill of a new romance, the patient seeds of a dandelion – all waiting for your breath –On poetry […]
x Read more xThis is a cry for help. An attempt at poetry to give meaning to the measured rage of my mother clawing away in closed fists. This poem is a crying apology to my best friend in 5th grade this poem is a failed writer expecting brilliance, getting cocooned into mediocrity What a shame, to never […]
x Read more xStill even during mundane Sunday nights in quiet small towns such as this, and even in the rigorous solitude and subduedness of the indecisive weeks between summer and autumn, I feel the kind of rage that I thought I could only get from playing with fire, back in the day. Even sitting here wrapped in […]
x Read more xDon’t give me love & flowers for I crave the pain and misery. It feels safe there where the light doesn’t hurt my eyes, where the silence lets my soul soar free. So no baby I don’t want to look at you and see fire in your eyes I want your eyes to tell me […]
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Painting by Catrin Walz Stein
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