3 for practice.

In the afternoon I walk under dull yellow fruits dangling from the ends of skeletal branches, dreaming of returning to my sun drenched house where the floors are still dirty.

I am writing a short story nobody will ever read about harsh winter blizzards, lacquered Matryoshka dolls, and a man who weaves trauma out of men’s bodies.

Sometimes, on these meandering walks with my dog I run through each sentence, counting syllables and tracing the shape of each word as it rises and falls with my tongue. I suppose this could look strange to someone from the outside: the soft and silent twitches of my mouth or the long stares out into the middle distance. But, it is my internal life, the part of me nested underneath the hard decorated shell of the self.

My home was a spacious apartment above the bar which doubled as my office. Weeknights were rough, but the walls were solid and well insulated from the heavy rhythmic thuds of bass bursting through the nights. It was mine and it was cheap. I received a discount on each month’s rent for working as a bar keep and the owner, often absent, asked few questions and was quick with repairs.

At night I lulled myself into a deep sleep with the steady drunken singing of the patrons closing out the bar below. To me, their faint voices vibrating through the silent night and thick stone walls felt like the whispers of some soft ghost, long gone but still clinging to the sweet grip of the living.

My living room was a verdant jungle of stolen plant clippings and weeping flowers, swiped and nursed back to health by a meticulous regiment of water and sun, coarse coffee grounds, and neglect. The light from the street poured through mid-afternoon, drowning the apartment in enough warmth to create a rich tapestry of jewel toned leafs: emerald and ruby, rich jasmine green that unfurled into sapphire blue petals.

My biggest shame is that I want respect too badly. I want to be appreciated or championed, even if I never accept the compliments I receive when I receive them.

Over dinner my partner strains himself to try and find the right words to tell me what he loves about my writing and I strain to accept each kindly word spoken to me, returning it with interest rather than diffusion.

I find it’s hard to talk about the things that matter most to me. Not just my love for him or for my friends but for the deep recesses of myself that are expressed only in the bad poetry of a sentence, refined or simply splayed out.

I want, too much, to be read or to be published. I am never sure which is which.