This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

didn't even make it home*

at the end of the alley red lights spelled out, and girls wore clothes with an understanding of negative space. the end of the world spiraled slowly in my glass, tasting like metal and loam.

on occasion I forgot how to breathe– the air around me weighted, the black fabric of wings fluttering above me to my right

here, this is the ear I can hear with

here, I will wrap you in blankets at the dawn

my heart is hurtling through the ocean, damp and dragged along behind cardiff castles, but these are my hands full of blood, and i will let my eyes get their fill of you in the dark.

*(, or: sometimes, on a Thursday, you go to the goth bar.)

Sid BrancaComment