The hunter

For many moon returns I’ve been collecting words. I made a bed. A garden. A bed, planted garden and mounted house, I made of tough love. My heart is even now. It beats in the rhythm of the street clock, only speeds up 6 minutes before noon when it hears the song of trash trucks.

Day sits on my back like a bride’s veil, light but deceiving in this hour of zenith. Nothing stops. You can’t stop. Each worth is measured by a sixteen year old thumbs made of french fries. Exteriors sublimes, narrow walls of sudden disapproval are in front of me. I’m not alone. There’s many of us. Disgruntled, as I rise above superficial daily, biphasic outcomes, executioner appears with an ax, rope, whip in whoop to behead my intentions.

Non-approbation sprouts fear like a weed in the field of your purple smiles;  it’s a black sheep in the white flock of your thoughts, unwanted spurt hair in a bushy emotions you would like to pluck. They say you need to face you fear. I don’t have time for that. I can smell it from a long distance, I can sense its millihertz vibrations. I sneak, like stealthy snake I eat it raw, fragile, undeveloped and spit out the shells made of careless, nameless sentences.

I look deep in side of  myself: satiated garden groomed, blooms in the color of your eyes.

Maja S. Todorovic

 

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