EvelynTaliette

...And when she spoke the world shrunk down and became simpler, softer, a better imitation of itself that held no possible pain. Like a dollhouse with its utopian storyline that was, by nature, created by those with young and innocent lives. Somehow she touched that world with her voice, despite how often it fled her grasp. "I ignored it for years, which is a good thing I suppose. But now I'm unsure where it started, where it truly began, because I spent so long pretending that it wasn't there. That I was normal, like the others. Not normal, but...equal to them? Not broken in any way." She paused as her words caught in her throat, some sque

And when the robin eggs fell with the nest, the mottled half-formed liquids almost resembled a galaxy in distant space-- a place you, nor your great grand kids, had ever dreamed of. But one day we'll fly past it like a bee in pursuit of a particular flower, a home suitable for us, with oceans resembling those same fractured remains of robin eggs from far, far away. Perhaps we shall be there to catch them next time. We watch them dull as they decompose. Next time... "So," she said, "where do you see your tomorrows?" And I pointed to the sky, in the direction I often imagined I could feel nebulas stretched open, reaching, like a flower b

My wedding dress, left on the side of the bed, flooded by morning sun rays as the rest of the world struggles to wake but I, I have woken before the light. Other images of that spring flee my grasp. Did my skin truly once gleam like porcelain-- unchipped, uncracked, as perfect and spotless as the sun, a rival in its luminosity if ever exposed to its light? Did he once say that I soaked up its rays without really absorbing them, that every drop somehow removed color and left me paler than I was before? Was my hair once sunlight upon the fragile surface of water, the gleam of a wave cresting before it crashes and is smoothed into perfect inac

Swathes of an empty flavor at sunset, peeking from beneath clouds that crisscrossed, somehow mimicking the stitching, the texture of the blanket your grandmother made as she was decomposing, the one that for some reason you've held onto ever since her death. The perfume in every inch smells of her (but you still keep it), as does that rare rain she loved to watch (you can't escape it) that somehow falls from clear skies, indistinct skies just like the one you see before you now that's splintered into tiny pieces, waiting to let fall those raindrops that are impossibly produced. They were clear, but luminescent. As if they all hid a part

She had been planning this night for years, and with each passing day she felt as though she drew closer to her destination. This single destination, as it was classed in her mind, was actually a conglomeration of every distant land imaginable. They varied from the desert sands upon which the sun never stopped shining, blinding even in her imagination, to the castle upon distant cliffs that was painted to blend into the midday sky. She had heard of them from the wanderers who flocked to her father's eccentric store, and with each new description by another visitor their existence grew more possible, more feasible for her to reach once she lef

We lie in wait and I say, "He's as determined as a child being eaten away by cancer, Swearing that she'll cure herself one Blackened cell at a time." Though as we spoke his frailty was being swallowed whole by a bed of wrongs, made servant to the things he wished to Change, Transform, into both the common and the beautiful as one strong of heart does, but with all the anger and resolution of one helpless to do so-- "But when the enemy is already inside, throwing fits of Reckless destruction like a human-animal (refined/Confined by its thoughts)..." They are (and he was) Prodded into the fight, and in the face of death he bowed into a sta

Above me the forest canopy silhouettes the night sky in an elaborate  frame of reaching branches and fluttering leaves, now stilled. The stars pause in their meandering for my view; the trees wave, revealing some and concealing others. "Sidere mens eadem mutato,” as my father would say-- though the constellations change, the mind is universal. I scoop my hands through the dark water, pushing my form along by the smallest gestures. A tree with roots firmly planted in the pond passes my floating form and the shade (just a temporary asylum from the moon’s gaze) recedes. There appears my fellow traveller, illuminating his way across

The body fits the mind like a glove- or so I've been told. Some appear to be lacey, dainty white Gloves that adorn the hands of those who have never once thought of leaving their shelter. Others, still, are caked by such filth of undeniable labor and grief that their true colors have long since fled. Some are fingerless, some are only without thumbs; they come in every variation, size, and possibility. I've even seen, as an astonishing rarity, one patterned like stained glass. It hugged the arm of the most beautiful lady who had the smile of the moon shrouded in fog. She haunted my dreams and my memories, till there was never a moment withou

She’s never been anything other than lies. Not even good lies, any type of lie will do. (Each weapon is still a weapon, no matter how dull.) They line her skin, gliding over each and every inch like live snakes, or maybe just the silk she often wears. Her smile…one kiss (one bite) and you’re paralyzed, trying to discern the overwhelming tide of beckoning lies from the solid body of reality underneath. (Flying high over the world, the clouds obscuring any semblance of solid Earth below. It’s only a matter of time before someone goes splat.) -- He was (and still is) made of soft things. A duckling encased in a thi

I'm 500 feet above ground on my father's famous high-rise, but even if I were walking among the crowds beneath my feet I'd still feel just as apart from them. Their bustle and hustle from one place to the other, never hesitating for even a glance at another’s face. All the stories they leave unnoticed while they ponder trivial things- not even a thought for the other minds in this overcrowded city. The other apples in the tree. Each one ranges from thoroughly rotten to idyllic perfection, but each is unique at its core. I've seen them all, scattered throughout my gardens in various stages of decay- some still suckling from the tree, bu