Hi, My Toe Tag Says Daphne

 

When there is nothing to separate the night from the day

No borders in the ether

No fences about our cells

No boundaries for our skin

 

We are lost

No sun

No moon

Yes

No

They disappear

Only void

Emptiness

 

Everything the same

Words without meaning

Form without shape

 

When we only know the lack of walls

The terror of free falling

We don’t even wonder

Are those lipstick marks or bruises?

 

There is no distinction

Only blind attempts

Empty phrases

Hollow veins

 

We don’t realize

We are all in the morgue

Shuffling about

In dull hospital gowns

Bare feet and teeth unbrushed

Pretending to have a pulse

 

 

by Daphne Shadows

Scavenger

I saw a movie recently. I’m not going to tell you which movie, as that has nothing to do with this post. What does have something to do with this post, is that the main character was a scavenger and every time someone commented on that, they used the word ‘scavenger’ as if it were dirty (the despicable kind of dirty). As if she went about eating people’s unborn babies, ripping them right out of pregnant ladies’ wombs.

This struck me as odd as I sat there in the dark and watched the movie. (and stuffed my face full of nachos)

Yes, there are bad scavengers. But just like everything else on planet earth, I think there are good scavengers.

I think, as usual, we only see it in a gross light.

I have a healthy respect for some sorts of scavengers. I see them in a different light. I suppose I see the word as defined differently too then.

 

Sometimes scavengers are the only ones who survived the abuse, the chaos, the pain, the wars. Plucking almost rotted food and lost hopes from the fingers of corpses as they make their way down the deserted roads, cloaked in darkness of night and certainty that something, somewhere, at some time is going to turn their life around. Or rather, they’re going to be there at the right time and change their lives themselves.

I see scavengers as sometimes empty and simply trying to survive.

I see creatures that feed off dried blood and who have ebony wings and pluck at dead people’s eyes before flying off, cawing at whoever gets close.

 

I am a horror and fantasy writer.

And I live in a different world than a lot of others around me, I’m finding.

It gives me something a little darker and something a little brighter. And that has nothing to do with being a writer.

 

I see a scavenger as the forgotten, the lost, those who walk along the rims of awareness, barely there to most. They live in fear of death, they live in fear of life.

Someone left to themselves, fumbling in the dark with no memory, tugging at the strands of fate, begging their own soul to shake lose something of use.

I feel like a scavenger. Picking at the pieces of a life I could have but hold myself back from.

Because…

Because it takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the light after you’ve lived in darkness.

 

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Burn

Right now? Staying with here, now, this moment?

This dizzying wave of noise blasting through a protective layer of music in peaks and bossy valleys – life isn’t really all that glamorous.

There is nothing fancy about who I am or what or where I come from.

Am I complicated? Oh so very much. Quite so. I am layer after layer of pain masqueraded behind plastic lips and lying eyes. And don’t tell me that eyes give people away. Sure, they can. But eyes can lie.

And what happens when you get lost in the lies of those pretty eyes.

You burn.

You get dragged in, inch by inch until all you have left is a memory of your soul. Perhaps an ember or two.

 

-Nov. 22 2015

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