kangaroo-writes-trash

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"Little Lamb."

“Be back before dusk, love.” Her worry wasn’t enough to interrupt my fervour, scraps of food squished into a backpack holding plenty, a knife only sheathed at her command, and loose soil from the ground my mother’s never seen. “Promise!” I give half-harmonic, to sate her nerves. It doesn’t work. “Don’t stray the path,” Miriam continued, ferrying twigs, leaves, and grass half-burnt, “and if you do, do it wordlessly.” “Mm!” The house is empty, save for us two. The bedroom opposite mine, the door barely ajar, by my own sleepless hands. His blankets are tidied before the sun creeps in, and I’m back beneath my hemp before mother’s plodding finds my door with a three-tap knock to meet the day. A party, I think, is what kept him the first night. Dear uncle, the six after that. She helps with the bag still, despite my disagreement, carrying it out onto the porch and slinging it over the railing. All the while, I scratch well too hard into the skin of my palm, fighting back a heat that’s grown painful, blooming into a single drop of blood. Then, comfort found in reciprocation.  “Pollux, love?”  Her voice brings me to, and pulls further forward a reminder of why I took hers for so many years. “Mm?” “Are you okay?” A conversation half-held, littered with worries and warnings and promises of reassurances, I’m sure. “Perfectly okay!” “Well… okay.” She relents, leaning down with open arms that I find myself wrapped in, before even realising I’ve jumped into them. It’s a competition in an instant, who can squeeze harder?

She maintains her streak. Then, in a blink, the bag’s over my shoulder and I’m four steps deep into fresh mud. “Pollux.” She berates, an unimpressed look cast over my bare feet. “Almost got away with it!” I paint a leisurely stroll, aided by a walking stick in the form of a fallen branch – number six of the fourteen that comprise my collection. He’s curved inward, this stick, half on his way to a career in archery. I allow myself a visit to the coops, feed tossed and ruffles to my two hens, and a kiss to a flowerbed that still hasn’t taken. Mother tells us that you can only grow with love – I hope the soil knows how I feel about them.  My winding path finds me behind our home, a purpose in my speed up as the forest waves to me in the wind. I wave back. My stride finds a sprint, one last call of goodbye to the house that watches me go, and a woman at a window with a fear that creaks the boards. We meet fast, the treeline and I, stopping a step before their opening. A soft breath is welcomed into my lungs, a rising beat in my chest. Then, a warmth spreads up my spine. “May I?” Is uttered quietly, for the bark and me alone. A moment, before I take to the threshold, and the forest takes me.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"We Call It Holy"

They come.

A flood of returning faces. I’ve come to recognise a few. The crowd crashes around me, for I am a lighthouse for their appreciation. Yet they love my siblings more.

They go.

They leave white-petalled flowers in the hands of the oldest, and offer prayers at her feet. Whispers for the love that she brings them. My brother, with marble muscles and a placid pose. A story etched within his plinth, one so incredible that those faces must recite it.

Every year.

We’re worth the trek up the mountain, where the air runs thin and the temperature stays cold. They taste salt on their tongues, as we overlook their sea. The winding path down, for them, is always harder than the hike. They struggle to bid farewell to us.

To the view.

They call us grand. They call us beautiful. And they’re right. Made with hands that gave us care, even now I recall his touch. The warmth that spilled from his lips, that birthed the attention behind my eyes. We call it holy, the face that sculpted ours. What love must it have taken, to leave us?

They watch me.

I splinter forth from the plinth that was my home, movement found in once-unnecessary joints. The dirt takes my weight. The soil stains my ivory, an imperfection so perfect that I don’t bother to clean it. My family remains, but I do not blame them. I admire the blue, and it admires me back.

They finally watch me.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

Eveyone, meet the Collector

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“Rumours”

My bed is empty, most nights. It’s barely strong enough to carry me. The other half, a well-designed mess, a facade of my design. I’m elsewhere, most nights. Questionable business held in the office of a dark alley, information craved, so I feed. A daring heist lit by the spectacle of a ball, a gown for a prize, and a princess for a foe. I’m not me, most nights. The comfort of a mask, and clothes made for somebody else. My hair sits black, braided down, and makeup staining my skin. A disguise tailored by loving hands. I’ve been hearing my name, most nights. A husband and a wife, who mourned my absence. But in the same breath, cheered my light. The humble wedding of a tied ribbon, and a vow. A promise to carry it forward. Then came a woman’s whispers, her wrists plenty healed from their time wrapped in chains. She’s a weaver, now. I’ve heard of blankets made of the softest spider’s silk, handed out on corners. A song echoed its way to my halls. He who asks for nothing, but a smile and a meal and a promise to pass it on. He who leaves a favour and a canvas. I haven’t painted in years. A hobby abandoned alongside a ring. My work is tireless, I’ve not had the pleasure of attending a wedding. Or to live the life of a saviour. But they bless my name, nonetheless. I started there, with that married couple. Their excitement overflowing at the chance to show me their son. His name, carved into the frame of a painting not my hue. I declined to stay the night. I followed where my footprints led. Through a city and a college, a student turned mycologist. Thanks were given alongside wine, for my help on his study. And a request to thank my little friend for her help. Cities and towns and villages all alike knew me, and I couldn’t reciprocate. A widow thanked me for a wonderful speech. My name sat etched on a plaque, an orphanage built off my kindness and coin. I found my other half, halfway through a lesson. Some features unfamiliar, but I knew that chin. I knew the voice better than my own. I know those eyes. The students were open, and loud, and witty, they welcomed whatever tirade he had started, and they flourished within it. They loved him. As they should. My bed is empty, most nights. But it’s stronger. I’ve eased the mess smaller, and a spider-silken blanket feigns the comfort of arms I’m no longer allowed. I’m elsewhere, most nights. My work keeps me as much as I keep it, a pious man who takes, I treat him to the same. But when I’m not, I sit in the shadow of a classroom. I’m not me, most nights. These faces flourish with my touch. But those words reach me still. Carried by the wind, they pour through my window each night, and I’m made new through a vow well-kept, and a promise to carry it forward. Each new rumour, a love letter.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

Worship

Collect your rosary and book, sit down on the pew. Forget about stations of the cross, when I have stations of you.

Light the candles at our altar, no need to confess your sins. a moment of quiet contemplation, before our prayer begins.

In your gentle whispers, the sacred hymn rings through. Let me take your sacrament, darling, I yearn to commune with you.

I feel the holy blessing, in the rhythm of our motion, hear in the panting sighs, the promise of my devotion.

Moving together in soulful worship, melding together, spirits ablaze. Gasping, I cry to the heavens, overcome by your deific ways.

On soft sheets, we lie, basking in the heavenly glow — my adoration and love for you, is the clearest truth I know.

My light, let us pray together, honour each other at our shrine. My love is everlasting, I am yours, and you are mine.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

He is the light

He is the light, radiating off of each petal. He blooms — a verdant garden.

His voice — filled with buoyant, sparkling laughter. His face — a glowing, roguish smile. His eyes — gazing and gold-flecked.

He is joy. He is warmth. He is comfort.

He is the light.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"I Care"

This is the lie I speak. Two words, laced with cherry and vanilla, a beautiful declaration to the world within the glass.  The one who speaks the words back, with his hair long uncut, that shines golden in the light. They leave her lips in promised truth. They believe my smoke. We meet on and off, this flesh that binds us. Most nights, and some mornings, when we clean our teeth side-by-side, side-to-side. In the screen, when we agree wholeheartedly, as we so rarely do, that these clothes fit nobody as well as they do us. In every iris is found skewed appropriation, an original made new by strokes of acknowledgement. They witness a stranger, wholly unique, each time they meet. Only to be abandoned with a blink, a murder most kind. To leave, and to leave a ghost. That stranger, a mould I mourn easily, effortlessly when compared to the known, the ones I know and love, the ones I come to recognise. The ones who heard my lie. These are the words I carve into the foggy glass.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"Skin On Stone"

These stares are different.

It is not looks of admiration. It is not a glance with care or an appreciation of my make. It is piercing. Grating. Crude. Embarrassed. A man offers me clothes, his jacket and his scarf; to cover my decency, he decrees.

Why cover perfection?

But I do not ask, because I do not know how. So I instead accept his offer - only for a fleeting few, I promise myself. He asks questions quickly, his voice trickling across my ears, but finding no home. He leads me, concern blatant, and I follow unaware. My attention lies only on his skin. His face. Burnt by the sun and wrinkled with age, a mole on his lip and a scar leading into short blond hair. It’s an urge I have to sate, my thumb caressing his cheek. His surprise shows on mine. This fickle skin moulds with my touch, but returns once we part. 

Beautiful.

Cautiously he wraps an arm around mine, his skin against stone, warmth meeting cold. Where his form buckles to accommodate, mine can’t. He doesn’t mind.

Neither do I.

I come to a realisation with each syllable that leaves those cracked lips - a name, an explanation, and a question that dances along his tongue, courage brimming with each step, until it flows freely:  “What are you?” It’s a silly question, but earnestness wraps the man like his fabrics wrap me. I’m me, I think to answer, but I expect him to not hear my thoughts.

My thoughts. I hear you.

It stumps me, despite knowing the answer. I know what I am. What are you?

We’re holy.

There is nothing else either of us could ever be. My fingers find his palm, and he lets them linger. Expectantly, I tap against his flesh, that realisation blossoming into an understanding.  “What are you?” He asked. Written into his skin, I answer.

”A memory.”

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"We Call It Holy"

They come.

A flood of returning faces. I’ve come to recognise a few. The crowd crashes around me, for I am a lighthouse for their appreciation. Yet they love my siblings more.

They go.

They leave white-petalled flowers in the hands of the oldest, and offer prayers at her feet. Whispers for the love that she brings them. My brother, with marble muscles and a placid pose. A story etched within his plinth, one so incredible that those faces must recite it.

Every year.

We’re worth the trek up the mountain, where the air runs thin and the temperature stays cold. They taste salt on their tongues, as we overlook their sea. The winding path down, for them, is always harder than the hike. They struggle to bid farewell to us.

To the view.

They call us grand. They call us beautiful. And they’re right. Made with hands that gave us care, even now I recall his touch. The warmth that spilled from his lips, that birthed the attention behind my eyes. We call it holy, the face that sculpted ours. What love must it have taken, to leave us?

They watch me.

I splinter forth from the plinth that was my home, movement found in once-unnecessary joints. The dirt takes my weight. The soil stains my ivory, an imperfection so perfect that I don’t bother to clean it. My family remains, but I do not blame them. I admire the blue, and it admires me back.

They finally watch me.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“In The Epitaph”

You are no longer here, my little love, But kept in the hanging ash, And the bent, charred bark, Here, it’s where you linger. You cling as I do; desperately to the smoke, And still, summer will come too soon, A purpose kept in stone and brick, Cradled beneath your dirt. You walk a brand new path, made just for you, One where I cannot follow, not just yet, We are the point, the edge, the jagged grief, The sharpest reminder that punctures sleep. I know to not dig the space to bring you home, For where you are is where you belong, Even if I had already made room, So here with me, I ask you stay.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“I Am My Life’s Work”

What beautiful imperfection, Found in your empty shape, The cracks when shattered, Your scars that line the light. I remake you every day, A change, a switch, a flip, Born again with every mistake, To break, and scrape, and take, I tear apart our tarnished skin, And love you with every beat. A heart so out of time, And a body not our own, I’ve learned to take it slow. It’s okay, even when it’s not, Make that next mistake, my love, For there’s nothing better than us.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“DNR”

It’s a struggle, that’s true. Everyone’s saying it. Words don’t come easily, Not anymore. Something broke. Something’s broken me. Sharpness with the breathing pain, Every thought, drenched in fog, Blood barely pumped, And time shudders from my touch. Where do my memories hide? Are they even mine? We could give up, I tend to think. Give in– no one would blame us. But, what would be the point in stopping? It’s my job. To push and crack and try. So I’m going to create tomorrow. One day at a time.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“Little Bird”

A simple afternoon in the park - one that's had every week. Meredith’s daughter, the edge of eight, stands at the height of her hip, her bright-blue eyes pleading the four-foot difference up to meet her mother’s grey. Their white hair, the same as her other mother, is braided down into two pigtails that happily swing with her excitement. The gentle markings of her people lay across her lightly-freckled face, the paint applied by gentler hands. Not hers. The half-giant woman could never. Her hands are bigger- too big. Tougher, more calloused, and half-burnt. Lacking the softness of her wife. Stained with deep reds and ashen marrow, even when they aren’t. “Do not go far from me.” Comes a soft relent, low rumbling from her chest- serious, but as caring as she could make it. “I won’t, Mom!” Happily promises her daughter, before running to join the group of children that eagerly await their final playmate. Her attention only moves from the girl once their lookalike enters her sight, a calming smile from her side. Her wonderful wife, a few feet shorter than Meredith’s towering nine, stands Anastasia. Her hair’s braided back - a poorly done job that she didn’t seem to mind. Crystal-blue eyes like the ocean that edged Meredith’s home, and tiredness beneath them that only she could notice. A sundress of whites and yellows, open-chested as to let the sun bless the layered handprint tattoo with its light. The same as Meredith’s. Carried precariously are three cones, a Neapolitan spectrum shared between them. “What’s wrong, love?” Anastasia offers, followed shortly thereafter with the cone of vanilla. “Everything is perfect.” Meredith plainly accepts. “Love,” gentle, as is her, but prodding. Dissecting. “Talk to me.” Anastasia moves to take a seat, waiting for Meredith to follow suit. She kneels, crossing her legs to avoid the embarrassment of another chair broken beneath her denseness. Even still, Meredith is taller. “So?” It’s spoken expectantly, but she knows she has the time to find her words. “Nyssa.” A few moments pass, watching their daughter play. “She does not look like me.” “Darling...” Whatever Anastasia was expecting, that wasn’t it. “...I’m sorry. But, she’s still so much-“ “-It is a good thing. I think.” A partial-truth. Anastasia calls them lies. A bead of confusion that she’s thankful Meredith can’t see. “Why would you say that?” “Because she is like you.” Meeting her beautiful eyes. “It is better this way.” “Meredith, darling, I disagree. We… we give her your markings, for starters” “My people’s markings.” She’s quick to correct. “You have them too.” “And you are your people, love. We are.” Balancing the two cones in one hand, she extends her other to Meredith, only satisfied once she takes it in hers. It’s not dainty. Not weak. The grip is firm and the skin is perhaps just as calloused as Meredith’s, from the days of adventuring that were welcomingly buried after Nyssa’s birth. But with her hand laying in Meredith’s palm… it’s tiny. “She has your fearlessness,” Anastasia continues. “When have you ever seen her scared?” “…she gets it from you.” “From both of us, then.” The children speak in circles and decide with carelessness, that a game for game’s sake, that’s all that matters. One is named chaser, the slowest of the boys. And then, they part. A countdown chorus, the pair watching the children kickstart into action, jumping over hedges and weaving through families with a fervour that Meredith can’t ever remember having. Desperate to escape, as if being caught was the end of the game. Perhaps it was. She doesn’t know the rules. “Her wings,” Meredith mutters, a half-whisper to change the subject. “When do they come?” A conversation Anastasia would rather not have in the open. But she accepts. “Mine first came when I was twelve. My mother’s, when she was fourteen.” A tight squeeze of their joined hands. “We have plenty of time. That’s if they come at all.” “How do we know if they will?” “…We don’t, I think.” But then there’s a crash, a firm thud, and gasps from all around. A child, a girl- their daughter, face down in the dirt. A boy one step away. ”Nyssa tripped!~” Some children shout in tune, their laughs giving birth to tightness in Meredith's chest. She stands quickly, tearing her hand from Anastasia’s and losing her uncared-for scone in one fell swoop. Fists form quickly, glaring at the boy that, just maybe, pushed her over. Was too rough. Hurt her. She’s four steps into a heated stride before she’s brought to a halt. Not physically - no one could do that. It’s the joyful laughter, the one that reminds her of her wife. It overflows out of the girl picking herself up from the soil, her cheek caked in dirt and hints of scratched skin beneath that she doesn’t seem to mind. Meredith glances around, her eyes meeting those of the other parents. There are looks of surprise and concern towards her daughter, looks she’s thankful for. But then, there are glances of uncertainty and stares of disapproval, pointedly toward her. Her cautious meeting of eyes doesn’t dissuade away from their wordless judgement - unbothered by the half-giant. A look back, a gentle ‘it’s alright’ found in Anastasia’s blue. The laughs lower into giggles, Nyssa offering a happy surrender before returning to her mother. To Meredith. She clings to her leg, her arm barely wrapping all the way around. “Mom, mom!” A boisterous excitement that’s all her own. “Did you see? I almost won!” “…that you did.” She says quietly, taking her by one hand and lifting her to her chest, supported by an arm underneath. “You hurt yourself.” “I didn’t!” “Let’s go back to your mother.” One of her fingers, almost as big as the girl’s arm, runs itself across the peeled skin, bringing a sharp inhale from the girl. “She can make you feel better.” “I’m okay!” As she rubs away at her cheek. “It doesn’t hurt!” “...Promise?” “I promise! I’m strong, just like you!” A look back to the smiling Anastasia, dutifully hiding the chocolate surprise, with a smile that shouts in loving agreement. “...” If she had to be something. “Come along, little bird.”

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“Your Love”

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

"Your Love"

Your love is many things. 

At times, I think of it as the grass and green that covers the lands of which I walk. It could be the flowers that I let grow, the birds I watch fly, or the wind that carries them both. 

But your love is plenty more.

The sweetness of lavender when sprinkled through my favourite tea. The comfort of a jacket to replace one too old. A scarf that keeps us warm, or the wine that does the same.

But oh great love is what you give.

Maybe it’s the air that leaves my lungs, or the thrum of this heart, or even the thoughts that fill my head. It’s life, my love. Your love is life. Of sprinkled stars and a warm bed for two.

Many things could never compare.

Because your love is simple. It brings not meteors down to earth, nor is it as wild and rude as to burn away at all. It is calm, and understanding. Like you.

Your love cares even for empty worry.

It spills from you, overflowing, like the rain. But you are not the storm. Not the thunder, not the lightning, and somehow still, you are not the rainbow. Your love is more, and so much finer.

Your love is you.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“What It’s Like To Be Remembered”

Like a stroke of vibrant paint across the canvas, I want to live again; born within the hue. Finding purpose in the written, struggling words, Given a name, divinely appointed by the ink. Hopeful of the stone that’s carved a likeness, Despite knowing I was never quite that cold. The petals of a great and ample garden, Tearfully desperate to grow once more. Gentle smiles that cost me nothing, A happy memory in which I cling. It’s right there, in the shape of a distant friend, A father that I’ll eventually come to know, With the song and scent of a love gone too soon. My cautious excitement in learning the truth, Of what awaits me after this march. If there was ever to be a purpose in my breath, One so simple and firm that it would be safe without me, I’d name her with the knowledge I’m never to know. That when given a thought, one so soft and rounded, Its beauty found among the stains and stone and dirt, I could live on, even though I’m gone. 

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

“The Arrangements of Mother Bloom”

A small flower pot with simple decorative carvings etched around the sides is set onto the open windowsill, placed by knowing hands. The woman takes two steps back to admire its place within her chambers, twirling it barely clockwise so the rising sun can shine perfectly down on its blooming namesakes. With a deep smile that proves her satisfaction, she spends the next few minutes moving through her room and morning routine. A modest brush through her thick curls of red, a soft-yellow yoke-like dress that she wears more often than not is placed over her matronly body, and a similar voice hums a tune as two necklaces strung to hold numerous wooden keepsakes is draped over her neck. A leather sash is wrapped tightly around her waist, an intricate mess of vines and flowers making their home with it. Once finished, the woman named Cassia finds herself lingering by the open window, taking great comfort in the rising sun on her warm skin. The second-storey view from her window, caught through golden eyes, is of a beautiful blue sky and a rolling wave of tiled roofs that almost-entirely span the city's market district, split up by the rare stores like her own that claim the skyline, and, by the singular tower built to her immediate front right, within the very centre of the marketplace that her storefront is lucky enough to extend to. A once sore-thumb of dark-grey brick with an encroaching latticework of ivy climbing its side, whose impressiveness slowly grew on them thanks to the man of fiery noble blood that lives within, his occasional sightings met with ample coin and somewhat pleasant talks, save for their at times awkwardness. “Be good, love,” Cassia whispers to the sleeping stray cat of white that’s claimed her pillows as their own. With a caring kiss on their head and a scratch under their ear, she heads down the stairs that directly connect to her room, leading into a circular room with three doors leading further elsewhere. She works counter-clockwise, tending to a meal in the right-most, a time-consuming bath in the middle, and then through the left to start her day proper. A somewhat-wide room that makes up the storefront of which she can call herself a florist for, wire-racks on racks of water-craving plants of all types, colours, and sizes, whose lust for the sun is sated once Cassia throws open the floral-print curtains that deem her store as closed, the late-morning light flooding inward. Hanging from a long thin chain far above the double doors that lead her customers in, is a tiny, rectangular container, made of earthy wood, bark, and minuscule clumps of moss, that she remembers obtaining like it was yesterday. It takes the aid of a stepladder for her five-foot-ten height to reach, removing the bottle from the last link of the chain through the circular hole in the stopper, the container only two or three inches in length and no more than one in width, which actively sloshes as it’s taken in hand. Cassia moves the stepladder back to its home in the corner once down, it left waiting until her attention focuses on the higher shelves. With a soft delight and care, she removes the stopper, and begins pouring the fresh cold water out onto the first of the close to twenty plant pots that just line the windows. Once empty, she sets the stopper back into place, and places a devoted kiss onto the wood. Then, Cassia removes the stopper, and begins pouring once again. It was a gift from a passer-by; one of her customers she had wagered, but there was never a way to be sure. Instead of being given it through a trade of services, or an outright purchase, she had found it one morning, roughly fifteen years ago at her best count, left by itself on the highest step of the very same stepladder she uses every day. No note to clue her in, and none of her questioning through the years brought up answers. It was kept on hand for the following weeks, for the rare chance that whoever had left it, would come searching. But no one did. It didn’t take her long to discover its baffling trick, to always refill itself after emptying, quickly replacing her tiresome watering-can with this tiny bottle of bark and root. Seemingly a perfect size when it came to watering the majority of her usual cuttings of flowers, which perhaps bloomed just a tad more beautiful than before under the water's care. The act of her lips on the wood- an entirely unnecessary spectacle, but there was a strange, unexplainable itch in her nape that formed whenever it was empty, as if it’s what had to be done, despite knowing better. It grew on her, in time, finding enjoyment in the strange idiosyncrasy that she deemed as her ‘kiss of life.’