luciblackanima

[luciblackanima]

Take me back.

Back to the sky cracked open with clouds on fire, to the heat in your eyes that burned straight through me. To fingers that didn’t just touch; they clung, they begged, they bruised.

Take me back.

To the edge of that mountain where we spoke in silence because words would’ve broken the spell, whatever enchantment it was, whatever we couldn’t name but couldn’t live without.

Take me back.

To the trees that knew everything. The mountain’s spine beneath ours, solid, and safe. The wind that carried our names through the valleys below.

But mostly:

Take me back to your arms.

To the chaos. The storm. The reckless tangle of hearts that didn’t know better and didn’t care.

The sun never stood a blinding chance next to your lips brushing mine.

Take me back.

[luciblackanima]

I wish grief was linear. I wish there was a clear start and end to the feeling of having my soul shredded to smithereens each time a special day arrived. But it’s never that simple, and we shouldn’t try to make it so.

Even though the sadness is heavy on these days, I’ve found myself holding tighter to the little moments of light around me: the warmth of the sun on my skin, the whisper of leaves in the breeze, and the kindness of the people who stand by me.

These reminders don’t take away the pain, but they help me see that beauty and grief can share the same breath.

[luciblackanima]

A glimpse of lace and a world of trouble

It was the Spring of 1874 and the halls of this prestigious academic institution reverbrated with the earnest clatter of typewriters and the quiet ambitions of young men in rigid collars. In those days, you see, propriety was the iron corset of society and a simple whisper of scandal could ripple through drawing rooms faster than the rustle of a newspaper.

Lucille was the name on everyone's lips that May. The daughter of a well-respected professor, she moved with a grace that left many breathless. It was not her witty conversation, her impeccable embroidery, or the effortless grace with which she played the pianoforte that stirred the most fervent gossip, oh no, it was a fleeting moment in the courtyard, immortalised on a scrap piece of paper only to be found decades later.

"My god, Lucille, your left ankle is showing. Rod."

Just a flash of skin, a mere pale, elegant curve of her ankle as her skirt brushed against the stone step was enough to send poor Rod's pulse racing. In the rigid social climate of the 1870s, an exposed ankle was practically a declaration of war on decency itself. The note, hastily scrawled and tucked away in a scrapbook, hints at both Rod's astonishment and the quiet thrill of that brief encouter.

One can only imagine Lucille's laughter, a soft musical chime as she tucked the wayward hem of her dress back in place, her cheeks warm with the knowledge that she caused such a stir. For Rod, that moment was a secret to be cherished, an act of rebellion against the tight-lipped decorum of the day.

In an age when a woman's ankle was an unspoken promise of mystery and allure, Lucille's brief exposure was an electrifying defiance. And Rod's note, tucked away in a dusty scrapbook, remains a testament to the fevered heartbeat of a moment that dared to be more than polite society would allow.

This note, filed away in a scrapbook from a member of the Class of 1878, seems to date from ca. 1874:

“My god, Lucille, your left ankle is showing. Rod.”

Scrapbook Collection (AC026), Box 69

[luciblackanima]

absence cradled.

I've been stagnant. In constant wait for the love that enveloped me so beautifully, for the kisses that landed on my face chaotically.

I'm in wait for the day when his voice bellows up the stairs, declaring "Honey! Im home!" and I can turn over in our warm bed, arms reaching out waiting for him to fill the space between my <<heart>> and the dreams left for him the night before.

But until that day, I rehearse the rhythm of his footsteps in the silent corners of my mind: a ghostly echo that rattles the bones of this empty house.

I hold onto the scent of him, woven into the threads of my clothes, a perfume of memories I refuse to let slip away.

Each night, I press my lips to the cold side of the pillow and in the dark, I whisper his name softly, as if the night itself might carry it to his ears.

And if the night never answers, I will still cradle his absence like a sacred relic: a vow that will hold this space for him alone until his laughter once again f i l l s the air.

[luciblackanima]

unreturned echo.

I am the kind of bright that makes the sun squint, the kind of warmth that cannot help but spill over. I ask for nothing but breath, but even that is too dear to some.

I forgive until my bones remember how to crack, until silence is my only answer. I pour out kindness like rivers flooding fields that never yield fruit.

I am that forgiving, that soft flicker in the coldest room. the last flame when winter creeps in. I give and give, a quiet echo in the hall of your indifference. My heart, still open, waiting for the day you might notice it's still beating.

So here I stand, a sun too bright to hold, a gentle blaze that can't be caged. I wear my mercy like a second skin, soft and stubborn, an echo in the quiet light; unseen by eyes that never seek what's burning in the bright.

[luciblackanima]

My heart 💔

Cartography

We say that pictures tell stories, but to me your pictures are not stories. They are a map of your life. The map reveals that the path you are on is not easy.

I look at pictures from years ago and I can see changes in the map: There are rivers that have changed course and roads that have been abandoned. There are scars and wounds. There are times when you have struggled. There are times when your body has been traitorous and rebellious. There are harsh photos (no pretty lighting, no artificial filters) that reveal the pain you've been through. I wonder if you realize that these photos are beautiful?

It hurts me to know that the path you are following is hard. You fight your way through jungles and over mountains and you struggle through your pain, but I know you. Even if you had a choice, you would not have chosen an easy path.

You, with relentless intensity, choose to live where the wild things are.

[luciblackanima]

time's rotting edifice.

Time begins and ends in the same old way, My vows charm the vial thta bleeds dead night, a poison draught for those who dare obey. Their tongues cleaved, from wisdom's corroded rite. Summer's breath; a rancid, fevered sigh. Time's architecture, a cathedral of rot. Clocks carve deceit beneath a wasting sky, and mortals praise their prison glass, forgot. To give, to raise, to wither in the grass.

Time begins and ends in the same old way, a swollen corpse once cold, now rife with prey.

[luciblackanima]

The more I read this poem, the more striking it becomes to me. The imagery and metaphors make the emotional weight of this poem feel so visceral! I especially liked “shards of dark glass across concrete". I'm always blown away by how your use of repetition gives this relentless, almost breathless rhythm that matches the intensity of "give and give and give" and “take and take and take".

I admire the vulnerability you're willing to show through your writing, it's a beautiful sight to behold.

I enjoy the play with contradictions "this gloom is nothing, if not god", "this sorrow is nothing if not sainthood" because that so cleverly depicts the very thin line between suffering and sanctity, between pain and growth.

"In the weeds" is such a perfect title for this poem because some people see weeds and want to destroy them and others see them for what they are, wildflowers desperately trying to survive while making the world a better place. I can't emphasise enough how much I loved reading this!

I was thinking about being buried in my own vegetable beds

[luciblackanima]

Dear Reader

I hesitate to call this a confession, but nothing else seems to fit.

I’ve spent this past week in somewhat of a haze, completely and utterly under the weather, caught in a spiral of introspection that had me question the futility of existence and the shape of whatever legacy I might leave behind.

Legacy. I’ve always used that word with a trace of embarrassment - how can it be a legacy if there’s no lineage to inherit it? But maybe that’s a question for another time.

Enough with the rambling. Here’s the truth: I’m writing a novel. Not one destined for bookstore shelves or bestseller lists. No, I imagine only ten copies, a modest print run for the few who might care to glimpse into the strange, winding landscape that’s taken root in my mind.

The blueprint is set. The characters are starting to breathe, their histories gaining weight. The prologue is already inked.

And if you’re still wondering what I am confessing to, it’s this; I once swore I would never write a novel. I told myself that was a realm for the greats, and maybe it still is. But the words inside me have grown restless, demanding to take form in a world of my own making.

So here I am, breaking a promise to myself in the hope of creating something that might outlast me,

Hoping for a legacy of ink and quiet chaos -

Yours truly,

Lucílle

[luciblackanima]

the garden between us.

His days smell like new leaves and rain. Mine crackle with fading light. But we’re both caught in the same turning world / different chapters, same strange, beautiful book.

He sends me : \sunlight/ : caught in blossoms, I reply with shadows stitched in gold.

Somewhere between his beginning and my ending, we meet, in that strange place where time folds in on itself -

<<and love grows out of season>>.

[luciblackanima]

It’s been a while….go easy on me 🤷🏻‍♂️

[luciblackanima]

In Afrikaans we say: "Ek het jou lief" which means I love you, but when directly translated to English it will say "I have you love" and those are the most comforting words - knowing that even when you stumble or fall or get hurt I'm going to be there for you because "I have you love"

[luciblackanima]

glass skin. (a reflection on autism).

Most won’t see it, the soft shimmer of difference beneath my skin. It folds in, tucks itself behind smiles and practised eye contact.

I walk among noise with the hush of a violin pressed too tightly in its case.

April comes in light blue, soft and bright, a sky asking to be known. They call it Awareness. I call it a mirror tilted at just the right angle to catch what’s usually missed.

Autism is not a single sound, but a chord; played in minor, sometimes dissonant, sometimes aching with beauty too complex for radio tunes.

Some of us are whisper-soft but brittle Others carry thunder in their bones. Some build cities out of repetition, routines like scaffolding in a windstorm.

I am the girl in the glass... bottle-shaped silence, echoing with understanding only I can hear.

Inside : Order Outside : Static

The world pours in too fast, light becomes razor, touch becomes storm.

And so I hold it, hold it, hold it... until I can’t.

The bottle tips, the fizz escapes and all they see is the moment I overflow.

But there is wonder here, too. Pattern-seeing, truth-finding, thoughts that move like rivers under ice.

Temple says: We need all minds. I say: Let’s stop trimming the wildness to fit the box.

This April, don’t just look... Feel. Listen to the language without grammar, learn to read the sky in the way I do: backward // sideways from the inside out.

[luciblackanima]

i am and yesterday i was.

I am the rain that became a sycamore tree

to cast a shade over your blistered feet

because yesterday I was the wind

that covered the very last of your footprints

imprinted on the desert dunes of my existence.

[luciblackanima]

Mistery: after a long day of head scratching and thought thinking with no words swimming to  the surface of your mind, your insomniac tendencies awaken you past midnight with word trickery, word food, the soul of words to write all of which are eager to be written. You write in  another man’s language, prostitution for the sake of being universally understood. Can you live without pretention? Too tireseome to write  about in present tense. Pray for the sake of poetry the fountain of words in your skull prevails. Come morning light, you too can swim through the rhythms  of the words piecing  themselves together  with the sound of  fingers tapping on  a typewriter.

May the teeth of these words leave bitemarks in your understanding.

© Ludle

[luciblackanima]

So my person’s band, Kill Pinky, released their EP called Time. on Bandcamp today and will shortly release on Spotify and Apple Music.

If you’re into Punk Rock you’ll love this album! You can get it here

[luciblackanima]

soggy socks and heavy hearts.

He could feel his feet sloshing about his now waterboarded boots. With each new step, the front seam of his sock rubbed against the sensitive tip of his toe. The discomfort was persistent, a quiet irritation that refused to be ignored.

But the physical awareness of what was happening in his boots was only a momentary distraction from the picturesque scenery before him. It was a sunny day in spring, and although a slight chill lingered in the air, the scampering deer and the sweat collecting on his brow reminded him that summer was fast approaching.

He had come to clear his head, to reclaim his sense of place in the physical world because his emotional world had been in turmoil for days. He sought the solace of the trail top, the quiet rustling of leaves and the sun warming his skin from the inside out.

The trail curved ahead, winding through a tunnel of trees where dappled sunlight flickered like old memories, warm and fleeting. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and watched it vanish into the crisp spring air.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out, its song lifting and searching. It reminded him of the way she had spoken to him that night, hesitant and hopeful, as if waiting for a response that never came.

He wanted to answer now.

The weight of their argument still sat heavy in his chest, an ache he couldn't shake. it was like the dampness in his boots, uncomfortable and persistent, something he could only ignore for a time but not forever.

He loved her.

That much was certain. But love, he was beginning to realise, needed space to breathe just as the forest needed seasons to shed its old leaves and grow new ones.

He reached a clearing where the trees stretched high and unburdened, their branches swaying freely with the wind. He envied them. How did they endure the storms, the cold, the breaking, and still stand so tall?

Maybe the answer wasn't in resisting the storm but in learning to move with it.

He sank onto a flat rock and ran a hand over his damp forehead. The world around him didn't ask for certainty. The river kept flowing even when the rocks tried to hold it back. The trees kept reaching even after losing their leaves.

Maybe love was like that, too. Not something to grip so tightly that it bruised, but something to let move, change, and breathe.

A breeze lifted through the trees and whispered between the branches. A few more deer scampered across the horizon. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name.

He didn't have the perfect words yet, but he had something, an answer to a call she had left hanging in the air.

And that, he thought, was a start.