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S. E. De Haven

@sedehaven / sedehaven.tumblr.com

I am writer. Hear me starve. Trigger warning: I write about death, illness, rape, child abuse, and other difficult themes. Please exercise caution and self-care when reading this blog.
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light measured, cut, and spun like fibers into a ruby line--fine and taut enough to slice through tissue,

blood, and bone

radiant nimbus of unstained hippocrates, garnet glowing fingers of chiron, light-forged blade of saint luke,

take this bitter cup, bloated cancer, this poisoned well that we must drink from, dance us away from

the shears of atropos, to kiss the rosy fingers of a new dawn

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deep dive into the liquid black of swollen pupil

swim up to dew-kissed emerald green, bursting fire and gold lilies, spotted and purring like leopards

shadowy mint fronds, home of mechanical cockroaches, cleaning brass antennae and stretching glass wings in the

moist, velvet air of dream, feet find cobblestone street, weak sun shining through morning mist, newspaper

crier shouting as a horse wickers, matches for sale, roses -- pink as baby fists -- in a basket over a pale arm

thumb over pocket watch, clicks like the jungle insects, spray of pale mint frond in a brass pot beside the shop

door, bell rings welcome, welcome, wake up, wake up

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split of skin, muscles parted and torn, gush of blood, spilling red more precious than

garnets and rubies

over sharpened plastic, former toothbrush -- guardian of facebone health now turned against

the leg, femur notched by the point driven home, rage-filled fists now coated in false-dawn glory, streaking

down arm, red and white as a barber pole, roses on snow, blood staining the white apron of a butcher

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greenman, gentle hands on plants, on trees, leaning on your rake, inhaling the chlorophyll

in the middle of this grey city, you made yourself steel, a hammer through speakers, basso voice

-- a gift from dark gods --

ringing like deep bowled churchbell, steel in every note, in every breath, throbbing in your pulse

but steel buckles and breaks, titans fall in pieces, death stills metal hearts, while greenman still lives

laughing in the leaves of his trees

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(grandmother's best)

butter melting, sizzling gold and then chestnut brown, add

diced onions, minced garlic, salt it and crack pepper, simmer

add water when the onions look like the wings of dragonflies

veined and translucent

float two bay leaves on top, swirling in the stovetop currents

boil a chicken cage or an old beef bone, if you have it -- carrot peels and

the leaves from yesterday's celery, onion scraps and more garlic

(always more garlic)

simmer for two soap operas -- cool, strain, and set aside for soup, gravy, and stomach-sick grandchild

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what breeds are the cats? why, he's a black slinky, made of equal parts onyx midnight and domestic

doofus -- his friend is a purebred orange himbo, and this one is mostly stripey flop,

but he's about a quarter kitchen lumpcat, you can tell by his fondness for linoleum and cheese

this girl's a designer breed -- half louisiana loptail, and half nightscream barn cat, her brother outed with more

chonkus -- cats are unpredictable like that -- the orange girl is a creamsicle crabapple, and the babies are mutts, no breed at all

but we love them just the same

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