star

we stood on stage in black & white eyes tired but we sang til tomorrow anyways // they caught our eyes as it ended raised their hands to clap but i turned quick away convinced our performance wasn't worth more than // the quiet glint of confid

I bring my nose close to 

the Lilac

as I smell it's like I'm smelling a universe of

peaceful trickling streams,

birds softly singing,

It never happened

that everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

but if it did it would have been

lying in the grass

the kind that surrounds you like the ocean

and flows like a river

Rori Acher is eighteen years old and dying. Any licensed medical professional would pronounce her perfectly healthy. But there are many ways to be dying that are not physical. 

Kiss where ink and flesh align,

carved to summon touch.

Skip the space between my lips,

spewing oaths of love.

You feed me want— then starve me dry.

A feast of glances,

I am from mythic hues of orange and blues, 

Where the setting sun greets the gentle waves.

From solemn mornings and soft bed sheets,

To boisterous cackles and tire swings,

I am from the jostling of jewelry—