My words are my lifeblood spilt, splattered across pages, and dispersed over the internet in hopes of making connections with hearts that beat in time with mine. I’m a cheerful malcontent—by that I mean I’m a fucking mess of optimism and white hot rebellion. I write about my aversion to organized religion and the corrupt state of American government, and the beauty of being a mother who has raised an independent-minded daughter. I also write poetry that mentions death, decomposition, and post mortem fluids leaking all over a kitchen floor. Six months ago, my mother died, and was found on her kitchen floor several days after she’d died. So yeah, I’m not in a rainbow place at the moment. A lot of people are sick of reading about my mother, but I don’t give a fuck. I write my heart out, whether anyone likes it or not, because it is my therapy.
There are a lot of people who are tired of reading my ‘sad’ posts. To those people, I say, “Follow the rest who left me if you can’t stand my truth.” I write my truth, above all else. I know what I’m all about, believe me—I’m not a fucking fad.
I will never conform to the rules. I’m not a writer because I seek commercial success. I’m a writer because I’m a fucking writer. I don’t conform to fads—in fact, people conform to me, and writers like me. But conformists always flee, eventually…
You’re the real deal, or you’re not.
Sometimes I imagine myself not plummeting, but falling slowly, spiraling uncontrolled into the black; the nonentity is dizzying and cold like outer space, unsympathetic.
So Dad opened the door to the dark January night. The sky was black as pitch and cloudless, the stars brilliant, perfect white dots. He picked up his suitcase, and he said nothing as he crossed the threshold, shutting the door gently behind him. Back then, Dad looked exactly like the Renaissance era’s personification of Jesus Christ.
I feel sorry for her because she doesn’t know. The last time she saw our house, she was watching it grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. But I have driven by nearly every Sunday afternoon since Mom and I moved away, and I have watched it decompose.
Our old house is a corpse. Maybe I should burn it down and dump its ashes in the lake.
© Kindra M. Austin/cover design by Allane Sinclair
Available on Amazon and Amazon UK.
My face is lined with volumes you’ve never read; and yet my eyes speak to you? Trust me, they belie what lies beneath my wine cellar. Just ask him, the one who has actually pored over this flesh, and subsequently survived the fire expelled from these lungs. I was not fashioned for the pleasure of man; I am no honeycomb waiting to be tasted, and these eyes of mine are not the bedroom kind. Look harder if you must, but you’ll only leave perplexed. I am not a piece, but an entire book, epic, and you cannot fathom me.
© Kindra M. Austin