Shelley’s Literary Monster


I am writing a letter because my silence has been grated and i am tiring of the absence. I am a page left curling against the heat of pigeon-winged coal, guided only by typographic strings that bar the way to speaking out. And these pages are no longer strong but weak, like tissue that’s been held for too long in a sweaty palm. I am nervous. Anxious. Brains have become clouds, translucent and vague but ever so easy to cut through with the metal of a jumbo jet blade. Emotionally traumatised, physically unhinged. Where was i? A crumpled ball of paper hurled at yellow talons.

A new, ivory slice presents itself before me. The ink is wet. It wants to touch, to taste, to stain the page. Am i the one to imbue life through these lines? Will i give birth through the scoring of black arteries, hoping to see the words thrum and the punctuation to rise and fall; literate lungs, syntactically stitched. When i colour you in with phonetic prostrations will you murmur and wail like a child, grappling with speech? Will my emotive language punch a heart into the fabric of your being?

But despite all these things i will leave you blind, save for the knowledge of my relations, frustrations. You will learn from the whispered entries of my publicly dialled down thoughts and know only the misfortune of the private appearance, hidden and scarred. Scarred and ignorant. You are the side effect i created by chance.




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