Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Miguel Bruna on Unsplash

I wish I could say the first was the worst and only,
or even the most severe in a minimal string
of occurrences,
but it wasn’t.

The reason this story is hard to tell is because it’s not an easy plotting
of downhill tumbles leading to a singular resolute bottom,
or, mercifully, flatlines solid enough to settle and rebuild from.

Humans fluctuate.

They get worse
worse
worse
better
worse;
down
down
up
down

And in every instance of up
I would find my footing just enough
that we could continue the descent
without breaking either of our necks.

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Kevin Escate on Unsplash

My lover haunts my days and nights.
A classic poltergeist, caught between
traumatizing the house’s resident
and breaking shit for no reason.

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Aaron Huber on Unsplash

As much as they are a complicated system of whirring parts
humans are not machines.
Although, quite often we wish they were,
pretending that doing X action is bound to result in Y results
can lead to inexplicable frustration
when our calculations and valiant execution
gets lost to the biological processes in between.

We think we can fix one another
because we’ve tightened a nut, loosened a bolt,
changed a water filter or screwed in a light bulb
once upon a time.

As simple as a solution might seem,
there is always the human element,
present, and delighted to scribble all over your schematics.
All the resources and tools we accumulate,
it’s never guaranteed we’ll ever be able to use them.

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Stefano Zocca on Unsplash

I’m not asking a lot.
I’m not asking for anything, actually.
Not for me.
I’m asking for you,
to you,
can you please do this for yourself?

Get dressed. Send a text. Step outside.
Empty the bong.
Cook a meal. Eat a vegetable.
Look me in the eye.
Take a breath.
Breathe.
Can you please just fucking breathe for yourself?

My lungs are tired
and if you can’t,
honey,
I’m going to stop for the both of us

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Every tower starts with a single brick.
A good tower lays a couple down for a base,
a shitty tower piles one on top of the other, single-file.

I tried to build every type of tower there is.

Every tower starts with a single brick
but you can’t call it a tower
— even the sorriest excuse for a tower —
without at least two.

I never managed to place more than one
before it would be picked up again
and thrown at my head.

Enough time spent dealing with that nonsense
I’d have settled for building a wall instead,
but the same goes for walls
as towers
and I ran out of bricks a long time ago.

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Melani Sosa on Unsplash

Did anyone ask if Humpty Dumpty
wanted to be put back together?

Sure, sure, we was screaming in pain
but why did we think the solution
was to glue his body back together
when his yolk had long since
soaked into the earth?

Why did we parade around a hollow shell
and pat ourselves on the back
like we were puzzle masters
and not taxidermists?

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Prose from TSHF.

Photo by Jonny Gios on Unsplash

My brain is not a snap, crack, or break,
it is a bend

It bent to the lifestyle
like I bent into his arms;

One shape
after another

I became more like what I thought he needed
only to lose all my possibilities behind me.

I could not be tempered back,
the blacksmith knew
I could only be hammered forward

And so I bent
over and over in upon myself;
a beautiful craftsman’s blade.

This is a rough excerpt of prose from the upcoming memoir “The Sunk Heart Fallacy”. Text in the final book may vary slightly.

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Slaidey Valheim

A writer of brutally honest non-fiction and gritty short stories. Posts every Monday and Wednesday! Support/follow her @ https://linktr.ee/SlaideyV