Art Gives the Best Feels

I dreaded our reality, but wrote it anyway. We’ll only be art-lust, ink in love.

His reply bloomed red on my palm. Ink is everything.

Never feeling flesh-to-flesh? Never you in me? My skin drank the words, and waited…

Physical sex is a wonder,
but ardent love is an art.
Art gives the best feels.

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the wee notes…
– To read other installments, visit my Web Serials page. The tales are listed under Ink and Feels.
– For this week’s bit of interactive writing yumminess, let us play with genre: would you like this story to be 1) pure Fantasy or 2) a dance with Magical Realism? For anyone not familiar with Magical Realism, think of it as storytelling that portrays realistic glimpses of the real world which include magical elements and/or lore that are very real for the minds that believe in them.
– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55. Link to Poets United.

(this really, really, really tickled)

Felt Words

Heartfelt words write stories into flesh. I wished it, but never believed it could happen.

I reread his note:

I (want to) art my love in ink…
in verbs made of your touch,
in nouns that make me yours.

Write with me?

I wrote my Yes atop his question, the inky strokes tickling my thigh.

.
the wee notes…
– To read other installments, visit my Web Serials page. The tales are listed under Ink and Feels.
– For this week’s bit of interactive yum, help me choose how our narrator is related to the character in the bedroom, in “This Lingering Maybe: Is the character her 1) roommate, 2) best friend, or 3) her romantic partner?
– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55.

…with Heart-Bits in It

I have always felt deeply (perhaps even peculiarly) attracted to trees and dirt and frogs and bones. Growing up in a farming village filled my soul (and brain *thank goodness for that*) with a sense of respect for the land (you truly appreciate Nature and her ways, if her moods directly dictate what you get to eat, where you get to go). In my childhood, no ritual was as natural or as important as those attached to the harvest of rice, coffee, and cacao beans.

In those now gone summers and autumns, I didn’t think of what we did as ritualistic. It was just living. We cooked the first cauldron of rice in the field (the growers always ate the first bite). We danced and sang as we roasted coffee beans (dancing and singing and laughter enriched the taste of the brew, the Old used to say). We did witchy things without calling it witchery. I didn’t use the term “witch” to describe how I relate to nature and her gifts, until I felt the need to help others understand what I did. Saying, “I’m a wild witchy woman” is much easier (okay, simpler) than calling myself a lover of trees and dirt and rain and Dark Moon nights and sex and dance and words and smiles that come from the gut and life…

I love sharing things in ways we can all understand what I mean (well, I try). This is one of the reasons why I changed my blog’s tagline from “Poetry, fiction, and other Dark bits with Bright in them” to “Poetry and fiction with heart-bits in it”. I’m not dropping the dark and bright tag because I think my writing isn’t exactly that… Not at all. I’m choosing heart-bits because the phrase does a better job at describing what I write.

Other Bits

– The delightfully bastardish Facebook idiotic Team keeps on marking most of the links I share (from my blog) as spam. I have asked about it, and it was suggested that people who follow me (or who follow others who follow me) are labeling my blog links as spam. This makes no sense to me… Why would anyone follow a person whose work they don’t want to see? I mean, just stop following me. Or, unfriend me. Or, ask whoever might be sharing my posts with you to stop doing it. I will continue dealing with it (for a bit). Any advice?

– If we are friends on Instagram, you might’ve noticed that I’ve changed my URL from @magalyguerreroindarkerwords to @wordsbymagalyguerrero. This shouldn’t affect our interaction, but I wanted to tell you anyway… I’m feeling rather rambly (and adverby).

– If you’ve yet to help me choose the direction in which “This Lingering Maybe” will go, please visit the 55-word tale and choose 1 of 3 paths. I’ll write the next chapter tomorrow.

bits I’ve shared on Instagram
because… why not, right?

My id is a poet
in love with strange.

Love understands wild,
weird and me.

bee, the one
keeping things blooming
bright and wild