Sunday, March 26, 2017

different kind of jesus, photo post from the Transitions series

this is not my son. I don't know who this man is. this photo has somehow managed to morph time and skip a few beats ahead...

from the transitions series click here to see the rest of the series, and there to see the first part of the series, domestic bliss

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

family portrait_guest post

by Mila

They say it runs through me

They say it runs through me. They say it defines me.

I’ve seen it slip out of me in times of pain.
And hide, (like a coward) in times of true tribulation.

There is blue blood. There is warm blood.
There is your blood and my blood.
There’s also –apparently- the right blood and the wrong blood.

All I know is I bleed. And you bleed.
All I know is it thumps through my head when I am frightened.
Through my heart when I am scared.
It boils. It’s boiling right now, from anger.

It bathed my son into life.
It bathed my friend into death.

Women bleed often. Sometimes to no end

It once tried to slip from me, all together.
And sometimes, when the future seems bleak, it does it again.

My blood, your blood
Blue blood, true blood

It wears thin coat of skin.

And –apparently- it makes all the difference.