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Literature Text
She thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.
I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.
Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.
But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.
I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.
Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.
But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
confessions of a misguided poet
certain things in my mind
would be better left unsaid,
such as:
i. how I stared at a bottle of pills
for an hour as if they would slide down
my throat on their own.
ii. when I stepped out of the shower
with bloody knees and didn't bother
to put a band aid over them.
iii. why I can't keep a smile long
enough for someone to take
my picture.
iv. who I wanted to be when I was
a little girl and who I am
right here and now.
v. where I tried to jump off a
bridge and landed in water
deep enough for me to swim in.
vi. what I wanted to scream at
you that day but I just stayed
silent and hoped you would forget.
no more pretty words and
l
Literature
we are not a fairytale
we are not a fairytale.
I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way
(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not
the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding
we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
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gosh this is good.
loved it.
i wouldn't change a thing.
loved it.
i wouldn't change a thing.