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i once dreamt of a city
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trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.

t

trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.

i have gotten pretty used to being empty. i feel like a well, most days. just empty, empty, empty brick with a pool of water that people think will just keep going - who ignore the drought. it has not rained in so, so long. the water, brought back up, is always murky, but it is still water. the people make do, expect only this filth, this dirt, cannot remember - or maybe tried to forget - that this used to clear. i am not empty as a hollow tin can is empty; i am empty as the sea - great swathes of nothing with only pockets of warmth that keep anything alive. it is an ache in the stomach, the throat, the eyes. it is fluttering l

cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).

c

cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).

i am stuck between the two unfortunate realizations that i am both too much a feminist and too much a woman. it is hard to be the ugly girl. always a bit too much this, always a bit too few that. always 'maybe if you smiled more', always 'dress up next time', always the sideways glance and sometimes not even that. my voice is too loud, my edges too jagged, my words too familiar and off-putting all at once. too fat for tight clothes, too short for anything bigger; too smart and cruel and uncaring for the boys who pretend to be sweet just as i am too stupid and naive and soft for the boys who entertain themselves with the thought of women.

this is for catherine.

t

this is for catherine.

i have stolen from the rainbow and taken from the pumpkin seeds hidden by fallen leaves. i have given you bee song and the moment when a hummingbird sits still. i can snatch and pluck and tug, but my hands are not magic. i cannot wield it - cannot turn things into gold. but i love you. and maybe, when we kiss, i can leave glitter behind.

my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.

m

my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.

i lay at the wrong side of my bed, with my palms pressed into my ribs, and my fingers all clawing at the valley of my breasts and i have to wonder if it's all worth it. i gaze at the twinkling lights i put up a few months ago and ask them to watch over my dreams and they don't respond but i think it's because they know i don't want to hear them speak. they remind me of the stars. the sky. the ever-turning earth. they remind me of all those who speak as if they know the stars well—as if they had laid among their heat and cried into their dark matter. i do not know the stars, only their names, but i have seen many names

i want to go home, but it's all in my head.

i

i want to go home, but it's all in my head.

i had once dreamt of a city, filled with sandy air and flashing lights that blinked as i did, lashes swinging, and the people only came out at night. i had been wandering, feet set ablaze, with bandages that wrapped head to toe— and i'm still not too sure what happened there, but i'll try to write what i know. i saw white smiles and pink hair, people i knew and some i didn't, with stars for eyes; i saw them all singing with no beat or rhythm and two suns, four moons, and ten skies. i'm uncertain as to what it all means, even though it's been years. but the thought of returning to that dream city always drives me to tears.

to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed

t

to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed

i see so many people talking about depression as a shrinking sadness, as bonesbloodbile and stark blue veins peeking in from too short naps— but what of us who swell? who gain and stretch, who can't help but keep full and stay full? who feel the tight seams so embedded into the skin that it might as well be dna? where are our ribbons and medals? our shining trophies to be displayed and admired? how else shall we show that we, too, have suffered and been congratulated on that suffering? it is so easy to consume. so simple for the body to move, respond, shovel everything in and let the guilt of it (oh, that sour and bitter shame)

we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).

w

we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).

part i there is a kind of eternal mortality in dying. the waves never break, the clouds shift along a skyline— somewhere. the pool players glide and stretch and never stop - what is stopping to them but a shovel? a way to dig up the dry, loose soil at the top of a hill that overlooks a cemetery of song; they bury their sins there, you see. pack them all up, take that shovel - spray paint it, call it gold: lucky number seven. it gleams a June firefly in the midst of a June firefight (you only get the fire, the rest is up to you) and blood turns a girl into a grin into a growl in gin, a knife slinking somewhere silent in her hand. she

the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.

t

the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.

the sky is pink, my lips are red, and everything is double. my shadow exists on one side and it is my fault— my side aches and my leg burns and it is my fault— i am full but thirsty, swallowing the bittersweet as i breathe and i asked for this. i wanted to ache, to burn, to feel featherlike - childlike - godlike - a nonbeliever deep in a tomb filled with the manmade (it is to lay Venusian, to be pried and gripped, to forget i am manmade, made/man, wondering what goes in between and if it even mattered). nothing is sense; i must be flame drunk. count my pores, you’ll find the stars in them - check my tongue for the storms b

there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.

t

there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.

depression is a dance of extremes. you either eat nothing except for the ash of yourself or you eat everything in the hopes that you can fill that void - deep aching pit - not knowing that it feasts on the marrow of your bones, that cannibal mouth stretched into a doctor grin—that is to say, one that says all is right here. you either sleep all the time, a semi coma of thorns, already dead and just waiting for glazed eyes to finally fall flat like you wish you would if you could only wake or you lie awake with ghosts, their fingers in your hair as they whisper to the spirits in your brain, your veins, your shame, shiveri

arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.

a

arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.

it's 1 am and i want to cry. it's 1 am and all the other 1 am's have got nothing on this. nothing on what sinking feels. nothing on how i can feel my bones like how i feel my muscles - how they stretch,             catch,          release. nothing on the way i curve and bow, dancing by myself for myself— does that make it a selfish thing? most likely. more likely are the whispers soon to follow, of the moon realizing i am still awake and wanting me to sleep. on other 1 am's, i think the moon believes she is ugly. i think the sun knows that. maybe the stars are her freckles, not ours. or maybe they're just stars. maybe they
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trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.

t

trembling hands kept the gun from my temple.

i have gotten pretty used to being empty. i feel like a well, most days. just empty, empty, empty brick with a pool of water that people think will just keep going - who ignore the drought. it has not rained in so, so long. the water, brought back up, is always murky, but it is still water. the people make do, expect only this filth, this dirt, cannot remember - or maybe tried to forget - that this used to clear. i am not empty as a hollow tin can is empty; i am empty as the sea - great swathes of nothing with only pockets of warmth that keep anything alive. it is an ache in the stomach, the throat, the eyes. it is fluttering l

cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).

c

cursed shield of athena (of aphrodite).

i am stuck between the two unfortunate realizations that i am both too much a feminist and too much a woman. it is hard to be the ugly girl. always a bit too much this, always a bit too few that. always 'maybe if you smiled more', always 'dress up next time', always the sideways glance and sometimes not even that. my voice is too loud, my edges too jagged, my words too familiar and off-putting all at once. too fat for tight clothes, too short for anything bigger; too smart and cruel and uncaring for the boys who pretend to be sweet just as i am too stupid and naive and soft for the boys who entertain themselves with the thought of women.

this is for catherine.

t

this is for catherine.

i have stolen from the rainbow and taken from the pumpkin seeds hidden by fallen leaves. i have given you bee song and the moment when a hummingbird sits still. i can snatch and pluck and tug, but my hands are not magic. i cannot wield it - cannot turn things into gold. but i love you. and maybe, when we kiss, i can leave glitter behind.

my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.

m

my depression has no mouth and yet it speaks.

i lay at the wrong side of my bed, with my palms pressed into my ribs, and my fingers all clawing at the valley of my breasts and i have to wonder if it's all worth it. i gaze at the twinkling lights i put up a few months ago and ask them to watch over my dreams and they don't respond but i think it's because they know i don't want to hear them speak. they remind me of the stars. the sky. the ever-turning earth. they remind me of all those who speak as if they know the stars well—as if they had laid among their heat and cried into their dark matter. i do not know the stars, only their names, but i have seen many names

i want to go home, but it's all in my head.

i

i want to go home, but it's all in my head.

i had once dreamt of a city, filled with sandy air and flashing lights that blinked as i did, lashes swinging, and the people only came out at night. i had been wandering, feet set ablaze, with bandages that wrapped head to toe— and i'm still not too sure what happened there, but i'll try to write what i know. i saw white smiles and pink hair, people i knew and some i didn't, with stars for eyes; i saw them all singing with no beat or rhythm and two suns, four moons, and ten skies. i'm uncertain as to what it all means, even though it's been years. but the thought of returning to that dream city always drives me to tears.

to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed

t

to grow as a seed | to bloom as a weed

i see so many people talking about depression as a shrinking sadness, as bonesbloodbile and stark blue veins peeking in from too short naps— but what of us who swell? who gain and stretch, who can't help but keep full and stay full? who feel the tight seams so embedded into the skin that it might as well be dna? where are our ribbons and medals? our shining trophies to be displayed and admired? how else shall we show that we, too, have suffered and been congratulated on that suffering? it is so easy to consume. so simple for the body to move, respond, shovel everything in and let the guilt of it (oh, that sour and bitter shame)

we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).

w

we real cool (the dead politely disagrees).

part i there is a kind of eternal mortality in dying. the waves never break, the clouds shift along a skyline— somewhere. the pool players glide and stretch and never stop - what is stopping to them but a shovel? a way to dig up the dry, loose soil at the top of a hill that overlooks a cemetery of song; they bury their sins there, you see. pack them all up, take that shovel - spray paint it, call it gold: lucky number seven. it gleams a June firefly in the midst of a June firefight (you only get the fire, the rest is up to you) and blood turns a girl into a grin into a growl in gin, a knife slinking somewhere silent in her hand. she

the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.

t

the soul is candy floss|my body is rotten.

the sky is pink, my lips are red, and everything is double. my shadow exists on one side and it is my fault— my side aches and my leg burns and it is my fault— i am full but thirsty, swallowing the bittersweet as i breathe and i asked for this. i wanted to ache, to burn, to feel featherlike - childlike - godlike - a nonbeliever deep in a tomb filled with the manmade (it is to lay Venusian, to be pried and gripped, to forget i am manmade, made/man, wondering what goes in between and if it even mattered). nothing is sense; i must be flame drunk. count my pores, you’ll find the stars in them - check my tongue for the storms b

there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.

t

there is a beginning here, underneath these ruins.

depression is a dance of extremes. you either eat nothing except for the ash of yourself or you eat everything in the hopes that you can fill that void - deep aching pit - not knowing that it feasts on the marrow of your bones, that cannibal mouth stretched into a doctor grin—that is to say, one that says all is right here. you either sleep all the time, a semi coma of thorns, already dead and just waiting for glazed eyes to finally fall flat like you wish you would if you could only wake or you lie awake with ghosts, their fingers in your hair as they whisper to the spirits in your brain, your veins, your shame, shiveri

arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.

a

arms reach from closets and legs drape from beds.

it's 1 am and i want to cry. it's 1 am and all the other 1 am's have got nothing on this. nothing on what sinking feels. nothing on how i can feel my bones like how i feel my muscles - how they stretch,             catch,          release. nothing on the way i curve and bow, dancing by myself for myself— does that make it a selfish thing? most likely. more likely are the whispers soon to follow, of the moon realizing i am still awake and wanting me to sleep. on other 1 am's, i think the moon believes she is ugly. i think the sun knows that. maybe the stars are her freckles, not ours. or maybe they're just stars. maybe they
Artist // Student // Literature

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