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Literature Text
these are the sorts of things
that make me want to
stop writing poetry.
to stop scrawling illegibly on
restaurant napkins or
my arm or
whatever i can find because my mind
just won't stop
racing with
words that wrestle to be heard, but
i have seen these words come alive between lines or
freckles and
it is not a pretty sight.
there are monsters that
recite every line and
hold my hand as i try to get them right and
they are not something i think i should be
shedding light upon because
i do not want to be second-handedly responsible for tearing apart someone else's mind,
but even if that is not the case,
i find that
rereading everything that's spilled from
my mind has just about the same effect
every time:
i get papercuts and headaches and
pains like
all my limbs break for the very first time
(it is again, but it feels like
i didn't learn the first hundred times and
maybe i didn't and
maybe i never will).
that make me want to
stop writing poetry.
to stop scrawling illegibly on
restaurant napkins or
my arm or
whatever i can find because my mind
just won't stop
racing with
words that wrestle to be heard, but
i have seen these words come alive between lines or
freckles and
it is not a pretty sight.
there are monsters that
recite every line and
hold my hand as i try to get them right and
they are not something i think i should be
shedding light upon because
i do not want to be second-handedly responsible for tearing apart someone else's mind,
but even if that is not the case,
i find that
rereading everything that's spilled from
my mind has just about the same effect
every time:
i get papercuts and headaches and
pains like
all my limbs break for the very first time
(it is again, but it feels like
i didn't learn the first hundred times and
maybe i didn't and
maybe i never will).
Literature
hair.line
My mother taught me how to
fall in love with strangers
so before I met you we were
already halfway to the stars,
but as soon as you spoke
I was lost. Loving strangers
is easy, there are no secrets
and no hard conversations,
there are no wounds to salve,
no scars to explain. The oddities,
they rest as quirks on the skin
of casual observation: a light
flip of the hair, a habit of
counting exits, the planning of
escape routes masked as
musical fingers playing sonatas
in empty air, a symphony
of fears tucked under quiet smiles
at gurgling infants. Falling
in love with an acquaintance,
a friend, a man like you, is
new to me. And whe
Literature
windowpain
sometimes, the ache's a nighttime thing, a lonely thing,
a window-cracked-to-hear-the-rain thing.
sometimes, all you can do is wait for the morning.
i know you feel like you gotta fix what's broken but
some things are better left unspoken
until you can see the light on his face.
sweetheart, you're a delicate thing, a tear-stained thing,
a fall-fast, fall-hard, fall-in-love thing.
i know you feel like you're walking on glass but
sometimes you have to wait for this to pass
& try again tomorrow.
Literature
xv.
1.
At 21:00 I thought my world
was ending but now
it's 23:15 and I'm mapping
out breaths, spreading them
across my cold palms
as if they were a dying butterfly
I wrestled from my cat's jaws.
2.
"Anxiety? Oh, everyone experiences anxiety."
I grit my teeth and bare
them in a polite smile.
3.
Fingers in my chest,
I crack open my ribs
and grip my heart caught
in a hummingbird panic.
4.
It's a kid bouncing a ball
against my skull and
no matter how much I scream
they just won't stop.
5.
Forehead against the tiles,
I beg for the cold to ground me.
6.
"I don't think you understand."
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Great work