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Literature Text
sitting downstairs, upstairs, anywhere. it doesn't matter. if you are with me, i will be uncomfortable.
not because i dislike you. not because every movement you make disrupts the universe or
the cycle of life. you disrupt the way i should be able to breath. you make me doubt it all,
and your ignorance is bliss. for you. not for me.
standing in the corner of the room, i stare at your hair as it flows in waterfalls of colors not
known to the color wheel, and my heart is running so rapidly, i believe something fatal may
happen if i don't control this. this thing that is my life line.
dinner, a movie, a glass of wine - does location matter? where ever you are, i know
how the evening will play out, and i know a heart will remain broken and yours will still
be beating.
my attic is cold.
my attic is hard, dark, and dirty.
my attic has no window, and yet it has three.
my attic is one room with black floorboards that seem midnight blue in the right light.
i sit in my attic, i rock back and forth against the walls and scratch the beams, denying myself
the hunger i have been craving for so long.
you are the pain that pierces my side,
or rather, my heart.
i cannot devour you as i wish, i cannot swallow you whole. i cannot even, even kiss your lips
tenderly with my equally soft lips because today it is not allowed. society would slit my throat
and drag my body into the backyard shed and gut me as i gasped with the crimson liquid bubbling
from my neck.
i would lie on my back, so i could stare up out of the spaces between the roof's wooden planks
at the stars. i want the last thing i see to remind me of your eyes.
not because i dislike you. not because every movement you make disrupts the universe or
the cycle of life. you disrupt the way i should be able to breath. you make me doubt it all,
and your ignorance is bliss. for you. not for me.
standing in the corner of the room, i stare at your hair as it flows in waterfalls of colors not
known to the color wheel, and my heart is running so rapidly, i believe something fatal may
happen if i don't control this. this thing that is my life line.
dinner, a movie, a glass of wine - does location matter? where ever you are, i know
how the evening will play out, and i know a heart will remain broken and yours will still
be beating.
my attic is cold.
my attic is hard, dark, and dirty.
my attic has no window, and yet it has three.
my attic is one room with black floorboards that seem midnight blue in the right light.
i sit in my attic, i rock back and forth against the walls and scratch the beams, denying myself
the hunger i have been craving for so long.
you are the pain that pierces my side,
or rather, my heart.
i cannot devour you as i wish, i cannot swallow you whole. i cannot even, even kiss your lips
tenderly with my equally soft lips because today it is not allowed. society would slit my throat
and drag my body into the backyard shed and gut me as i gasped with the crimson liquid bubbling
from my neck.
i would lie on my back, so i could stare up out of the spaces between the roof's wooden planks
at the stars. i want the last thing i see to remind me of your eyes.
Literature
not charm or up...
when you left
i poured fireflies
down my throat
to burn away
your lips' echoes
but all it did was make them spin
like ballistic quarks
reversing creation
Literature
Birds in flight.
She says I'm a bird, but I know she loves to fly
as we're soaring down the freeway,
ending our adventure and migrating back
to our own worn out homes.
Now we're driving through cities
that died before we were born
and watching men without faces
retrace their footsteps through the cold.
The sun's been gone for months
but the darkness is just beginning
to taste the edges of the sky
and lights are streaming by
above boarded up windows and weather-faded signs.
The roads branch out and the men trudge on
with hands in their pockets and snow in their shoes
and head bent low like crows in the morning.
What is there left
Literature
i'm still waiting
it is an abortion, you
know, something that leaves
us clutching at swayback
skin and innards emptied like
a gourd; for the rest of our
lives we will never look at
goslings with their drumbones
sifting sky and
be able to pretend.
it is a derailing, a seismic shift,
a quiet damnation. you know
how some believe people are
most beautiful at twenty-five
and others think eight;
how i believe we were never
really beautiful
at
all.
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Comments8
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"i cannot even, even kiss your lips
tenderly with my equally soft lips because today it is not allowed. society would slit my throat
and drag my body into the backyard shed and gut me"
it's about a girl who loves girls right?
It's damn gorgeous.
tenderly with my equally soft lips because today it is not allowed. society would slit my throat
and drag my body into the backyard shed and gut me"
it's about a girl who loves girls right?
It's damn gorgeous.