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Literature Text
i watched every part of you collapse
into broken bones and bruised skin and torn cartilage
your face sinking into itself, only letting me see sockets
and melting pores; i’ve never seen hair slide off skin like that
it got worse when you took away the mirror,
that’s when i felt the fractures, felt my
skin get so hot that it didn’t take too long
to see a puddle of myself at my
feet—or what was left of them
into broken bones and bruised skin and torn cartilage
your face sinking into itself, only letting me see sockets
and melting pores; i’ve never seen hair slide off skin like that
it got worse when you took away the mirror,
that’s when i felt the fractures, felt my
skin get so hot that it didn’t take too long
to see a puddle of myself at my
feet—or what was left of them
Literature
To all the men who didn't see me for what I was
Tornadoes never make good shelters -
but he doesn't know that.
So he tries to find
refuge inside of me,
he tries to build a home
out of my bitten bones
with a porch swing
made of whatever
left-over love
someone forgot to take back.
He wants me to be a safe place
to hide away
from a troublesome summer,
but I am not made of light,
and I am not made of beginnings -
everything about me
is a never-ending ending.
Tornadoes never make good shelters -
and he will soon know that.
Literature
Lullaby
Hush, hush, Child
Monsters don't hide
In the dark of night.
Sleep tight, Child
You're not alone.
All evil walk on two feet
Their faces are human,
Hands can give and destroy.
Let them close,
They'll whisper sweet things,
But serpent tongues
Drip poison to your ears.
The arsenic of their words
Laces your brain with sorrow,
As it spreads slowly
Through veins and arteries,
Killing from inside,
But you have to stand up
Have to carry on.
Hush, hush, Child
Monsters don't hide
In the dark of night.
Sleep tight, Child
You are not alone.
You feel small and weak
Abandoned and fragile,
But remember always
You are loved.
Bones can break, and
Wounds
Literature
about
i.
i want to tell you
why i always write
about my mother and
not my father.
ii.
i love poetry but
i hate words;
it’s like loving
air but hating
breathing –
(loving breathing
but hating throats)
words are what
ruin poetry. they
mean nothing, and
poetry means everything.
words talk, but
they don’t say
anything.
(words reduce poetry
to nothing.)
iii.
time slips through
my fingers like
breaths through a sieve
because i don’t
grasp onto it.
i have no will –
the thought makes
me suffocate from
exhaustion,
sinks into the black
circles under my
eyes while i lie
in bed.
time passes.
(time is crema
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Comments7
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The imagery in this poem is almost gruesome. (In a good way! ) it really makes me picture the scene of someone melting...