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Literature Text
I've made a career of
standing on the back porch -
calling your name into
the wide-open ears of
maple leaves.
You step from the house
to beckon me inside
but I swear a piece of you
is missing; escaped
into wilder arms years ago.
standing on the back porch -
calling your name into
the wide-open ears of
maple leaves.
You step from the house
to beckon me inside
but I swear a piece of you
is missing; escaped
into wilder arms years ago.
Literature
cynicism only gets you so far
i've been bleeding
lighter fluid
for quite a while now, i've been
watching the sun rise through the webs
of skin between my fingers
i've been stitching up my skin like it's
an old pair of jeans, like tearing so easily is
normal
i think it's because this skin isn't
mine, it's an amalgamation
of other people's expectations and
screwed-up pieces of paper and
morning coffee or
panic-induced nausea
and breath made for a different set of lungs
i've been living off
caffeine and insomnia
for quite a while now, i've been
talking to the moon through the diamonds
on my window pane
i've been throwing myself into the glass like i'm
a sparrow, like
Literature
a list of things colleges don't want to know
1. i have a cactus named atticus that i bought
on the day i thought i was going to die,
and i never forget to water it, not
even when i forget how it feels
to breathe without my lungs rebelling
against my brain.
2. sometimes talking feels like walking on gravel
in a Georgian summer heat.
i try to keep talking anyway,
and hope that eventually
my voice will lose its softness and grow calluses.
3. once, a man whistled at me
outside of a grocery store from
the safety of his car.
four years later, i still haven’t stopped looking
over my shoulder.
4. i drive too fast and i take turns too sharply
and i never put enough sugar
in my tea
Literature
the aftermath
the temple of her body was torn open tonight,
desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burned
and felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,
because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i have
to go and convince her that the handful of feathers
i have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snipped
off of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will never
believe so wholly in herself again. her body is no longer
a temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousand
foot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will never
again be able to trust her body, to know her body.
this is not the first p
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Comments16
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This is so stunning!