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Literature Text
i drink to you, raising my glass and
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not graceful.
do you even remember taking me to the moon?
you were so fucking tripped out on acid
and weed and love and other drugs
that you thought we were a portrait.
midnight blues and sober grays
breaking even for a story,
but every planet we landed on
was already dead.
and trust me, i know you wish life was
a one night stand, because you
can’t keep looking it in the eyes
when you roll out of bed in the morning
with a hangover and a little less time. i know
you dread it. i know you dread me
when you collapse onto me like
a pile of lovesick letters from
teenagers dreaming of leaving home,
like a pile of all the first stars
that appeared to our naked eyes throughout life
dragged down by the wishes they didn’t bring,
like an anchor labelled “never sink.”
god, i miss the emptiness of me before
you came in like the morning tide. before
i told you all my fears and you
asked me to wake up.
i would’ve loved you dry, and then some.
i would’ve been your most belligerent stargazer,
your most honest narcissist, i
could’ve rewritten you so well.
choking down the things you left,
ignoring my gag reflex and waiting
on the buzzing in my head, white cotton
lullabies for the weak of heart.
it kills me that we are just a
collection of vignettes, that soon
i might see your blossom fingers
and bleeding sunset smile but
only as a memory gone static with neglect;
this summer, i became a rebel. a
martyr in a child’s game, a vagrant
with boxes of dead poetry to call
a home, and when i asked you to want me,
it’s only so you’d take the sanity and consciousness
with you when you left. i miss
the days when personality disorders
were not graceful.
do you even remember taking me to the moon?
you were so fucking tripped out on acid
and weed and love and other drugs
that you thought we were a portrait.
midnight blues and sober grays
breaking even for a story,
but every planet we landed on
was already dead.
and trust me, i know you wish life was
a one night stand, because you
can’t keep looking it in the eyes
when you roll out of bed in the morning
with a hangover and a little less time. i know
you dread it. i know you dread me
when you collapse onto me like
a pile of lovesick letters from
teenagers dreaming of leaving home,
like a pile of all the first stars
that appeared to our naked eyes throughout life
dragged down by the wishes they didn’t bring,
like an anchor labelled “never sink.”
god, i miss the emptiness of me before
you came in like the morning tide. before
i told you all my fears and you
asked me to wake up.
i would’ve loved you dry, and then some.
i would’ve been your most belligerent stargazer,
your most honest narcissist, i
could’ve rewritten you so well.
Literature
a guide to her sadness.
her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,
not knowing there is no luck in the break.
her veins are unanswered prayers
her lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,
hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.
her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.
see,
the the sadness is sinking her again.
so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,
go with her.
when she tries to climb bridges,
don't let her.
when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,
it means she's trying to pull her head together.
when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,
decide to knock.
when she
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
Literature
He doesn't write poetry anymore.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
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sorry this is so long
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Comments62
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I really liked this poem. Addicts are so hard to reach sometimes