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Literature Text
she smells of smoke, tastes
of cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,
sounds like someone who's used
to giving; her eyes are two
glossy sunsets out of a few
trillion that have set before--
when she shuts them, no one
blinks.
of cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,
sounds like someone who's used
to giving; her eyes are two
glossy sunsets out of a few
trillion that have set before--
when she shuts them, no one
blinks.
Literature
ten ways this breakup isn't meant for the movies
1.
you go out for twelve eggs and come back
with half a dozen and a new girlfriend.
you hold the eggs out to me like
six dead birds is enough of a peace offering.
2.
i push the eggs out of your hand and stay
with my hand over your heart as i watch them
fall. if they do not hit the ground, this is all a dream.
3.
the eggs smash on the tile and splatter
on the cherry wood cabinets, newly installed
that cost me two paychecks.
3.
the egg whites hit your leather shoes that
you’ve worn for two months straight
because you think they make you look more sophisticated.
3.
the egg whites hit the fridge halfway up, barely touching
the moose mag
Literature
on yearning to be something I'm not.
I think in a previous life,
I must have been a coyote.
An ugly beast with an
ugly heart, with howls
echoing across ten thousand
canyons.
"Please, give me the moon;
I can no longer stand the heat of
the sun."
This world mocks me.
More love for a
night alone in
a winter's forest than
the lonesome aching in
my heart, I only
want to run with the
wolves; always.
But,
I fear,
this desert-weary soul is
merely chasing rabbits across
empty highways. A coyote only
deserves putrid carrion and
not the thrill of the hunt—I am but a
song dog keening into the night for
the fangs of wolves to keep me cold.
Literature
You do not whore around,
You spend your nights
reaching
for Apollo’s robes.
You’re as hot
as New Orleans
in mid-July, and
as fierce
as her gumbo.
But, he is light-years
away and your fingers
ache with tired
insecurity.-
a disaster in
your own
moon skin.
Even if it fucking hurts,
you can still taste
his heat on your tongue.
Gods be damned,
you’re a butterfly-
( even if mounted
to a bed. )
One day,
you will find yourself
and fly away.
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(sometimes, i feel you
when i sleep, heavy on my
chest, with your combat boots
and eyelashes sharpened to daggers,
slicing your wrists open like
you finally won the war)
tryingmaybe failing short poems
when i sleep, heavy on my
chest, with your combat boots
and eyelashes sharpened to daggers,
slicing your wrists open like
you finally won the war)
trying
© 2013 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
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