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Literature Text
to the girl who lives like a hurricane:
don’t expect to tell me about
your addiction to self-harm and
Nyquil and have me smile;
although, as I shiver from lakewater
and things less tangible, I seem to
acquire a talent for glossing over the list
of things I need to tell you--
your boyfriend
is an asshole. California does not
begin and end in a tiny town where
people operate like clockwork around
the same happy working song. I am not
a fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,
I can barely understand you over the
thunderstorms in my own brain.
you are beautiful and you are
wrong.
.
to the girl I left back in time:
purpose is not a given. I am
the same teenage angst who used
to wear too much eyeliner and
complain about my future
as I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,
like me. I am her plus a few more
self destructions and minus
a lot more days to continue striving
alongside you for simple goals and
simple friends and simple memories
I won’t remember.
.
to the girl who sees the world in me:
I’m sorry. it always seems safe to
start off with that. ours is
a back and forth necessity; a
breathing, wanting struggle between
two people who forgot how to decipher
their own heartbeats, and I’m sorry
your parents don’t believe in you. I’m sorry
you’re stuck rewriting your life, I’m sorry
you’ve mistaken me as a seaside town
worth anchoring down in, and I’m sorry
you weren’t there when
I needed you.
.
to the boy who reminded me I was blind:
I forgive you, but not enough
to pardon myself of the very same crimes
that plucked me feather by feather, raw,
as though I were an angel being punished
for my original sin.
you and I are more similar than
I should like to admit.
the terrors I went through were always
tinged with blue, cyan, cerulean; the
watery memory of stories you’d told me
about living on the brink of death and
growing up old and hiding every single
thing that could remotely resemble a weakness.
even now, as my hands shake, I am reminded
of the way you bared me to my brittle bones
and watched me tremble, like the
deforestation of a flower in its first bloom
was something special. and maybe
it was in that moment I began to love you,
because all I ever wanted was to be
special.
.
to the boy on the other side of the mirror:
I wish you were real for me. I want
to know you vulnerable, and see
the kind of tears you cry. I want
you to talk to me about school crushes
and depression and expectations; I want to know
what keeps you up at night and what effects
caffeine addiction has on a writer’s addled brain.
I want for once to talk to you without apologizing for
everything I’ve ever been-- you are
the only person who’s seen every splintered
piece of me.
don’t expect to tell me about
your addiction to self-harm and
Nyquil and have me smile;
although, as I shiver from lakewater
and things less tangible, I seem to
acquire a talent for glossing over the list
of things I need to tell you--
your boyfriend
is an asshole. California does not
begin and end in a tiny town where
people operate like clockwork around
the same happy working song. I am not
a fountain of wisdom, and, to be honest,
I can barely understand you over the
thunderstorms in my own brain.
you are beautiful and you are
wrong.
.
to the girl I left back in time:
purpose is not a given. I am
the same teenage angst who used
to wear too much eyeliner and
complain about my future
as I’d foretold it-- loveless and whiny,
like me. I am her plus a few more
self destructions and minus
a lot more days to continue striving
alongside you for simple goals and
simple friends and simple memories
I won’t remember.
.
to the girl who sees the world in me:
I’m sorry. it always seems safe to
start off with that. ours is
a back and forth necessity; a
breathing, wanting struggle between
two people who forgot how to decipher
their own heartbeats, and I’m sorry
your parents don’t believe in you. I’m sorry
you’re stuck rewriting your life, I’m sorry
you’ve mistaken me as a seaside town
worth anchoring down in, and I’m sorry
you weren’t there when
I needed you.
.
to the boy who reminded me I was blind:
I forgive you, but not enough
to pardon myself of the very same crimes
that plucked me feather by feather, raw,
as though I were an angel being punished
for my original sin.
you and I are more similar than
I should like to admit.
the terrors I went through were always
tinged with blue, cyan, cerulean; the
watery memory of stories you’d told me
about living on the brink of death and
growing up old and hiding every single
thing that could remotely resemble a weakness.
even now, as my hands shake, I am reminded
of the way you bared me to my brittle bones
and watched me tremble, like the
deforestation of a flower in its first bloom
was something special. and maybe
it was in that moment I began to love you,
because all I ever wanted was to be
special.
.
to the boy on the other side of the mirror:
I wish you were real for me. I want
to know you vulnerable, and see
the kind of tears you cry. I want
you to talk to me about school crushes
and depression and expectations; I want to know
what keeps you up at night and what effects
caffeine addiction has on a writer’s addled brain.
I want for once to talk to you without apologizing for
everything I’ve ever been-- you are
the only person who’s seen every splintered
piece of me.
Literature
she can't keep secrets, i can't keep friends
the first time I see her in months,
she still hugs me like i’m the only thing
keeping her world up.
i remember a time when this was true.
we do not talk about anything we used to—
those things have become taboo,
almost while our heads were turned away.
subjects are now landmines, with us tiptoeing around them,
me in my beat up converse and her in her sky-high stilettos.
we do not talk about how she did not say goodbye.
we do not talk about her old-new-old-old-gone boyfriend.
we don’t mention any new holes in my heart
or any new episodes of a now cancelled television show.
we do not talk about the new kid who looks like h
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
handle with care
there are 206 bones in the
human body. it only takes one good
squeeze and your neck can snap as
easily as a twig.
once, when i was at the grocery
store, i came across a crate of
peaches. they were on sale because
every single one was bruised and it
made me think, "we're all just pieces of fruit
left to rot. as soon as we've been dropped on the
floor, no one wants to help us back up."
i've forgotten how to think in poetics.
three months ago i would have
compared people to roses. pretty little petals
that can be crushed with just
one little pinch and thorny stems that
whisper "don't touch me."
but now,
i think we're more like
bombshel
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five people have invested in the timeshare that is my mind these past few weeks and wow there's a lot I haven't said but I guess that's what writing's for, haha, my passive aggression and deadends
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Comments41
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This is awesome. I don't have anything constructive to say about it, but I highly enjoyed reading it!