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Literature Text
half-melted snow sprays over my jeans when the car drives by,
cold seeps into my bones, fills me up until
i feel bleaker than the landscape.
home is around the corner but i don't
want to go there.
coldness can be cured by something even colder,
a bedroom window kept open through the night
when sleeping is impossible,
i listen to the wind and the cars passing by, pushing down
each thought of escape.
(i have nothing to run from.)
boundless fear stings when swallowed, but i chug it down because
the alternatives scare me even more.
(fighting fears that won't manifest is like chasing ghosts.)
every night is a toss and turn, fleeting between numbness, blatant self-hatred
and imaginary worlds.
when morning comes, i can't tell if i slept at all.
cold seeps into my bones, fills me up until
i feel bleaker than the landscape.
home is around the corner but i don't
want to go there.
coldness can be cured by something even colder,
a bedroom window kept open through the night
when sleeping is impossible,
i listen to the wind and the cars passing by, pushing down
each thought of escape.
(i have nothing to run from.)
boundless fear stings when swallowed, but i chug it down because
the alternatives scare me even more.
(fighting fears that won't manifest is like chasing ghosts.)
every night is a toss and turn, fleeting between numbness, blatant self-hatred
and imaginary worlds.
when morning comes, i can't tell if i slept at all.
Literature
waterproof
sea foam regrets
wash this lacerated heart
with saline baptisms
of undying love
(and etch their
wretched revelations
on mausoleum walls).
your ancient ruins
still stand undefeated
by impudent waves
(like overexposed
polaroids showcased in
empty exhibitions).
and it's futile
exorcising
my heart of
your remnants
(because all
graveyards need
ghosts to
haunt them).
Literature
Forging Foundations
there is part of me that knows these walls
in the same ways I know
unrequited was the dream I used to tie my strings to,
unrequited was the hope I used to fill myself up,
unrequited is just a word I used to be friends with
because you've crooked your fingers
into the hooks of my jeans
and you've hooked my heart,
dangling, a stranger to safety
learning how to let someone lead--
there is a piece of me that fears these feelings
like I fear insects that sting, like I fear wildfires that rage,
like I fear porcelain dolls
with cracked faces and scarred chests
because so far in this life,
all the beautiful things I've ever held
have come to me brok
Literature
in the box
is a brain, removed from shell
disconnected
from signal wires. still viable (?)
maybe.
blue teeth and instant grams
and gallons of conceit;
our granular portrait no longer flatters
unless dull spots and imperfections are rendered
out in the wash--
we mask and filter, ask and answer,
bask in banter
understanding no one ever even thinks
to change the thought they've already had.
old news, rotten
if revisited. inquisitive
minds have nothing better to do
but second guess assumptions,
better than first-blush conundrums
that don't fit the formula we've written
for how the world works;
it's absurd to think
this is where our
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Comments6
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your images are so tangible, filled with sounds... & appreciated, as i lay in bedroom with an open window, listening to wind & cars-on-asphalt & all sorts of things.