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Literature Text
Trepidation slides my hand
Across the sheets to feel her touch
But loneliness erupts a gush
My heart, a fallout shelter's hush.
The bleak design of falling snow
Is patterned lightly cross her neck
As if to laugh and mock the flow
Of blood that once coursed under it.
I've walked the wastelands far and wide
And searched the kingdoms of the sea
Though no forgiveness comes from lies
And oceans of regret won't free.
My choices made were always owned
Mistakes and other banishments
Decrees and vows not bought, but loaned
To me, were barely ever meant.
Across the sheets to feel her touch
But loneliness erupts a gush
My heart, a fallout shelter's hush.
The bleak design of falling snow
Is patterned lightly cross her neck
As if to laugh and mock the flow
Of blood that once coursed under it.
I've walked the wastelands far and wide
And searched the kingdoms of the sea
Though no forgiveness comes from lies
And oceans of regret won't free.
My choices made were always owned
Mistakes and other banishments
Decrees and vows not bought, but loaned
To me, were barely ever meant.
Literature
How to Sleep and Never Wake Up
The year they discovered my best friend, twenty years old and silent under the heap of her wrecked car, I learned one can sleep forever and never wake up.
That year, her sister, only seventeen, ate magic mushrooms and lost her mind and her brother, fourteen, started running and stopped eating and I didn't eat magic mushrooms but lost my mind anyway as everyone watched my skin, too white to be real, disintegrate before their eyes.
That year I flew to Colorado to see an urn surrounded by pointe shoes. It reminded me more of a wastebasket than the last I would see of the girl who shared my soul. Her sister ran naked through the street a few da
Literature
Empty Gardens
It was a wine-petaled pansy
that my mother pruned from the garden box;
it reminded me
that I had blossomed late and wilted.
At fourteen I created pansy petals of my own,
waking up with hot-fisted cramps
and the proof I was a woman.
I was not a rose, perennial,
as I went from blooming monthly
to not at all.
I would rather spend a day
curled up like the fetus I may never carry
than flat on my back wondering
why God allowed worse women than me
to bear children.
Literature
Still
He was waking or he was falling asleep, neither, both at once. This was a dream. This was the only thing he had ever known. It made no difference, he trailed his own body like ripples after a rock, smoothing and breaking and smoothing again.
His feet moved tirelessly, without thought. No longer human, only the Walk was real. For minutes, or for months; time was fluid and distant. Walk.
He broke and a low mountain pulled him forward. Smoothed. Broke into flatlands, into shallow water. Into the evening, into the weak dawn.
Smoothed, back into the soft yellow lights behind his eyes. Walk.
****
He was not alone. This thought came from his bo
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Poem I wrote a year ago after a falling out with someone I cared about.
© 2016 - 2024 JustAnotherWeekend
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