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I wonder if you've thought about how we were best friends
for so long that bits of you rubbed off on me, so I speak
and your words come out, and sometimes
I smile and the mirror calls my face half buried boy and half lost lover,
so it makes sense that even though we are apart
we are both grieving this same loss, right?
Like our changing shapes are news our bodies knew
when they were pressed together, so even with
the skies stretching like a stray, we are still
supporting each other in all the ways that matter.
Reflections in Spoons
It's been a long while since I wrote something that could be posted here, and this will be my last before I disable this account.

Gracious - Ben Howard
Leave a Trace - Chvrches

As always - please, thank you, and sorry <3
He used to grow flowers
non-metaphorical flowers, real
petal and pollen and pretty flowers and
then he started talking scary and
then he started disappearing and
then he started throwing fists at walls
like flowers at wedding parties and
its no coincidence that the year he
held a knife at her neck
they started dying

So it's a shade of inevitable that I would be here
in a bathtub that is also a canopy that is also
a cave that is also the bed I may drown in
because I was so eager to help move us forward
I pushed us in front of a car which is
a terrible analogy because I don't think
my dead brother would find this funny and
it's only okay if he'd be laughing but
this little mistake, this one word, this
habit could be the signpost of an ending
and I've never thought before why habit has two meanings
but it makes sense now because I have worn
this fear every single goddamn moment
since the day the flowers stopped growing.
From Edvard's Rotting Body
I've been gone awhile, and this is no good, but it's honest, and that's something.

"How can I say this without breaking?
How can I say this without taking over? 
How can I put it down into words
When it's almost too much for my soul alone?" 

Fleurie - Hurts Like Hell
That I would not choose to stay sounds
thick with weakness in his mouth,
and I understand that if this greenness,
this creaking summer sun, only happens once and
then never again, perhaps it is worth continuing,

But he has not buried bodies yet;
has not blanketed bruises
leaking from the skin of loved ones, or
clawed at the weight of their wailing in his ears,

Even still, he has lived too
and I don't recall when my words changed from carving
houses in the carnage to crawling six feet under the ash, and
I am slick with shame in the grey of this revelation.

See, I agree for the most part, about the value of things,
until his voice twists to the defense attorney that has my belief
in all but bones, in all but blood, because
to think of them shredded by the shrapnel,
brain matter quicksand on the curbside,
I cannot lie, cannot say I would stay:

Darling, isn't there always another rib-cage to wrap yourself in?
A new reason to rebuild your body as a bomb shelter to shield them from grief?

This is where I draw the line, I think,
because there is always someone else to live for
and I will do it, but not unfailingly - no:

At that brink, on that bed, heavy with tubes and sedation,
soul or skin or half-homed ghost transparent and contemplating,
knowing those closest were empty under white linen sheets, even
believing there would be nothing after but blackness, but sleep,
I hope I would at least consider
the importance of living for me.
When Staying is Cowardice
Inspired by If I Stay/ Where She Went by Gayle Forman, and a conversation. 

I know about this - the leaking blue, the thread cutting,
the way an artist dreams in non-existent hues,
and my grandmother sees the eye of a needle through the thick skin of clouded sight;

And this - the killing calm, the hunting,
the way his elbow finds the angle to calm the rabbits cries,
and she's hidden beneath the bed almost as often as she's checked it for his careful curved spine;

And I see now, my dear, that these bridges are just kindling
for a pyromaniac child
who didn't know she was born to burn things
until he built a backpack bomb of match-sticks
waiting to be set alight,
and I know, now, that I've painted this setting
as often as I felt the thread snap;
every 1:00am a war-council planning this
disappearing act, this bombing, camoflage in the blood spatter of
rabbits lacking lucky feet, but this -

right here,
I know about this
It's my skill-set, a fine tuned talent;
I have been training my whole goddamn life
to throw the flame and leave it.
We ought to sit, not beside
so each thigh greets the other, but
opposite, a-cross, our conversation a
sacrificial commentary on what we have not lost
but will, and what we gained to gather in
clenched fists, fairy-light strings tangling, while
I wish for globes of glass to break and shards
to burrow in palms we've held and
held again,  but no -

We ought to sit facing each-other so when I begin
you will not rest your hands on my skin, and
the air will vibrate with all the things I am
holding back, but we will be adult among the hard decisions,
the concrete words rendering us
understood, until it is done -

The first step of undoing, maybe,

And then we can press ourselves
as if flowers, as if bare soles
in beach sand, chest to chest
and know that no matter the resolution,
tonight we are back-lit bodies
silhouetted against a future
we will live;
even at a distance.

This, my mantra:

we will live,
we will live,
we will live.
The First Instance of Erasure
"We've got younger faces than our hearts are letting on" Rusty Clanton - Novels


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MozartsNemesis Featured By Owner Feb 24, 2016
Good to see you back, dear, I had started to fear the worst. Let me know if there's anything I can do, and know I pray for you and yours daily. <3
JustACapharnaum Featured By Owner Nov 15, 2014

Thanks for joining the group MacroPoetry!

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Have a nice day :)

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