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Literature Text
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.
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.
Literature
One, two, three
My boyfriend watched, open mouthed
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt an ocean rolling under my ribs
and an urge to cradle your urn,
rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
-
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you hated religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
-
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from
Literature
lunacy.
what the moon teaches us is
no one exists as a constant.
some days you will orbit elsewhere.
the angles of light that
make up the shadows of you
will keep moving.
it is the same with the ocean
and how it does not meet
the shore the same each time:
some days it will come crashing,
eroding: or it comes back to kiss
its edges over and over
there are some days i am more
of a tsunami. there will be days
you will be eclipsed.
and i don't mind this. the moon is
up in the sky but the ocean still feels
the weight of its pull, always.
i want to drown in the
push and pull of your gravity
in all the ways that's possible.
i could get used to the
di
Literature
a good love poem to get you in the mood
there is a sadness that lives within
liars. i told you once that you meant
more to me than myself, but if i were
truly your friend i would tell you to
leave.
i want you to slip from the bed
in the middle of the night while i
am still asleep. i want you to fight
the urge to touch me and trust
that i am honest.
i want you to find your things and
fill your bags with everything that is you
in that place until it is nearly
empty, and
quietly,
i want you to fucking leave.
without explanation or one more
ultimatum that you are so fond
of, put that car in drive and don't
you dare come back.
find a studio that
you can afford for two hundred
Suggested Collections
Inspired by If I Stay/ Where She Went by Gayle Forman, and a conversation.
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Comments1
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Just wow. This piece makes me feel things I can't put into words. so wonderfully written. Such wonderful imagery.
"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,"
"brain matter quicksand on the curbside,"
I just love this line. asfhgasfgjhjadsa
"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,"
"brain matter quicksand on the curbside,"
I just love this line. asfhgasfgjhjadsa