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Literature Text
I'd like to get underneath your skin the way you got under mine and
leave a whisper inside of your head that gets louder the longer you're
quiet. I wish I could leave a puddle, nestled in the valleys of your
chest cavity, that you feel when you breathe, and you choke on a little
bit each time you add to it yourself.
I want to be the alcohol on your lips, so I could slip down your throat
and nestle on the edge of your collarbone.
I'd listen to the irregular hum of your heartbeat and maybe knit
patterns from your veins. I've watched you drink the burning liquid,
and I've seen your face wince
at the sting as its forced down into your body.
it leaves your veins tangled and its a pattern I don't know how to unwind.
sometimes when I'm home alone I try to get you out,
I get into the shower and wash you off of me. your sweat and
semen and saliva slowly crawling down my legs to circle away between my feet.
but even when I scrub my skin until it's red I can still feel you
when I get into bed alone.
I used to be able to count your vertebre angles in my sleep
tracing the outlines against the heavy darkness
but time and aches have shifted plates and left you bent
or hollow in the middle. there is more of you inside me
than is left in you.
maybe if you'd let me I could carve back our skin and we could knit
patterns from our veins together until you could flow into yours
and I could get back into mine. but instead your phantom haunts me every
night and I just wish he'd be besides me, rather than inside.
leave a whisper inside of your head that gets louder the longer you're
quiet. I wish I could leave a puddle, nestled in the valleys of your
chest cavity, that you feel when you breathe, and you choke on a little
bit each time you add to it yourself.
I want to be the alcohol on your lips, so I could slip down your throat
and nestle on the edge of your collarbone.
I'd listen to the irregular hum of your heartbeat and maybe knit
patterns from your veins. I've watched you drink the burning liquid,
and I've seen your face wince
at the sting as its forced down into your body.
it leaves your veins tangled and its a pattern I don't know how to unwind.
sometimes when I'm home alone I try to get you out,
I get into the shower and wash you off of me. your sweat and
semen and saliva slowly crawling down my legs to circle away between my feet.
but even when I scrub my skin until it's red I can still feel you
when I get into bed alone.
I used to be able to count your vertebre angles in my sleep
tracing the outlines against the heavy darkness
but time and aches have shifted plates and left you bent
or hollow in the middle. there is more of you inside me
than is left in you.
maybe if you'd let me I could carve back our skin and we could knit
patterns from our veins together until you could flow into yours
and I could get back into mine. but instead your phantom haunts me every
night and I just wish he'd be besides me, rather than inside.
Literature
ME
i. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.
And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.
ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I
Literature
a guide to her sadness.
her wrists are wishbones she breaks for luck,
not knowing there is no luck in the break.
her veins are unanswered prayers
her lungs an apology sent as letters to heaven,
hoping God will forgive her for being a continual disappointment.
her head is a phonebooth for all the thoughts nobody's picking up on.
see,
the the sadness is sinking her again.
so when she leaves at midnight to longboard to the ocean,
go with her.
when she tries to climb bridges,
don't let her.
when she's drinking cold tea and playing daughter,
it means she's trying to pull her head together.
when she's in the bathroom praying to the toilet,
decide to knock.
when she
Literature
bones
i. there are some nights when the fear is crippling, overpowering; days that consist of staring at the bottles and wondering how much it would take to drown your sorrows, to drink until you forgot why you came here and why it’s so very hard to leave. there are moments when you scream into the silence because you’re scared, dear god you’re scared, because this boy loves you and you’ve gotten used to loneliness.
ii. you came here because the colourful nights and the lazy afternoons enticed you away from the house where you fell in line like reforested pine, with the garden where everything grows a little less wild a
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Comments16
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Hollow, spiteful, and yet with a tinge of pleading hope. Well done.