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Literature Text
sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
if it will finally rest easy over my bones.
Literature
time and space.
It was a Tuesday when she hit the age she always thought would be the day she felt old, ticking past her teenage years, and into the old-enough-to-know-betters/young-enough-not-to-care age. It rained the day she blew out twenty three candles, and she had never had a wish come true, at least not one that didn't turn sour not long after, anyway. She laughed with the people around her, and drank wine like a mature young lady, despite the clouds she could feel forming in her ribcage. She wanted to know if this was what ageing felt like, if this was how all her birthdays would feel like from this one forward. She knew what the clouds were, and she
Literature
Reddist
Before you, there were women
with full breasts,
breasts with perk tips and beneath them:
hips wide as my hand spread,
but never love.
Athenas before you,
my eyes only followed the apples;
and then, suddenly:
A wild brook unleashed
and I never knew I was a basin
meant to be filled.
A woman sewn
from the smile of Coyote,
from the same hands that bent time
and created life for a laugh-
Apples became
the sweetest fruit; be my reddist-
I will love you madder
than a hatter and brasher than a miner.
Wilder for a gypsy.
Literature
072
i ached enough that day
to salt the atlantic ocean
three time over
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sorry,
this is a little dark.
the last couple days have been good to me,
mostly.
this is a little dark.
the last couple days have been good to me,
mostly.
© 2013 - 2024 arabesque-o
Comments20
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I can relate to this a lot. I had my own struggles with cutting, and still do to a certain extent. I've stopped, but I know exactly how this feels. I'm sorry you are feeling this way but I'm glad you can write about it so beautifully.