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Literature Text
there's hell in your eyes, painting them black cesspits that could eat away the stars.
you tell me you need out of your head. the moon pulls higher in the sky, quietly marking the hour. our feet hang over empty air, the tracks below an open casket. you inhale nicotine and exhale burning buildings. smoke curls like fingers into the body of the night.
we're breaking like an ocean. eggshells on pavement.
i can't hold you together,
so you down handfuls of little white pills like peppermint candies.
like if you just keep swallowing, they'll whitewash the walls of your ribcage and purge your dirty heart.
you drink like you're always thirsty,
like you've found the antidote to forgetting.
instead, i hold matches to the dry tinder of my parchment skin to see if it catches fire
to burn down the gosttown of all the things i can't forget.
i dig trenches in my skin to leak out poison pulsing in my veins and the dirty swingset in my bones.
we both have memories we can't kill.
the black in our heads is bigger than the breadth our arms,
and our vices only ever bury us deeper.
i'm nearly ready to step off this train,
but i know if i do,
you'd come too.
and maybe we still love this life too much.
my lifelines flutter in my wrists like tiny birds begging me to set them free.
she tells me they are the branches of a tree,
outstretched to the sun, never birds.
she tells me the birds lie in my chest
and she shows me how to set them free with adrenaline and high places.
we're relearning life's anthem, this time singing without the stitches that held our mouths shut.
you tell me you need out of your head. the moon pulls higher in the sky, quietly marking the hour. our feet hang over empty air, the tracks below an open casket. you inhale nicotine and exhale burning buildings. smoke curls like fingers into the body of the night.
we're breaking like an ocean. eggshells on pavement.
i can't hold you together,
so you down handfuls of little white pills like peppermint candies.
like if you just keep swallowing, they'll whitewash the walls of your ribcage and purge your dirty heart.
you drink like you're always thirsty,
like you've found the antidote to forgetting.
instead, i hold matches to the dry tinder of my parchment skin to see if it catches fire
to burn down the gosttown of all the things i can't forget.
i dig trenches in my skin to leak out poison pulsing in my veins and the dirty swingset in my bones.
we both have memories we can't kill.
the black in our heads is bigger than the breadth our arms,
and our vices only ever bury us deeper.
i'm nearly ready to step off this train,
but i know if i do,
you'd come too.
and maybe we still love this life too much.
my lifelines flutter in my wrists like tiny birds begging me to set them free.
she tells me they are the branches of a tree,
outstretched to the sun, never birds.
she tells me the birds lie in my chest
and she shows me how to set them free with adrenaline and high places.
we're relearning life's anthem, this time singing without the stitches that held our mouths shut.
Literature
pressure.
she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.
Literature
quietly.
i lost track how many times i told you those damned things would kill you. that they would set your insides on fire and burn you alive. or the smoke would seep into your blood and bones and stain you with the faintest taste of lingering death. but god dammit i don't know why i didn't notice it earlier, that was the entire fucking point of the, wasn't it? maybe not in the beginning, but the 5th year in, or after he skipped town and left you speechless each one was a tiny suicide, a quiet, unseen death. each packet held 10 days off your life, maybe more, and they're so much less conspicuous than a gun or a sudden addiction to painkillers.
Literature
Nicknames
i. Brevity Girl
Brevity Girl
and her hero, Postcard Man,
write radio spots that channel dead lives
to distracted ears.
These are their superpowers:
Brevity Girl finds power in paradox,
and says most with least.
Postcard Man is a writing machine,
a work horse with tireless enthusiasm
and infinite patience for the sidekick who can’t keep up.
ii. The Queen of Snark
Queen Snark graces few with her presence.
Like any proper queen,
she doesn’t mingle with the riffraff
proffering too big smiles and weak handshakes.
Queen Snark is a meteorologist sensitive to rain,
who keeps an umbrella handy
when the mood is too dark for sarcasm.
i
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do you ever get tired of being sad?
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It's breathtaking.