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Literature Text
there is a little girl with a sheet over her head, standing
in the corner right over there. she believes she is a ghost,
or perhaps she believes no one can see her. it's quite sad.
poor mother, she's like a doe with a stillborn fawn, nudging
at its limp body with her nose, wishing it would feed, that
it would rise and stumble about and behave like a creature
alive.
my mother has three broken children, three children that
don't work right. we aren't wired properly, we are one in the
same, we're all fucked up. and she's bent herself over the
kitchen counter and hid her face and cried for her three
broken children. for me, for her, for him, one nearly dead,
one dying, one becoming malicious and angry. i've wished
to touch her hunched back twisted with aggravated scoliosis
but my hands are electrified, on fire, harmful. i don't know what
else to be besides broken.
the girl with the sheet over her head will grow to be a woman
with her hair hiding her eyes and she will walk through the
tall grasses and nettles of life wondering why she was left behind.
all our attention is on those with prettier faces and implants,
soulless husks of human beings that we wish to replicate. but
maybe there will be someone genuine in her life who presses
their forehead against hers until all is dark, creating something
like a haven, warm, fingers between hers. maybe there will
be smiles and laughter, even. maybe there will be unspoken
thanks for her heart beating, or her lungs breathing, or her
broken brain functioning in its dilapidated way; maybe there will
be goodness in her brokenness.
in the corner right over there. she believes she is a ghost,
or perhaps she believes no one can see her. it's quite sad.
poor mother, she's like a doe with a stillborn fawn, nudging
at its limp body with her nose, wishing it would feed, that
it would rise and stumble about and behave like a creature
alive.
my mother has three broken children, three children that
don't work right. we aren't wired properly, we are one in the
same, we're all fucked up. and she's bent herself over the
kitchen counter and hid her face and cried for her three
broken children. for me, for her, for him, one nearly dead,
one dying, one becoming malicious and angry. i've wished
to touch her hunched back twisted with aggravated scoliosis
but my hands are electrified, on fire, harmful. i don't know what
else to be besides broken.
the girl with the sheet over her head will grow to be a woman
with her hair hiding her eyes and she will walk through the
tall grasses and nettles of life wondering why she was left behind.
all our attention is on those with prettier faces and implants,
soulless husks of human beings that we wish to replicate. but
maybe there will be someone genuine in her life who presses
their forehead against hers until all is dark, creating something
like a haven, warm, fingers between hers. maybe there will
be smiles and laughter, even. maybe there will be unspoken
thanks for her heart beating, or her lungs breathing, or her
broken brain functioning in its dilapidated way; maybe there will
be goodness in her brokenness.
Literature
Dido Before The Pyre.
Let there be music for a while
rather than silence,
rather than never to have known him,
never to have loved.
Music for a while
is better than a lifetime
without whispers,
endearments, kisses -
even though it ends in parting,
flames, ashes.
Let me hear that tune
we listened to as one,
that had the trills of birds,
the echoes of bells,
that fell like water on my skin:
a silken shroud.
Play it
as I watch him sail away.
Let there be music for a while,
And then I'll sleep.
Literature
here's a secret
here's a secret:
i.
I need to keep losing you
over and over and over again
because
when I miss the sensation of your stranger's love on my ribs
or I find the spark in your dappled eyes
or we finally learn ( again ) how to kiss
I get to remember why we try.
ii.
I have given up wondering
and accepted I do not exist
without you;
like a foil for your character
like the flaw of the largest diamond
they've found (and fractured).
You are blood
and I'm sea water
alien subst
Literature
dear midnight
my earthy mattress tickles my neck
as i lay down to stare at my love,
but i am not looking over;
i am looking up.
power lines scar her stellar
dark-blue face, and city lights
pollute her skin like a thousand
spotlights on an over-powdered model.
but i am not concerned about
her blemishes; no, tonight i am here
to find flawlessness beneath
the flaws.
and so i gaze
the stars are the freckles
on heaven's nose, and the clouds
the hair of Venus herself.
i reach up to try to sift my fingers
through her wispy white locks,
but find she is too far away.
a single star drifts across the dark
cheeks of the night, and i fear
sh
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constant dialogue in my head.
© 2009 - 2024 injuredjaw
Comments5
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i pride myself on not crying. big boys dont cry, right?
i read this, and i got chills.
...
and i cried.
i read this, and i got chills.
...
and i cried.