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Literature Text
you get the lungburning after midnight
and you're dying to be demeaned,
leaning up against the window and
breathing like you wish to inhale, to
swallow, and you've choked into your
stomach things other men would loathe,
and you have this bruise on
your thigh: you're trying to forget that
thigh, with a skinny scar and the bad
memories, recalling purple colors;
like that man said, you were easy, and
like that man said, you have thin legs and
a wandering mind: you tap the glass and
think about the zoo, except you realize
you're the one encased in something smaller
and the world could look in on you, but
they wouldn't care to, and you're dying
to be humiliated: you're getting the feeling
you don't deserve any of this, the thought
you don't deserve any of this, the
persistent nag you don't deserve
any of this and the lungburning,
stomachturning, ribcrushing, bloody—
you're dying to be squandered, to be wasted,
to be worthless, and it feels better to be nothing—
sometimes, it feels better to be less than because
you're nothing, and you're nothing, and you're
touching the glass, lungburning, nothing.
and you're dying to be demeaned,
leaning up against the window and
breathing like you wish to inhale, to
swallow, and you've choked into your
stomach things other men would loathe,
and you have this bruise on
your thigh: you're trying to forget that
thigh, with a skinny scar and the bad
memories, recalling purple colors;
like that man said, you were easy, and
like that man said, you have thin legs and
a wandering mind: you tap the glass and
think about the zoo, except you realize
you're the one encased in something smaller
and the world could look in on you, but
they wouldn't care to, and you're dying
to be humiliated: you're getting the feeling
you don't deserve any of this, the thought
you don't deserve any of this, the
persistent nag you don't deserve
any of this and the lungburning,
stomachturning, ribcrushing, bloody—
you're dying to be squandered, to be wasted,
to be worthless, and it feels better to be nothing—
sometimes, it feels better to be less than because
you're nothing, and you're nothing, and you're
touching the glass, lungburning, nothing.
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Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
snowglobe
we hoped it would get bad enough to break glass
that one of our voices
would find the note
to split the window
make a neighbour call the cops
that the dishes would shatter
into too many pieces
to be picked off the floor
we wanted glass in our heels
a trickle of heat
a flicker of colour
in the sun-blank snow
the pines leaned on our doorframe
we waited for them
to pressure in and unfurl
shower our stunned faces
in a rain of needles
knock the teapot off the table
in a blossom of shards
but the trees stood by
evergreen and identical
the same dream of pine repeating
behind yellowing plastic
we painted shut the door
with smi
Literature
Winter
I remember winter in
the old stove we huddled at,
an audience of shivering limbs
within cold walls.
There was a desperation to this closeness
that love could never inspire. It glowed
within us, a common flame
we dared not feed, and through
the night we curled in embers
and burned ourselves to sleep.
I could almost remember summer’s
cotton arms, the playfulness
of ocean waves in August. Those dreams
wished to drown us beneath memories
and wishes, but
in the moment before we awoke,
as the tide cried
for me to stay, I always
always swam to shore.
Every morning, I breathed snow-capped
mountains in the air. They were nothing
more th
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