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Literature Text
seducing the writer
is pointless;
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.
is pointless;
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.
Literature
Untitled
things she's destroyed this year;
two washing machines
from the pockets she fills with rocks
when the rains come and she wants to drown
the corners of all her books from flicking
bending and shaking edges
whenever she thinks of you
you stupid boy
her first car
crumpled in a ravine
and it left a scar on her stomach
that she sometimes can poke
and feel a lump that science can't explain
and she thinks it physical sadness
resting
waiting
the entire box of plates
that her mother gave her for moving out
and making it on her own
well, she almost made it
but something about them
being under the ground left
her shaking uncontrollably
and the tea
Literature
Untitled
The effectiveness of an umbrella is
inversely proportionate to its comfort,
you mapped the world in gradients
of notes that slid open on spokes.
watching a city under an inverted sky,
you tethered your soul to the tops of buildings,
following runway lights that
bled into a fog of classical and thoughts
there is something ethreal about music,
intangible-
you try to grasp the rain
but the words slip through your fingers
the night we met,
on the piano, you tried to play the sky
but all that rolled out was a muted thunder
Sometimes it rains in people,
You can see it in their eyes
Literature
Dear Poetry,
I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-
Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.
I am too many breaks between pulses,
& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.
I'm telling stories about a girl.
A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,
too much for a non-homeostatic body.
There were once fireflies in her smile,
alight between the gaps in her teeth.
A rebel,
love letters carved into wrists
she never sent.
Poetry,
She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.
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