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Literature Text
autumn rain is the prettiest, isn't it?
she sits there, staring out the window,
stirring her hot tea.
you sigh and press the cigarette
between your teeth
because you're trying not to stare
at the scratches cropped up on her arms.
you're the prettiest.
she runs her finger
over the edge of the knife
sleeping by her mug.
that's what he told me.
you meet her gaze,
misery grey swollen,
and she raises the mug to her lips.
do you want to tell me about him?
she taps her nails
against the table. that's what his heartbeat
would have sounded like. she smiles at you.
she moves back a little
and then holds her cup upside down,
the hot liquid rushing out,
scarring along the table, the floor.
you gasp and leap up.
that's what he looked like,
all down my legs.
you stare at her,
silent, and she turns toward the window.
he blamed me.
her nails perch on her wrist,
waiting to bruise. autumn rain is the prettiest;
it tries to save what's already dead.
she sits there, staring out the window,
stirring her hot tea.
you sigh and press the cigarette
between your teeth
because you're trying not to stare
at the scratches cropped up on her arms.
you're the prettiest.
she runs her finger
over the edge of the knife
sleeping by her mug.
that's what he told me.
you meet her gaze,
misery grey swollen,
and she raises the mug to her lips.
do you want to tell me about him?
she taps her nails
against the table. that's what his heartbeat
would have sounded like. she smiles at you.
she moves back a little
and then holds her cup upside down,
the hot liquid rushing out,
scarring along the table, the floor.
you gasp and leap up.
that's what he looked like,
all down my legs.
you stare at her,
silent, and she turns toward the window.
he blamed me.
her nails perch on her wrist,
waiting to bruise. autumn rain is the prettiest;
it tries to save what's already dead.
Literature
miss the girl
you see her,
one day,
with bobby
pins braided
like
promises
into her
doll-blonde hair,
her off-kilter
glasses
angling the
little moons
of her
eyes.
you watch
the
veins thrumming
beneath
the paper-skin,
her bones rolling,
enchantingly
brittle,
as she prints
the contours
of her name.
from where
you are sitting,
you cannot
quite piece
together
the letters.
-
it is not
long before
she half-fades
into the myriad
of
pretty-faces,
with their
glossy eyes
and lips and
coy, rippling
smiles.
you have
kissed four
other girls
when you
next see her,
her skin
rosy, like
glimmering
china,
and you
hear her
Literature
For Fear You Would Die Faster
your attenuate bones
clik clak
clak
against each other
against my anklespooled
in the foot of this sleeping bag
they summon up
eighty-eight goose-bumps taught to sing
evanescence in the summer(.)
we loved.
now: see-
through skin
for your viewing pleasurereasoning with irresponsible tendons
writhing cos we were we are one
typewriter with two dry
mouths,
fifty-six detac
hed teeth
"never more than one hundred hand breadths apart and never more"
Literature
someone, something
"someone to take it away," she says. "all of it. to bruise the sickness, to pour it all down the drain, turn on the tap and fill me up again. like a child with knowledge, like a balloon with air."
"I've gotten used to it, really." she says. "the way people come into your life and then just vanish. it's just a fucking cycle. the same ache, just different people. it's like being in an airport, watching people come and go all the time. but there's someone who takes that shit so far away from my life that life doesn't even feel real anymore. someone who takes away not just the concept and fear of a lover leaving, but all the memories attached to
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EDIT: since so many people want me to make this more clear in this poem itself, and i don't want to because i like the way this reads...i'll just say it here: this poem could mean anything to anyone. for me, this is about a woman talking to her friend about her miscarriage and how her boyfriend/husband blames her for it. but make of it what you want, because what i meant to write doesn't mean it's the only way this can be read/felt. thank you.
i'm in a wonderfullllllllll mood, although my writing as of late might be misleading haha
i guess my happiness has given me the freedom to expand my writing
i hope you like this. i do.
i am entering this into this contest: [link]
and the prompt is: Sinister Memories
i'm in a wonderfullllllllll mood, although my writing as of late might be misleading haha
i guess my happiness has given me the freedom to expand my writing
i hope you like this. i do.
i am entering this into this contest: [link]
and the prompt is: Sinister Memories
© 2010 - 2024 DamagedHomewrecker
Comments99
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a powerful piece.
a hard-hitting last line.
a hard-hitting last line.