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Literature Text
don’t drop your ellipses
on your freckled-with-pity
walk out of our sentence. I
have only been taming
your paragraphs into stanzas. don’t
let your rosy chest-wings quit
just yet.
breathe, my love,
find a sinus rhythm in your
sporadic juxtaposed days;
there is a typo error
in your impulsive ways and i’m
afraid that is more
editing than i’m used to.
let’s uncapitalize those articles, it all
starts from there
breathe, you must
silence yourself.
page break, turn it over,
skim a reading, halt that anger and
filter those strong
homophone-leaves; I
am trying too.
let your grown-out hair lay
free for once instead of your
tongue. punctuate your eyes with
sleep, with peace;
breathe. it all
stops
when you forget to see.
but you’re still here hoping
to correct me.
pace yourself when you
braid your patience. don’t
curve too fast like the sharp turns
in your purge-swollen colon.
where
is your punctuation, darling?
where is your grey,
calming hyphen? have you
siphoned your breaths with
the trough of a comma? have
you swallowed a conjunction
and spit out your fullstop? my
verbose sweetheart,
your words just don’t seem
as silent anymore.
on your freckled-with-pity
walk out of our sentence. I
have only been taming
your paragraphs into stanzas. don’t
let your rosy chest-wings quit
just yet.
breathe, my love,
find a sinus rhythm in your
sporadic juxtaposed days;
there is a typo error
in your impulsive ways and i’m
afraid that is more
editing than i’m used to.
let’s uncapitalize those articles, it all
starts from there
breathe, you must
silence yourself.
page break, turn it over,
skim a reading, halt that anger and
filter those strong
homophone-leaves; I
am trying too.
let your grown-out hair lay
free for once instead of your
tongue. punctuate your eyes with
sleep, with peace;
breathe. it all
stops
when you forget to see.
but you’re still here hoping
to correct me.
pace yourself when you
braid your patience. don’t
curve too fast like the sharp turns
in your purge-swollen colon.
where
is your punctuation, darling?
where is your grey,
calming hyphen? have you
siphoned your breaths with
the trough of a comma? have
you swallowed a conjunction
and spit out your fullstop? my
verbose sweetheart,
your words just don’t seem
as silent anymore.
Literature
10 ways depression can say i don't love you
1. "i'm sorry
i don't want to
come over today."
the clock reads 4pm
and i roll over in my bed
again.
2. "i forgot it was your
birthday."
i'd forgotten my own
too.
3. "i promise i won't
hurt myself."
the ER doesn't believe
it's an accident
anymore.
4. you asked if i loved you.
i had to sneeze and it
never happened.
i think you took that
as a no.
5. we haven't had sex in a month.
6. we don't see
your friends.
we don't see
my friends.
i've forgotten
i even have any.
7. i never answered your text.
it asked if i was okay.
8. "i need you to open yourself
up for me," you said.
i stopped talking.
9. "what do you want from me,
blood?"
apparen
Literature
what we're not supposed to talk about
I could make a story out of
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and place
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
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focusing more on substance rather than gushing verbal diarrhea.
--
breathe.
--
breathe.
© 2014 - 2024 your-methamphetamine
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CHANGELING ARMY!!!