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Literature Text
Am I made of matter?
They fill me with this
charmed poison--
swallow, three, four,
one mistake means
another,
and they wonder why I freeze.
I'm not unsure of who I am.
I'm unsure if I am
matter
or
medicine
They fill me with this
charmed poison--
swallow, three, four,
one mistake means
another,
and they wonder why I freeze.
I'm not unsure of who I am.
I'm unsure if I am
matter
or
medicine
Literature
Drive
"Are we nearly there yet?" Michael asks
His head pounding
His eyes closing
The parents sigh
Their minds on the map,
The road ahead
The pressure to reach home before nightfall.
His eyes rest on the falling droplets on the window where he rests his head.
The cars behind
Blow their horns
Preventing Michael from falling into the
Dreamworld
In which he is so familiar.
The cars beside theirs,
Identically stranded on the motorway
Each provide a different story,
A different life
A different past and future.
Michael's eyes wander into each of the square windows
Drinking in the wonders
Of Human Life.
A young woman,
Suit-wearin
Literature
Love Is a Drug
I sleep curled up against
the floor
the floorboards are bones
that whisper there
dust and ash
and the feel of lips on
motes of dust
secrets weigh the air
between you and I
and spines naked
with the soft fall of lust
a word pressed between us
like a promise.
blue-mouthed gospels whisper in our bones
and voices curl over my skin
the sweet seductive sounds
of hollow love
and temperate mescaline
she spoons light into the darkness
spools of thread
echoing in the blackness
reaching up to tie quiet deaths
in lipless speech.
lifeless cutlery tangos in the silence
and we listen for the sound of
falling silver
on cold stone
Literature
stitches
I
a woman can fracture open under
unspeakable violence. skin can
tear like the voice can break
and go silent.
a poet can speak of radical honesty,
carefully document a life, and hold
a secret
without believing she broke
her vow,
but in the end, to have grace,
she can speak the words because
another woman stands at her back
and only then is she safe
to say, yes, there was blood
and emotion, but in the end
there were fourteen stitches
threaded through her animal self
that remade a woman who could speak
for herself.
II
a woman can choose to allow
her own destruction.
her body becomes self-obsessed
in an ocean of pain an
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Comments11
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Your writing is so crisp and succinct. Very well done.