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Literature Text
i.
she must have been a beacon,
off-colour orange glass, tilted,
splitting herself in two -
he wonders
how many times she has
melted only to reshape
herself anew, each sinew
a promise snapped in two,
each smile a dying
candle.
ii.
learning to catch
fireflies in jars is an
art form of trailing sparks
down strong shoulders
and weak collarbones.
they burn, his lips and
fingers scorched
but he drowns in her light;
together they paralyze
behind glass.
iii.
if the universe was formed
from dancing spirits, they'd be
entwined orange flames
creating light for each other
in a world of darkness.
Literature
ten things about us
i.
shes a trick of the light; beams at me
aimlessly and tips back onto the carpet floor
the fibers scratch my knees as i hover
ii.
we were drunk on the couch - pasta and pinot noir
i topple tipsy, on top of her
iii.
she crumples her napkins and i fold them neatly -
bitten fingernails catch in the seams of my heart
iv.
im a mess around her
flyaways and the buttons of my shirt are
mismatched, like you and me
she laughs and smooths down all of my crinkles
inside and out
v.
i asked her to put me back together
while her ears were plugged with sleep
vi.
i trace the shape of the air with my palm
as she speeds down the four-oh-five
im still
Literature
gravedigger
dear sarah,
i wonder
if sometimes you can still feel the weight of your bed sheet
around your neck. heaven knows there were days i could count every thread.
last night i was cleaning up my desk, and i found the scissors
i used to crack my skin open four years ago
and when i went to throw them out, it felt like moving mountains
or graves. if you don’t know yet, you’ll learn that some types of grief
leave scars—some ghosts don’t know how to stay buried.
you will stumble through the rest of your life wondering if you will
one day forget how it feels to toe the edge of the cliff and turn the other way.
the answer is no
Literature
things I never told you.
some poems feel like water.
this one is more like sand,
and I'm suffocating in the maw
of a desert that was better left
rusting its clairvoyance.
it started one night when I remembered
that I've kept everything you've ever given me:
roses, faces, promises.
I never really understood
how to let things go,
and when the thought of
turning the things you'd touched
away from my doorstep
choked the poetry from my throat,
I realized why.
I keep reminding myself that
I should probably be nicer to you,
but I think you already know
that I'm only capable of being nice
when I'm cornered and out of ideas.
and despite what you claim,
you've never been
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