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Literature Text
Roused by a stiff, stale air
pressing in like the bends
a hospital bed; a prison cell
you came to me like a scalpel
two-faced, three heads
that makes Six: this must be hell.
I've been churned over, remapped, flipped rightside-back by home surgeries to keep me shut away from you. I've spent countless days and sleepless nights, stitching closed the curtains that play with your phantom breeze flirtatiously, taking my jealousy out with a bonesaw scotch. The liver shakes when the heart aches, but it's just another damage on this canvass brain unwound for yards. It's become a football pitch of sorts, soil fed with so many headless graves for variants of myself, buried and unburied, all pushing daisies, counting petals of 'love me, love me not'.
Even or odd, I've still found loss.
I could write you ten thousand ballads, and it might never be worth the right kind of cologne. It might have never been worth one fuck in the dominican, the right kind of muscle, the jawline of a craggy neanderthal, the intelligent frame--all places we could have gone if I could have afforded them, but I can never buy the shares to your whim in time.
I could climb any mountain but you'd decide it was far too quaint for full-time living, lacking the buzzing metropolice life. I could sell everything on my back, in my back, around my back, buy a minimalistic cathedral of eight hundred square foot taste, but by then the novelty would have been burned out, like the charcoal stains under my eyes where futility wipes its feet.
morning, noon, and night, I've had the same luck in one out of six for years as I've had with you.
My fingers are just too scared to admit the slow draw of fear that luck might not have ever been what would bring your impossibles to my doorstep.
i am not a consumable anymore, merely unrecognizable.
pressing in like the bends
a hospital bed; a prison cell
you came to me like a scalpel
two-faced, three heads
that makes Six: this must be hell.
I've been churned over, remapped, flipped rightside-back by home surgeries to keep me shut away from you. I've spent countless days and sleepless nights, stitching closed the curtains that play with your phantom breeze flirtatiously, taking my jealousy out with a bonesaw scotch. The liver shakes when the heart aches, but it's just another damage on this canvass brain unwound for yards. It's become a football pitch of sorts, soil fed with so many headless graves for variants of myself, buried and unburied, all pushing daisies, counting petals of 'love me, love me not'.
Even or odd, I've still found loss.
I could write you ten thousand ballads, and it might never be worth the right kind of cologne. It might have never been worth one fuck in the dominican, the right kind of muscle, the jawline of a craggy neanderthal, the intelligent frame--all places we could have gone if I could have afforded them, but I can never buy the shares to your whim in time.
I could climb any mountain but you'd decide it was far too quaint for full-time living, lacking the buzzing metropolice life. I could sell everything on my back, in my back, around my back, buy a minimalistic cathedral of eight hundred square foot taste, but by then the novelty would have been burned out, like the charcoal stains under my eyes where futility wipes its feet.
morning, noon, and night, I've had the same luck in one out of six for years as I've had with you.
My fingers are just too scared to admit the slow draw of fear that luck might not have ever been what would bring your impossibles to my doorstep.
i am not a consumable anymore, merely unrecognizable.
Literature
Perfect Contrition
In a proper Catholic church, everything echoes. Any sound uttered within the building bounces of the floor and the walls and the high, vaulted ceilings, so much so that I imagine that they could easily reach the ears of God himself. It's a rather poetic thought, the voices of mere mortals ringing towards Heaven with the help of good acoustics, but that thought's tempered by the fact that it includes every single noise: the coughs of emphysemic old men, the rustling of an impatient young girl's dress, and the taps of even the softest rubber-soled sneakers are no exception. On rainy days like this one, those shoes tend to squeak, which probably
Literature
Metastasis
98.00
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
94.00
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi
Literature
saudade
Last week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There wa
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Comments1
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who am i a victim of, really?
I'm not.
I'm not.