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Literature Text
you don't have to tell me
how my bloody words
slither across your hard rock tongue
and into your heavy metal pipes.
i can see your struggle in those jaded eyes;
you're trying too hard to keep my soul from sinking in and melting into your soft tissues.
ah,
"sigh,"
watching you clutch your flooding throat reminds me of how
i swallowed.
now i've gotta tell you,
i wish i could say that your salty-sour compost-ready
"love"
caught me off guard,
how my bloody words
slither across your hard rock tongue
and into your heavy metal pipes.
i can see your struggle in those jaded eyes;
you're trying too hard to keep my soul from sinking in and melting into your soft tissues.
ah,
"sigh,"
watching you clutch your flooding throat reminds me of how
i swallowed.
now i've gotta tell you,
i wish i could say that your salty-sour compost-ready
"love"
caught me off guard,
Literature
Camisado
In a double dream, I must spell out the storm:
how the half moon spoke in reams
of folk lore, pipe dreams that tore
the sky in two. How the walls
began to blister and you, sister,
took your place beneath my skin.
We met stargrazing, your eyes electric,
lacing your lies, your intricacies,
like a cat's cradle. And I, stumbling, stuttering
on in a maze of scars. My modern morphia,
sister scarecrow, I'd follow you to the depths
of my chest: to the mumblings and fumblings
of my heart in the dark. To deceit and defeat
and the great empty longings beyond.
For this, this is how
the camisado begins: with broken people
under a broken st
Literature
Firsts
I had sex
for the first time
on a Sunday
when
October air
ate away the blinds
and snake-lines of light
pressed in
at undone corners.
I remember less of you,
and more of me,
cocooned
in yellow sheets
how you kept mumbling
questions and I
lay there,
still.
The prodding,
the jostle,
are so much less vivid
than the sense
that I was shedding
skin
becoming something,
tighter,
slimmer,
more stream-lined.
So that later
in the bathroom,
I saw myself,
the mirror
twisting my hipbones
into
shelves that I could
rest my elbows on.
I was nineteen
then,
so you,
two times my weight,
welding my bones
into yours,
made
Literature
but in actuality?
a stalemate in her shrunken veins
as though to wither were to die
but she,
in her bloody underpinnings
and
ghoulish imaginings
could breathe nothing as steadily
as the rain-
she blistered delicately away
at each bedchamber's
whispering.
now, with the ramshackle
turning of her heart
armies march-
fumbling in maladroit
blitzkrieg
while the dregs of her mourning tea
drown.
Suggested Collections
but you did not.
paramore-playing god
paramore-playing god
© 2010 - 2024 londonrey
Comments87
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"watching you clutch your flooding throat reminds me of how
i swallowed."
Full of intrigue, this one.
i swallowed."
Full of intrigue, this one.