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Literature Text
i.
to be perfectly honest,
i've got a rabbit's heart.
you know,
the kind that freezes
the moment it senses danger.
kind of like a january midnight where
all is still and the only thing you can taste
is the rawness of your uncovered
fingers.
and it aches
and aches
until your fists refuse
to loosen,
before finally it stops beating
and you're slowly dying
inside of yourself.
ii.
once upon a time
i fancied myself a she-wolf.
ivory fangs that bit down on
desperation,
silver eyes that could see
through hell itself,
and a blackness nestled peacefully
inside my chest,
sleeping all day and waking only
when the full moon rose.
but i have learned what i truly am;
just a deer
with terror blooming crimson like a gunshot
wound as she runs
and runs
further into the snowstorm.
iii.
perhaps the thing i most often yearn for,
the life i would rather live,
is one in which i have wings.
maybe a hawk or a raven or
even a sparrow. as long as i can
soar above the primordial, wretched winter that
is my mind,
i don't think i would really
care. the sky is calling to me
and i've made it wait
far too long.
iv.
i'm having a love affair with the idea of being a phoenix.
but i am afraid
my fire would not burn bright enough
to melt the ice away.
it has always clung to my lips,
and sometimes i cannot breathe,
or speak my own mind even when i
step into the flames and beg them
to brand the feathers into my spine.
oh god,
am i afraid.
not everything rises from the ashes.
to be perfectly honest,
i've got a rabbit's heart.
you know,
the kind that freezes
the moment it senses danger.
kind of like a january midnight where
all is still and the only thing you can taste
is the rawness of your uncovered
fingers.
and it aches
and aches
until your fists refuse
to loosen,
before finally it stops beating
and you're slowly dying
inside of yourself.
ii.
once upon a time
i fancied myself a she-wolf.
ivory fangs that bit down on
desperation,
silver eyes that could see
through hell itself,
and a blackness nestled peacefully
inside my chest,
sleeping all day and waking only
when the full moon rose.
but i have learned what i truly am;
just a deer
with terror blooming crimson like a gunshot
wound as she runs
and runs
further into the snowstorm.
iii.
perhaps the thing i most often yearn for,
the life i would rather live,
is one in which i have wings.
maybe a hawk or a raven or
even a sparrow. as long as i can
soar above the primordial, wretched winter that
is my mind,
i don't think i would really
care. the sky is calling to me
and i've made it wait
far too long.
iv.
i'm having a love affair with the idea of being a phoenix.
but i am afraid
my fire would not burn bright enough
to melt the ice away.
it has always clung to my lips,
and sometimes i cannot breathe,
or speak my own mind even when i
step into the flames and beg them
to brand the feathers into my spine.
oh god,
am i afraid.
not everything rises from the ashes.
Literature
cynical: arsenical
splinter-thorn boy,
it will all start to
d i s i n t e g r a t e
beneath you
you are
the least beautiful way to unravel -
all maggot-rot, no
split-thread, no
ribbon-torn boy
an architect of
self-abuse;
a god of
ru(i)n(n)ing
[away] &
no:
there is nothing holy about you
Literature
lunacy.
what the moon teaches us is
no one exists as a constant.
some days you will orbit elsewhere.
the angles of light that
make up the shadows of you
will keep moving.
it is the same with the ocean
and how it does not meet
the shore the same each time:
some days it will come crashing,
eroding: or it comes back to kiss
its edges over and over
there are some days i am more
of a tsunami. there will be days
you will be eclipsed.
and i don't mind this. the moon is
up in the sky but the ocean still feels
the weight of its pull, always.
i want to drown in the
push and pull of your gravity
in all the ways that's possible.
i could get used to the
di
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
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Comments28
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You will surpass your fears and fly someday! Beautiful poem!