ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
On page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,
“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”
as though that could explain everything,
and I thought it did for a time.
But my textbook never warned me
that his skin would pale
to a point where I could see
the blue freight trains
carrying eighteen pills
throughout his frail body.
My textbook never warned me
my grandma who used to spit sparks
would begin swallowing them,
and I would be the only one
to see the ashes tumble from her lips.
My textbook never warned me
that his watery irises would freeze over,
that he would hurl insults like knives,
and that he would clench his jaw
as tightly as his fist clenched his wine glass
because the only person to blame is himself,
and he can’t swallow that as easily
as he can the olives in his martinis.
My textbook never warned me
that my grandma would whisper
with the ashes spilling out her mouth
like prayers she had never uttered before,
that he fought because he wanted to see
my sister and I in long white gowns
and the tiny pink hands of grandchildren,
and I can’t promise those things
to anyone, not even myself.
And my textbook never warned me
that it would be this difficult to breathe
because of my acute awareness
that his breaths are limited,
and that there would be nothing I could do
but soldier on searching for that silver lining
clinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”
as though that could explain everything,
and I thought it did for a time.
But my textbook never warned me
that his skin would pale
to a point where I could see
the blue freight trains
carrying eighteen pills
throughout his frail body.
My textbook never warned me
my grandma who used to spit sparks
would begin swallowing them,
and I would be the only one
to see the ashes tumble from her lips.
My textbook never warned me
that his watery irises would freeze over,
that he would hurl insults like knives,
and that he would clench his jaw
as tightly as his fist clenched his wine glass
because the only person to blame is himself,
and he can’t swallow that as easily
as he can the olives in his martinis.
My textbook never warned me
that my grandma would whisper
with the ashes spilling out her mouth
like prayers she had never uttered before,
that he fought because he wanted to see
my sister and I in long white gowns
and the tiny pink hands of grandchildren,
and I can’t promise those things
to anyone, not even myself.
And my textbook never warned me
that it would be this difficult to breathe
because of my acute awareness
that his breaths are limited,
and that there would be nothing I could do
but soldier on searching for that silver lining
clinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
Literature
To My Future Self
To my Future Self,
Breathe. You must be thinking, seriously, my teen self is acting like an old fart of a teacher telling off overstressed kids, but seriously, breathe. Stop. Pause. Listen. It's your heart beating. It's telling you, I'm beating so damn hard, I might just kill you one day.
Okay, let's digest. There can only be two reasons for your heart to beat like that. One reason is because I wouldn't have changed- I would still be that overzealous, neurotic, depressed teenager with a penchant for word thieves, dream catchers and moment makers. The other reason would be just the opposite: it's beating with life, with purpose, with hope.
Literature
In Search of Punctuation
The exhausted traveler hung his
ampersand
on its hook, dragging his eyes across
and through the curves
looking for any signs of sharpness
or flatland meadows; somewhere
he might rest.
He found nothing but
undulations
rhythmic swells and
the faint hands of an impresario
crafting the journeyrock
below his feet.
"No matter,
I suppose." But his cellular
structure was ringing
in his ears,
demanding audience &
Literature
Ghost in the Machine
There were days
Melissa measured
her happiness in brightness,
when she would hold
her hands over her eyes
and the cracks of sunlight,
like old paint on drywall,
would shine through
to let her know exactly
who it was that held her.
Who is it?
And at that moment of recognition
Melissa felt…
...she felt okay.
More than photons
reflecting off of totem shells,
humanity is conch-cradled
in her dusk where light perception
is limited to the moon, where blind
is a swear word and an oath
dependent on a circadian
arcade: she is blind
and going blinder.
Lingering,
she allows herself a curfew
to blow out the lantern
and sing without color
fo
Suggested Collections
Because my watchers responded SO enthusiastically about this!
There are, of course, even more stanzas, but they suck. I just included the ones about my grandma. I also played around with some formatting this morning, but I kept it the same, just becuase this is "extended" and not "Hannah edits everything about this".
© 2014 - 2024 saltwaterlungs
Comments9
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Very moving.