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Literature Text
You’re lonely—
your arms clasped behind you
in a figure four, flutterhands flit
to tuck the loose strand of hair back
then to pinch the stem of an empty glass
you sip it anyways reapply crimson
smooth dress check phone no texts
type one out, delete it all later.
You know,
I would talk to you
if you didn’t look
so busy.
your arms clasped behind you
in a figure four, flutterhands flit
to tuck the loose strand of hair back
then to pinch the stem of an empty glass
you sip it anyways reapply crimson
smooth dress check phone no texts
type one out, delete it all later.
You know,
I would talk to you
if you didn’t look
so busy.
Literature
butterflied
it is a snake
coiled in my stomach,
the urge to vomit
everything inside of me, to purge
all the toxic not-
good-enoughs. to retell
the same story and expect
a different ending is
the dysfunction that landed
us in here. I'm sorry
I don't follow you into
your dreams at night. I'm sorry
my smile is not the moon,
I'm sorry I did anything
to make you notice
me at all. no finger
down the throat could ever
take that
away.
Literature
dreamergirl
The Last Time I saw you,
you were down in the dirt,
[literally] on hands and knees,
looking for the bit of magic
your father had promised was toiling
just underneath the surface.
You feel it, you whispered in
a cotton hush like the vibrancy
of your voice would intimidate the
dreams you scraped at beneath the
faultlines. Daddy never told a lie
[excluding the usual good things
come to those who wait, and 'tis better
to have loved and lost, and every end
is a new beginning]. You feel it,
you whispered, trembling at the hands
the same way you did for the Pills
that couldn't quite fix the Problem.
.
I never really understood all the ways
you
Literature
softened
the sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.
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A poem to break up all the prose I've been punching out. I like this. Maybe it's only the rhythm and speed I made up for it in my head, but I like it. I should do more poems like this. Make up a word for social situations, then write about them. Hm.
© 2014 - 2024 saltwaterlungs
Comments22
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It's visual and flows nicely. It feels like a snapshot of a moment that matters, but that we might have missed if you hadn't brought it to our attention. 