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Literature Text
there is something maniacal in the air:
the laugh of a pixie-waif.
a bambi with a shaved head, wrapping her purpled fingers around her wrists,
wringing them,
choking the feathered pulse.
she curls like a cat,
looks twice at the door,
no more.
the stitches hurt
when they want to,
when the skin decides
to free its bonds
from the slippery phantom body
soon skin becomes a fluttering slip, a wind
caught in the ensnarement
of muscle,
encapturement by force of vein.
the shine of petrified bone
is apparent, like
a marbled, heavy arrangement
of sweet, nodding fig branches
made pale by the moon.
her eyes are the strangest,
as they pass
through a lapse between
life and death,
as the
windows to the soul
quietly become windows
to another world,
a place of implied silence
and haunting grace,
where pain is a metaphor
for every truth,
but you feel it anyway.
the laugh of a pixie-waif.
a bambi with a shaved head, wrapping her purpled fingers around her wrists,
wringing them,
choking the feathered pulse.
she curls like a cat,
looks twice at the door,
no more.
the stitches hurt
when they want to,
when the skin decides
to free its bonds
from the slippery phantom body
soon skin becomes a fluttering slip, a wind
caught in the ensnarement
of muscle,
encapturement by force of vein.
the shine of petrified bone
is apparent, like
a marbled, heavy arrangement
of sweet, nodding fig branches
made pale by the moon.
her eyes are the strangest,
as they pass
through a lapse between
life and death,
as the
windows to the soul
quietly become windows
to another world,
a place of implied silence
and haunting grace,
where pain is a metaphor
for every truth,
but you feel it anyway.
Literature
gardenia
the five-a.m. floor protested
my sleepless dreaming.
i got up to make you coffee,
no sugar: you were never fond
of sweetening things that needed it.
i drank it on the autumned porch
in the stupor of dawn
and watched my breath unfurl,
like the smoke you spew sometimes
when you're stressed or have something to hide.
i'm sorry i took
your favorite sweater with me
but i knew it would be cold
in the soil with your secrets
and the brooch she left behind.
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
Literature
The Little Things She Noticed At The Altar
His tuxedo's cuffs were frayed; worn.
Suggested Collections
really enjoying writing right now.
wish i could paint like i used to, it's been months.
wish i could paint like i used to, it's been months.
© 2011 - 2024 silklilies
Comments25
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the whole thing is wonderful, such creative imagery, but the last stanza is just perfect, it drives the whole thing home and gives it added depth and meaning in such a way that just makes you want to read the whole thing all over again xD awesome work! xD