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Literature Text
I don't think she's around anymore.
not since the long october shadows hit,
and i told her i always have wanted to fill her anorexic silences
with a greed for butter.
she left in a blue car with her eyelids painted red so i'd never see. never know.
"i want you to come back," i lied, watching the car disappear into leaf idiosyncrasy patterns.
"to me."
I don't she's smiling anymore.
not since june, when she used to, when i lined her magic lips with fishing lines (her fingers clenched, forever smelling of the citrus grove near my house)
and i yanked those lines until her drywall cheeks were drifting in the wake of eyelids. nearly blinded by her own befreckled, sore little smile.
and she stayed like that until i went to tie strings to someone else's cosmic love lips.
"you're a sister," i lied, watching her summer skin fade gray.
"to me."
I don't think she sleeps anymore.
not since she kissed an insomniac and felt his sweet poltergeist love
in a waterfall of liquid metallic heat.
and when the snow blanketed her mouth, no one could find her teeth. all of the heat left her , left to some planet made of drapery and ankle bones. brown lungs too.
the heat watched her grow cold and lie in beds of hammers and nails,
fingers and nails- eyes open, comatose joy.
unsleeping inferno, she had said,
confiding in me with her hands cupped.
"you're a daughter," i lied, watching her fold the sheets around her own head; the strangling queen.
"to me."
I don't think she loves me anymore.
not since i locked her in my camera aperature
her radiation organs were exposing the film with every tinny heartbeat.
The film went white and the paper went black and she went some fuzzy, shivering gray color under the red safelights.
"you're so beautiful," i lied, watching her drown into photoelectric light.
"to me."
I don't think she's breathing anymore.
not since i loosened my bitter crosshatch fingers
and her stale skin let loose the breath of dust.
all the time she had been saying she could see an anger in me, an ugliness
rising to my freezing skin
like a dark fish with uncountable white teeth.
and all the time i would shake my head in horror and clasp my fingers over my nose and mouth and let the sick, dripping feeling overtake me with a deep thrill
until she fed my hoarse throat with angry tears.
the green kitchen grew mildew around her still, wet fingers and,
"you're dead," i lied, watching her plastic smiles cake on, congeal.
"to me."
not since the long october shadows hit,
and i told her i always have wanted to fill her anorexic silences
with a greed for butter.
she left in a blue car with her eyelids painted red so i'd never see. never know.
"i want you to come back," i lied, watching the car disappear into leaf idiosyncrasy patterns.
"to me."
I don't she's smiling anymore.
not since june, when she used to, when i lined her magic lips with fishing lines (her fingers clenched, forever smelling of the citrus grove near my house)
and i yanked those lines until her drywall cheeks were drifting in the wake of eyelids. nearly blinded by her own befreckled, sore little smile.
and she stayed like that until i went to tie strings to someone else's cosmic love lips.
"you're a sister," i lied, watching her summer skin fade gray.
"to me."
I don't think she sleeps anymore.
not since she kissed an insomniac and felt his sweet poltergeist love
in a waterfall of liquid metallic heat.
and when the snow blanketed her mouth, no one could find her teeth. all of the heat left her , left to some planet made of drapery and ankle bones. brown lungs too.
the heat watched her grow cold and lie in beds of hammers and nails,
fingers and nails- eyes open, comatose joy.
unsleeping inferno, she had said,
confiding in me with her hands cupped.
"you're a daughter," i lied, watching her fold the sheets around her own head; the strangling queen.
"to me."
I don't think she loves me anymore.
not since i locked her in my camera aperature
her radiation organs were exposing the film with every tinny heartbeat.
The film went white and the paper went black and she went some fuzzy, shivering gray color under the red safelights.
"you're so beautiful," i lied, watching her drown into photoelectric light.
"to me."
I don't think she's breathing anymore.
not since i loosened my bitter crosshatch fingers
and her stale skin let loose the breath of dust.
all the time she had been saying she could see an anger in me, an ugliness
rising to my freezing skin
like a dark fish with uncountable white teeth.
and all the time i would shake my head in horror and clasp my fingers over my nose and mouth and let the sick, dripping feeling overtake me with a deep thrill
until she fed my hoarse throat with angry tears.
the green kitchen grew mildew around her still, wet fingers and,
"you're dead," i lied, watching her plastic smiles cake on, congeal.
"to me."
Literature
ghost, ghost
at the end of the
day, think about the one who
helped you get through it.
Literature
evenings
sunday.
the old black clock tick
tock
ticks
and you play with my hair
insomnia reigns.
monday.
sleep drifts around us like
mist
the tree casts rainy shadows on the wall, and
someone yawns.
tuesday.
i trace patterns in the ceiling with
my eyes, exploring shadows.
i want to ask you who played batman
in the version i liked, but
i think you're already asleep.
wednesday.
your fingers explore my face as though
you've never felt it before
you trace my collarbone
and kiss my shoulders
and tell me to have the
sweetest dreams.
thursday.
i whimper about
my day, and
you hold me together
singing softly.
the chipped white door
Literature
to love.
to lay yourself
bare - to be a rose,
no thorns; a soldier,
no shield, no sword.
to row across
an ocean, no oars,
no map; to find lands
uncharted. to not know
where you are going:
any road
shall take you there.
Suggested Collections
i'm being tricky with titles.
the title i gave this piece for reading outside of dA was "resolutions" and the name
"poltergeist love" is the name of a bizarre poem-letter to a friend.
but i enjoy this title better, so it is being worn and worn.
this isn't about you. nothing will be
the title i gave this piece for reading outside of dA was "resolutions" and the name
"poltergeist love" is the name of a bizarre poem-letter to a friend.
but i enjoy this title better, so it is being worn and worn.
this isn't about you. nothing will be
© 2010 - 2024 silklilies
Comments25
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i sometimes hate things set up this way
but the story..
it's right,
the lies..
the obvious hurt.
you always make me wish i could know you.
but the story..
it's right,
the lies..
the obvious hurt.
you always make me wish i could know you.