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Literature Text
i've got this sour taste of straight spirits still lingering in my mouth and the touch of 8 boys hands still lingering on my skin
the stench of wine carries in my pores now, i can't scrub it out until i bleed it out,
and i'm a walking contradiction stumbling into metaphorical gutters just as much as i
throw up into real ones, and all i ever wanted was to surround myself with
colour and the humming of it's vibrancy and maybe the
buzz and whir and clicking of what it means to live, sounds like a stick insect or something,
and i wish i was a stick insect because then maybe i could blend into some leaves and
disappear forever, don't you ever feel like never coming back?
i've got these two friends leaving soon and one of them broke my heart,
but i'd sooner break his bones than admit it to him, and really i think it's funny that all the people i
seem to truly care about are the ones that pack up their things and leave
they somehow seem to leave me behind with all the residual emotional upheaval, though
i wonder how they manage that
i sometimes wish i could crawl into the gaps between my floorboards and maybe live there with the
spiders that come to play sometimes, scuttle underneath my bed, i wonder if spiders have
hearts and feel things as trivial as love, what if they do though, spiders are so misunderstood
the stench of wine carries in my pores now, i can't scrub it out until i bleed it out,
and i'm a walking contradiction stumbling into metaphorical gutters just as much as i
throw up into real ones, and all i ever wanted was to surround myself with
colour and the humming of it's vibrancy and maybe the
buzz and whir and clicking of what it means to live, sounds like a stick insect or something,
and i wish i was a stick insect because then maybe i could blend into some leaves and
disappear forever, don't you ever feel like never coming back?
i've got these two friends leaving soon and one of them broke my heart,
but i'd sooner break his bones than admit it to him, and really i think it's funny that all the people i
seem to truly care about are the ones that pack up their things and leave
they somehow seem to leave me behind with all the residual emotional upheaval, though
i wonder how they manage that
i sometimes wish i could crawl into the gaps between my floorboards and maybe live there with the
spiders that come to play sometimes, scuttle underneath my bed, i wonder if spiders have
hearts and feel things as trivial as love, what if they do though, spiders are so misunderstood
Literature
Not Today
Skin-and-
bone shadow of
the saviour moon—
"What do we say,"
wolf girl, ghost of
tomorrows never been,
never would,
"to the god of death?"
Literature
Mizpah
The crying wind
brings a
deluge:
lost
and blurred at
the edges,
you
become
a
whisper.
Literature
Foam Over
I know her secret:
she has no bile
or sweat or blood.
She's just cloth draped over
soft cloth, it is what
the edges of my hands remember,
recanting dreamily to each other.
I have made her dirty with affection.
We both are waiting for sunshine
to foam over the hills.
If you lay down in the park long enough,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will not let you lie there and burn.
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what the fuck is writing
writing is something i did when i was 15 so i could cry somewhere about having my heart broken and feel validated
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Comments1
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Somehow, it makes me think about the causes of emotion, where it comes from and where it can go.