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Literature Text
I bet you missed me when I went away. "You’ll come back," you thought. When I didn’t you bit your lip, but you were sure I would make it with time. After the second day, and the day after that, the doubts started to creep in. You caught yourself sucking in a painful breath whenever you saw something of mine lying around. Bits of my life left with you would slither into your sight when you least expected it the same way the memories would swamp you if given the slightest chance.
When days turned into a week, you entered into a hush drunk state: eyes bleary and sore from holding back any semblance of emotion. You were quiet, but not calm. Your hands became tumultuous storms when you'd glance over at our picture, fingers becoming tidal waves as you would toss it onto the bed. You were tired, but not nearly tired enough to forget.
On its own, you would find your body shaking at the brush of your own fingers across your skin, a reminder of where I touched you last. And then you couldn’t stop yourself. You were tracing every faded trail I ever left on you. Frantic touches. Not the kind lovers share, but touches desperate with need to assure yourself it had been real. As the sensations fall short, you realize nothing you can do could compare. My fingerprints grow fainter. The empty room eats you alive.
Part of you did not give up hope; it clung to your bones, digging its claws deep into the marrow, scarring you. My presence became a ghost. You began to see me at every turn, twirling my hair as I sat on the couch and folding paper on the kitchen floor. You would find yourself littered with paper cuts and memories you kept wishing you could erase. Nothing is the same for you as you try to pluck the hope from you.
Someday, you promise yourself, this won’t happen. Someday, when you find my cereal in the back of your cupboard, your heart wouldn’t stop. Someday if you came across my socks under a pile of dirty laundry, your hands wouldn’t stall. Someday, maybe, someday you would finally get around to throwing away the rest of me. But for now, you’re bitter. For now, you cradle the nonsensical song I used to hum. For now, you still whimper when my alarm clock blares. You rip it from the wall and throw it across the room wishing it would break into a million pieces. Wishing I hadn’t broken you. But I did. I did and it wasn’t fair. But you know I fight dirty.
When days turned into a week, you entered into a hush drunk state: eyes bleary and sore from holding back any semblance of emotion. You were quiet, but not calm. Your hands became tumultuous storms when you'd glance over at our picture, fingers becoming tidal waves as you would toss it onto the bed. You were tired, but not nearly tired enough to forget.
On its own, you would find your body shaking at the brush of your own fingers across your skin, a reminder of where I touched you last. And then you couldn’t stop yourself. You were tracing every faded trail I ever left on you. Frantic touches. Not the kind lovers share, but touches desperate with need to assure yourself it had been real. As the sensations fall short, you realize nothing you can do could compare. My fingerprints grow fainter. The empty room eats you alive.
Part of you did not give up hope; it clung to your bones, digging its claws deep into the marrow, scarring you. My presence became a ghost. You began to see me at every turn, twirling my hair as I sat on the couch and folding paper on the kitchen floor. You would find yourself littered with paper cuts and memories you kept wishing you could erase. Nothing is the same for you as you try to pluck the hope from you.
Someday, you promise yourself, this won’t happen. Someday, when you find my cereal in the back of your cupboard, your heart wouldn’t stop. Someday if you came across my socks under a pile of dirty laundry, your hands wouldn’t stall. Someday, maybe, someday you would finally get around to throwing away the rest of me. But for now, you’re bitter. For now, you cradle the nonsensical song I used to hum. For now, you still whimper when my alarm clock blares. You rip it from the wall and throw it across the room wishing it would break into a million pieces. Wishing I hadn’t broken you. But I did. I did and it wasn’t fair. But you know I fight dirty.
Literature
I wanted to grow old with you
I wanted to grow old with you:
turn grey and fade away, subdued.
To walk with you through all the years
and face, as one, our darkest fears.
We'd burn too brightly for this Earth
and share in sorrow and in mirth;
to each the other's soul would bare
and twice the love, at once, declare.
For each would know the other's mind
and there a perfect solace find;
we would be two, though as one known –
discrete though merged & mingled grown.
I wanted to grow old, it's true:
turn grey and fade to dust with you.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
Let Your Daughter Be a Pirate
Let your daughter be a pirate
if she asks for a wooden sword
help her build her ship from empty boxes
and sail the vast backyard
because a box doesn’t only
have to store dead dreams
and she is so much more
than just a vessel.
Let your daughter be Robin Hood,
if she wants to be an anarchist,
a hero, a rebel, a rogue,
give her bows, and arrows,
and arrogance,
let her fight for the plight of poorer folk
because Robin isn’t just a boy’s name.
Let your daughter be a princess
locked in a tower so high
let her be her own prince,
don’t tell her to wait for a hundred years,
let her swing from her own hair
and grasp her own fre
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A collaboration with the ever lovely *TheTerrorOfTheDeep. Who is the bestesest bee ever who wrote all the good parts. Clearly.
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My fingerprints grow fainter. The empty room eats you alive.
Beautiful piece, haunting ending.
Beautiful piece, haunting ending.