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Literature Text
i.
the simple sound of his name
is a grievance
but you, on the other hand,
are a writer –
a glorious indulgence,
notorious
for not giving a damn
that he doesn't
pay attention to
the curve of your hips,
or the way your furniture
is placed,
or the pictures on the wall
(and if he did
he would notice
that not one of them
is of him)
but
the little things
aren't important –
not anymore.
he tells you, "it is impossible to please
everyone so please yourself first"
and you tell him,
"you should try taking your own advice"
but he never
fucking
does.
ii.
he doesn't believe in god
because he knows,
he just knows
that he won't make it into heaven
and right now,
right now
you're scared to touch him –
to put your arms around him
because what if you do touch him
and
what if his brittle bones
finally collapse?
you don't believe in god either,
but you often catch yourself
praying
for him to get better.
iii.
you look at him
as he tries to telepathically communicate
how fucking sorry he is.
you're wearing his sweater and
it makes you sick to remember how
the doctors all said he was never
"all there" in the head as he cried
his heart was heavy.
you could feel the weight loss
as he sold it.
iv.
tomorrow
he will leave.
you will wear
his clothes to bed and
try not to think
about where he is
or how he is doing –
you won't think
about anything at all.
you will just sit alone on
the same bed you were in
when you met him
and you will
close your eyes.
the simple sound of his name
is a grievance
but you, on the other hand,
are a writer –
a glorious indulgence,
notorious
for not giving a damn
that he doesn't
pay attention to
the curve of your hips,
or the way your furniture
is placed,
or the pictures on the wall
(and if he did
he would notice
that not one of them
is of him)
but
the little things
aren't important –
not anymore.
he tells you, "it is impossible to please
everyone so please yourself first"
and you tell him,
"you should try taking your own advice"
but he never
fucking
does.
ii.
he doesn't believe in god
because he knows,
he just knows
that he won't make it into heaven
and right now,
right now
you're scared to touch him –
to put your arms around him
because what if you do touch him
and
what if his brittle bones
finally collapse?
you don't believe in god either,
but you often catch yourself
praying
for him to get better.
iii.
you look at him
as he tries to telepathically communicate
how fucking sorry he is.
you're wearing his sweater and
it makes you sick to remember how
the doctors all said he was never
"all there" in the head as he cried
his heart was heavy.
you could feel the weight loss
as he sold it.
iv.
tomorrow
he will leave.
you will wear
his clothes to bed and
try not to think
about where he is
or how he is doing –
you won't think
about anything at all.
you will just sit alone on
the same bed you were in
when you met him
and you will
close your eyes.
Literature
disproportional, disadvantaged
there's a 100% chance that
i love you,
a 100% chance that
you love me,
but a 0.00% chance of
Us ever working out.
Literature
who will you be tomorrow, love
some days,
you are a curious girl
--the most curious one
in the world, in fact.
on these days,
you would fuck the storm
to deliver me an umbrella
some days,
all you want is
for pangaea to reform,
for x to equal y,
for us to be miscible,
and for everyone else
to fuck off
and on these days,
you hate your body
for not being right,
but i fucking love you
in spite of the flaws
you don't really have.
i like the days best,
when you're on my bed
and you want me on yours.
these days,
you're more beautiful than ever,
prettier than a fucking rainbow.
but you must realize
how hard that is,
how hard i am,
considering the situa
Literature
bromide and other nonchemicals
shes empty mouthed.
she cant explain but its like that pins and needles feeling except in her heart. its like she could have said twelve thousand and four different things and she picked the wrong one. its the way shes no good with words except she tries forcing her ideas into verses and stanzas and neatly packaged displays of her individualism. so its as if shes set up an exhibit in her mind, complete with glass windows for people to press their handprints into, staining her already disheveled head with traces of themselves. shes empty mouthed since she just realized that not a single bi
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Comments37
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you don't believe in god either,
but you often catch yourself
praying for him to get better.
<3
but you often catch yourself
praying for him to get better.
<3