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Literature Text
this lighter weighs heavy in my pocket, makes me
want more, take more, swallow some more nasty ash.
when i was little, all the big people told me (through mouths
of smoke) don't you ever start smoking cigarettes,
baby, because you can't handle it.
everyone's a critic. everyone's a hypocrite.
i light up another, season my mouth with the taste of
tar and wasted chances. the night is cool and damp.
my wrists are small, feeble, the way i am when nobody's around.
sometimes i know i am the difference.
others, i don't matter at all. you don't think i do.
there are frogs dancing in the grass and i know
that though the pond is still, it is full of them. overflowing.
they want out, and so do i.
each one of them ribbets and croaks and pleads that i
stomp them out, fix their home of all the dirty ones,
make it a utopia once again.
what they don't realize is that's what my world has become.
protecting myself from anger and harsh feelings.
that sometimes all i want to do is collapse into a noose.
it's nights like these, my head heavy with nicotine
and maybe something else,
that i cautiously step out into the muddy shoreline, gingerly
scooping up an unwilling frog, and take it home with me.
it's unhappy of course, wailing and flailing at me until
i drop it in my bathtub.
the caked dirt and slime slips off into my once-clear water,
and the weak ones mingle, colonize.
they die later, scared and together.
i know it's my fault.
but that's how the other frogs want it, right?
i left mud on the carpet, so
maybe i deserve the same fate. cleanse.
(un)natural selection. i suppose that's my duty.
take away the ugly ones, the fat ones, the retarded ones.
make the frog world a better place.
after all, they don't all fit in the same pond.
want more, take more, swallow some more nasty ash.
when i was little, all the big people told me (through mouths
of smoke) don't you ever start smoking cigarettes,
baby, because you can't handle it.
everyone's a critic. everyone's a hypocrite.
i light up another, season my mouth with the taste of
tar and wasted chances. the night is cool and damp.
my wrists are small, feeble, the way i am when nobody's around.
sometimes i know i am the difference.
others, i don't matter at all. you don't think i do.
there are frogs dancing in the grass and i know
that though the pond is still, it is full of them. overflowing.
they want out, and so do i.
each one of them ribbets and croaks and pleads that i
stomp them out, fix their home of all the dirty ones,
make it a utopia once again.
what they don't realize is that's what my world has become.
protecting myself from anger and harsh feelings.
that sometimes all i want to do is collapse into a noose.
it's nights like these, my head heavy with nicotine
and maybe something else,
that i cautiously step out into the muddy shoreline, gingerly
scooping up an unwilling frog, and take it home with me.
it's unhappy of course, wailing and flailing at me until
i drop it in my bathtub.
the caked dirt and slime slips off into my once-clear water,
and the weak ones mingle, colonize.
they die later, scared and together.
i know it's my fault.
but that's how the other frogs want it, right?
i left mud on the carpet, so
maybe i deserve the same fate. cleanse.
(un)natural selection. i suppose that's my duty.
take away the ugly ones, the fat ones, the retarded ones.
make the frog world a better place.
after all, they don't all fit in the same pond.
Literature
parentheses
i was going to ask you to hold back my hair
if i started to heave
but it's cut in mourning
for the fawns dying under the chalky
moist hands of children,
in mourning for newspaper print
threatening suicide off the tips of your eyelashes,
saying things like
i could fall faster
i could convert more
i could shine my face brighter than your sands
Literature
we only had the time to fall
one.
i met you in the early autumn on the shortest day of the year.
your eyes matched the drying leaves hanging loosely on the barren trees, and your skin reminded me of the warmest cinnamon. i can't remember what you were wearing, but i can recall how you walked in late, like you lived life in slow motion.
shouting at the top of your lungs, your voice echod against the stone walls of what came to be our chapel and you shattered every glass mind in the room.
you were a walking tragedy and i loved every second of it.
two.
you crawled under my skin every time snow settled on the ground and you found shelter in my silence when you prattled
Literature
tetnis
her skin bruises like storm clouds, cuts like lightning
and her skeleton aches for different reasons every day.
the blood on her knees matches the blush on her cheeks
and she thinks she's in love.
she starts to think she feels butterflies, but different
they're moths, attacking and decaying her insides
her liver is shutting down and she can't eat anymore
but the heart beat barely hurts
she looks into his pretty brown eyes and they're so
sad, so fucking sad she just wants to hold his fragile
face between her fingers but he's sand, he's water vapor
she blinks and he's barely there
he has scars like her, though his are less casu
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hmmm. i have decided i want out. any suggestions? i need to go somewhere free and without judgment or discrimination.
there has to be some place, right?
there has to be some place, right?
© 2011 - 2024 skylarklies
Comments11
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gorgeously written.
and there are plenty of other ponds out there with room to spare.
and there are plenty of other ponds out there with room to spare.