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Literature Text
when i walk into the bathroom, with dawn
breaking her fingers to squeeze her hands through the windows
at the end of the hall, i am surprised to see a girl at the corner sink.
i expected to be alone to wipe at my face, to press gentle fingers
against the tender skin of my neck, to pull up my shirt
and check the visibility of my ribs
and the flutter of my heart, to stare at my eyes in the shitty mirror
in the shitty lighting and calculate all the little changes that a boy’s hands
can wreak on a body in under an hour. but she
is there at the corner sink, scrubbing at her red and irritated cheeks
like she is lady macbeth trying to erase the ghost of a touch
that never left a physical mark. i have makeup and sweat sticking
to my skin and knots in my hair desperate fingers left behind
and i’m not sure my shirt is my shirt and i just want
to be alone to examine the damages and count the casualties
of a war whose victor i could not point to,
and really, the only reason i walked into this bathroom was
to figure out how to walk back out again,
but i am not alone. if she
looked up, if she caught my gaze in the bathroom mirror, she could
see my hands shake. my first thought is that she has
no reason to be here, taking off her face
a handful of hours before she’ll put on a new one.
but before i can hate too fiercely, i see my own eyes and wonder
if maybe we made the same mistakes tonight. maybe
she fell in love with her boy too and in doing so turned her body
into a battlefield just to have a fighting chance to stay with him. maybe she
hasn’t realized yet. maybe she will take
her red face and slumped shoulders and shoulder past
me and all my sins and silence and find all the pieces of herself
strewn on the ground, collect them in cold arms and leave the room,
close the door quietly, pause at the end of the hall to see dawn
die for day, and think, “that girl’s hands were shaking,”
and think, “that patch of sky looks exactly like his eyes,”
and think, “oh—oh this was not supposed
to happen. not like this, not ever
like this.”
breaking her fingers to squeeze her hands through the windows
at the end of the hall, i am surprised to see a girl at the corner sink.
i expected to be alone to wipe at my face, to press gentle fingers
against the tender skin of my neck, to pull up my shirt
and check the visibility of my ribs
and the flutter of my heart, to stare at my eyes in the shitty mirror
in the shitty lighting and calculate all the little changes that a boy’s hands
can wreak on a body in under an hour. but she
is there at the corner sink, scrubbing at her red and irritated cheeks
like she is lady macbeth trying to erase the ghost of a touch
that never left a physical mark. i have makeup and sweat sticking
to my skin and knots in my hair desperate fingers left behind
and i’m not sure my shirt is my shirt and i just want
to be alone to examine the damages and count the casualties
of a war whose victor i could not point to,
and really, the only reason i walked into this bathroom was
to figure out how to walk back out again,
but i am not alone. if she
looked up, if she caught my gaze in the bathroom mirror, she could
see my hands shake. my first thought is that she has
no reason to be here, taking off her face
a handful of hours before she’ll put on a new one.
but before i can hate too fiercely, i see my own eyes and wonder
if maybe we made the same mistakes tonight. maybe
she fell in love with her boy too and in doing so turned her body
into a battlefield just to have a fighting chance to stay with him. maybe she
hasn’t realized yet. maybe she will take
her red face and slumped shoulders and shoulder past
me and all my sins and silence and find all the pieces of herself
strewn on the ground, collect them in cold arms and leave the room,
close the door quietly, pause at the end of the hall to see dawn
die for day, and think, “that girl’s hands were shaking,”
and think, “that patch of sky looks exactly like his eyes,”
and think, “oh—oh this was not supposed
to happen. not like this, not ever
like this.”
Literature
i was never worth this
i.
i check your wrists when you're not looking,
because i'm afraid that if i don't, i'll miss something i should ask about.
i know you confessed in the past tense,
but it's easy to let old habits sneak back up on you after you thought you buried them.
and you know what they say:
they die hard.
ii.
i never thought i'd find someone who hates to cry
as much as i do.
the only difference is that i do it far too often,
and you don't do it enough.
iii.
you told me you liked to draw,
but that you weren't any good.
you were wrong.
iv.
it took me an hour to muster up the courage to say three little words,
and i still don't know why you stuck around
Literature
Over
To be over something
is to ride a speed bump
up to its crescent
and crush it
under tire
until the road is wrinkle-free.
To be over, some
tires have to lose
their grip
on past reality.
To be over someone
is to drive a car
through potholes
to find smooth road
ahead.
To be over, some
one has to say
those potholes
don't feel like quicksand
anymore.
Because it is over -
you are the speed bump
that can become
a level crossing.
You can watch
your train of thought
passing by, lay
a thumbprint upon the ground
and cry
Then step back,
let the vision vanish
into dust
Let the life tracks
left behind
form a new railway.
Then,
drive away.
Literature
this poem is worth $3.27
who says you don't get paid for poetry?
i'm getting paid eleven fifty four
to sit in the corner of a building,
red detroit diesel rusting,
meters fussing.
automotive, loco-motion and motives,
h building buzzing,
my brain lame and lusting
for romance; melancholic motor
i'm running in place,
pumping my lungs
leaning towards failure,
tripping on cables and wires.
cables and fables
(because they don't exist)
wired and exhausted,
my bloodshot eyes
are flossed with lights,
that my eyelids
can't protect me from.
i don't smile enough
and i won't cry a lot
because my sadness
is no longer an event.
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this is a poem about how college is a place to make a lot of mistakes, some of them drunk and some of them not. some of them temporary and some of them long-term. oh and also a shakespeare reference because college is also, like, about going to class, i guess.
© 2016 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments7
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I love this
I really like where you break your stanzas
I really like where you break your stanzas