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Literature Text
i.
The mug's still warm in my hand, with imprints
Of two pairs of lips on either side.
I look down at the hot chocolate and think of your eyes.
Brok-broke-broken.
I toy with the idea of throwing the cheap San Fran mug at the wall-
Play with the idea of dropping it on the stone floor- But that
Wouldn't bring you back.
Nothing will,
And hot chocolate is as hard to get out of the carpet as blood is,
And heaven knows if you taught me one thing it was to be practical.
(And that love does not exist,
And that I'm a B- student, not a princess,
And that nothing's prettier than a kicked over dandelion.)
ii.
I threw away the book you gave me:
The one where you underlined my name whenever it was mentioned
And added 'is beautiful' in the margins like some sort of prayer.
It didn't help.
I had already memorized the page where you told me you loved me.
It was a nice gesture, though.
In the end, we seemed to be made of nice gestures.
Before I threw it away, I exed out all the 'beautiful's and scrawled in
'is okay without him'.
Then I exed out those too and trashed the damn thing
Because even lying makes me think of you.
(I kept the picture of us though)
iii.
I hate your voice.
I hate your hair.
I hate what you believe, what you stand for,
And how you don't ever seem to believe in me.
I hate how you started every sentence directed to me with the word 'trying'.
'Hey, what are you trying to do?'
'Hey, what poem are you trying to write?'
I hate how you made me go to church on Sundays and that the cross was the
Same color as your eyes.
I hate how you woke me up some nights singing 'Amazing Grace'.
I hate how you made me feel loved.
iv.
There's a prison in Utah
Where psychological torture is apparently okay,
Because the walls of the murderers' cells are adorned with pictures
Of the people they killed.
They cannot take these down, without increasing their jail-time.
When I read this article, I ran to my room, and tore down the picture
Of you and me from my wall and ripped it to shreds,
All the while wondering if this will increase my sentence.
v.
The sky so perfectly blue here.
The clouds are so perfectly white.
I hope you're having fun there, love.
I'm stuck here missing you tonight.
(I hate that too)
The mug's still warm in my hand, with imprints
Of two pairs of lips on either side.
I look down at the hot chocolate and think of your eyes.
Brok-broke-broken.
I toy with the idea of throwing the cheap San Fran mug at the wall-
Play with the idea of dropping it on the stone floor- But that
Wouldn't bring you back.
Nothing will,
And hot chocolate is as hard to get out of the carpet as blood is,
And heaven knows if you taught me one thing it was to be practical.
(And that love does not exist,
And that I'm a B- student, not a princess,
And that nothing's prettier than a kicked over dandelion.)
ii.
I threw away the book you gave me:
The one where you underlined my name whenever it was mentioned
And added 'is beautiful' in the margins like some sort of prayer.
It didn't help.
I had already memorized the page where you told me you loved me.
It was a nice gesture, though.
In the end, we seemed to be made of nice gestures.
Before I threw it away, I exed out all the 'beautiful's and scrawled in
'is okay without him'.
Then I exed out those too and trashed the damn thing
Because even lying makes me think of you.
(I kept the picture of us though)
iii.
I hate your voice.
I hate your hair.
I hate what you believe, what you stand for,
And how you don't ever seem to believe in me.
I hate how you started every sentence directed to me with the word 'trying'.
'Hey, what are you trying to do?'
'Hey, what poem are you trying to write?'
I hate how you made me go to church on Sundays and that the cross was the
Same color as your eyes.
I hate how you woke me up some nights singing 'Amazing Grace'.
I hate how you made me feel loved.
iv.
There's a prison in Utah
Where psychological torture is apparently okay,
Because the walls of the murderers' cells are adorned with pictures
Of the people they killed.
They cannot take these down, without increasing their jail-time.
When I read this article, I ran to my room, and tore down the picture
Of you and me from my wall and ripped it to shreds,
All the while wondering if this will increase my sentence.
v.
The sky so perfectly blue here.
The clouds are so perfectly white.
I hope you're having fun there, love.
I'm stuck here missing you tonight.
(I hate that too)
Literature
we're magnetic like that.
you think you’re an enigma and maybe you are
maybe you aren’t. i think you laid out little road maps
to decrypt yourself. gave us photos of your veins and
waited for someone to bleed the colour of it in.
from the snatches of your life you’ve written
the person you were at seventeen
the journals and the blogs and the fire that burnt out
with its embers still whispering to you even if
none of it seems coherent, none of it is
the epiphany you were named for but you are
waiting.
you think you are an enigma and i love you for it,
you need your “gotcha” moments, you spin out
ballads of beauty and then end the poem wit
Literature
warmer and warmer
the drapes
greet me
an unpleasant
morning.
the sink
drip
drip
drips
again
& the tiles
are colder barefoot.
there is a pile of
newspapers on the
marble counter
& dead quiet
in the air-
until steam
billows from
the coffee mug.
sunlight
beams in the room
like a visitor
& breakfast
comes in with
a sweet smile.
it was 6:30 when
i was alone,
but 7:00
arrived
like a neighbor
& i am happy.
i have myself,
oversized t-shirt
& messy hair
& the warm
comfort of my
own skin.
i was alone.
i'm not anymore.
Literature
let's pretend this never happened
because honestly,
i don't know you and this was
just a big mistake, she says
very softly.
the morning sun peeks in
through the curtain as she pulls
on yesterday's shirt and i catch
my last glimpse of her thin
shoulder blades, protruding like
wings about to burst out of their
seams. she won't look at me.
the floor creaks with her weight
as she gathers her things. i've
already forgotten her eyes, wide
with wonder, and her lips, her
slender jawbone. i wish she
would turn around. i try to speak,
but words don't come.
her bare feet pad across the
room and she pauses in the doorway,
head turned to the side, as if listening,
perhaps to my h
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Sometimes, we all just need to write a hate-list to someone.
Mine just turned into more of a love poem.
----
iktsuarpok, (inuit) – “To go outside to check if anyone is coming.”
Mine just turned into more of a love poem.
----
iktsuarpok, (inuit) – “To go outside to check if anyone is coming.”
© 2012 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments6
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it is wonderful. you are so talented. I am proud of you.
Has anybody tolf you that? We don't say it enough. It feels good to have someone appreciate what you have done, and feel pride. I am so very proud of what you have written, It really is remarkable
Has anybody tolf you that? We don't say it enough. It feels good to have someone appreciate what you have done, and feel pride. I am so very proud of what you have written, It really is remarkable