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Literature Text
i.
there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.
but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.
because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.
because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.
ii.
i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skin
and my mother says it's because
i'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.
she said i need a psychiatrist.
my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.
iii.
i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.
iv.
i don't want it to rain anymore.
used to, i liked the rain,
because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.
now, i want to know where i belong.
v.
my father says this is a false relapse.
that i will fall back into whatever keeps me up at night
and holds the knife to my wrist
or the food off the plate or the fingernails to my skin
i tell him that if he can believe in a god he has never seen,
he sure as hell should be able to believe in me.
vi.
he says i might never be okay.
i'm not sure what okay means.
maybe it's like disney world and you can only
know when you've been,
but i also think that we are all broken
and the only reason we hate other broken people for being broken
is because it's not our broken, and maybe our broken pieces
are like snowflakes because we're all
precious and original on the insides, and when we break
we break differently, so we hate the different broken people
because they will never understand our type of broken
and we will never be able to understand their's.
vii.
today someone asked me if i was high,
because that's how dilated my pupils were.
i just smiled and told him that
i threw my bleach out with their expectations.
there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.
but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.
because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.
because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.
ii.
i have this nervous habit of scratching holes in my skin
and my mother says it's because
i'm trying to find something beautiful inside me.
she said i need a psychiatrist.
my friend asked me if i needed itching crème.
iii.
i keep laughing about stuff that's probably not funny.
iv.
i don't want it to rain anymore.
used to, i liked the rain,
because if i squinted, all the lines would be blurred.
now, i want to know where i belong.
v.
my father says this is a false relapse.
that i will fall back into whatever keeps me up at night
and holds the knife to my wrist
or the food off the plate or the fingernails to my skin
i tell him that if he can believe in a god he has never seen,
he sure as hell should be able to believe in me.
vi.
he says i might never be okay.
i'm not sure what okay means.
maybe it's like disney world and you can only
know when you've been,
but i also think that we are all broken
and the only reason we hate other broken people for being broken
is because it's not our broken, and maybe our broken pieces
are like snowflakes because we're all
precious and original on the insides, and when we break
we break differently, so we hate the different broken people
because they will never understand our type of broken
and we will never be able to understand their's.
vii.
today someone asked me if i was high,
because that's how dilated my pupils were.
i just smiled and told him that
i threw my bleach out with their expectations.
Literature
Undeserved
I don't deserve to be an artist.
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.
But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights
Literature
Seventeen (In Phases)
1.
It was because her parents had named her for the grandmother who had broken her mother’s heart. The grandmother whose heart was supposed to have melted from her birth and hadn’t.
That was why her mother barely looked at her. That was why she called her ‘girl’.
That was why she liked to pretend she was the quiet woman in the background of an old black and white movie. Because everything here was like an old black and white movie.
[And if she really looked back, her mother had never appreciated the elegance of the 1950s enough.]
2.
It was because she hated surprises. The surprise she got on her sixth birthday wh
Literature
Stop
Leave me alone, please just do so
Stop being there
It is not like you really cared
You said I will be alone again
So let me be that
It has never stopped you before right
You used me the whole time
Like I was nothing
Why are you suddenly acting
Like you give two cents
about me now
"I did care for you."
Cut the crap
I no longer want to hear it.
Just stop, just stop please.
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see, i was actually really proud of writing this almost happy poem, but then my mother got all mad ant my sister over nothing and she's crying in her room and asking mom to leave her alone and she won't and she keeps saying "psychiatrist" and it's just making everything worse,
so i am hiding in my room with a pillow over my ears because i do not want to hear my hero break.
i'm submitting this, because i think it's ironic.
so i am hiding in my room with a pillow over my ears because i do not want to hear my hero break.
i'm submitting this, because i think it's ironic.
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Comments18
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this is stunning!