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Literature Text
i want to build a skyscraper, seventeen stories high
and fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.
i.
a middle child, born in 1994,
she always wanted to be loved the most
until she learned how to give a blowjob
in an alley behind Miss China’s Takeaway
at knife point.
ii.
she lost her childhood
to an ocean who always thought it was small
and never stopped pushing its borders.
iii.
he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.
staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.
iv.
it’s not fair, she thinks,
that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,
but when he leaves, it doesn’t make a sound.
v.
nine months and a small coffin later,
she thinks she likes the name “amber”
vi.
“tomorrow,” he says as she passes him in the hallway—
him from math, her to english. “i’ll tell her tomorrow,”
a thought he had had for the last six years.
vii.
after two years, she’s become adapt at hiding the bruises,
and telling herself this is how daddy shows his love.
viii.
“why was i born wrong?”
“you were born mommy’s perfect little girl.”
“that’s not what i am—not what i want to be,” he said.
ix.
children can be cruel, they say.
children can be fucking sadists, he thinks as he
stares down his mother’s razor.
x.
if she had been a minute faster,
she could have stopped that bottle of pills
from becoming just a bottle.
xi.
when the doctor asks him two years later
if he’s doing fine, he signs,
“I wish you had let me die.”
xii.
a slash to the throat,
a bump to the head.
her mouth open in a scream,
the concrete stained red.
xiii.
the child holds out a hand, her eyes round with wonder
and too many questions in choppy english.
much later, he wishes that instead of telling her
exactly how many mcdonalds per block new york city had,
he had said, “run, run! don’t you hear the bombs coming? run!”
xiv.
the airport feels too silent, filled with
the people left behind.
she takes one last look at the vacant runway
and turns towards the parking lot.
xv.
“what? please stop. stay with me, please,
somebody help us! please, i love you, iloveyou,
i’ve got you, we’re gonna be fine, i lo—”
xvi.
ms powell has stopped sending him the homework.
that’s okay, he guesses. at this point,
even if they find the cure for cancer, it’s too late for him.
xvii.
a boy jumps from a bridge.
if he regrets it when he falls,
there is still nobody around to hear the splash.
i don’t need to hear how i am like them.
i know how i am like them,
we all have dusty photos we hide in our desks.
we all have bloody bones that shine white
from the cracks in our chests.
and fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.
i.
a middle child, born in 1994,
she always wanted to be loved the most
until she learned how to give a blowjob
in an alley behind Miss China’s Takeaway
at knife point.
ii.
she lost her childhood
to an ocean who always thought it was small
and never stopped pushing its borders.
iii.
he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.
staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.
iv.
it’s not fair, she thinks,
that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,
but when he leaves, it doesn’t make a sound.
v.
nine months and a small coffin later,
she thinks she likes the name “amber”
vi.
“tomorrow,” he says as she passes him in the hallway—
him from math, her to english. “i’ll tell her tomorrow,”
a thought he had had for the last six years.
vii.
after two years, she’s become adapt at hiding the bruises,
and telling herself this is how daddy shows his love.
viii.
“why was i born wrong?”
“you were born mommy’s perfect little girl.”
“that’s not what i am—not what i want to be,” he said.
ix.
children can be cruel, they say.
children can be fucking sadists, he thinks as he
stares down his mother’s razor.
x.
if she had been a minute faster,
she could have stopped that bottle of pills
from becoming just a bottle.
xi.
when the doctor asks him two years later
if he’s doing fine, he signs,
“I wish you had let me die.”
xii.
a slash to the throat,
a bump to the head.
her mouth open in a scream,
the concrete stained red.
xiii.
the child holds out a hand, her eyes round with wonder
and too many questions in choppy english.
much later, he wishes that instead of telling her
exactly how many mcdonalds per block new york city had,
he had said, “run, run! don’t you hear the bombs coming? run!”
xiv.
the airport feels too silent, filled with
the people left behind.
she takes one last look at the vacant runway
and turns towards the parking lot.
xv.
“what? please stop. stay with me, please,
somebody help us! please, i love you, iloveyou,
i’ve got you, we’re gonna be fine, i lo—”
xvi.
ms powell has stopped sending him the homework.
that’s okay, he guesses. at this point,
even if they find the cure for cancer, it’s too late for him.
xvii.
a boy jumps from a bridge.
if he regrets it when he falls,
there is still nobody around to hear the splash.
i don’t need to hear how i am like them.
i know how i am like them,
we all have dusty photos we hide in our desks.
we all have bloody bones that shine white
from the cracks in our chests.
Literature
Does Death Hurt?
Does death hurt?
When the knife digs into flesh
do you fall into your knees in pain
or simply in shock of motion?
When you slip away in the dark of sleep
does the dream still remain
as you travel to worlds unknown?
When the drugs hit your body
does your heart stop suddenly
or can you feel the imminent end?
When the noose slips tight
does your head feel heavy
and your limbs feel numb?
When the water rushes in
to the castle only of air
can you feel your breath cut off?
When the dirt piles over
and the air runs out
can you feel the choking?
So riddle me this,
oh master of death,
does it hurt to die?
Literature
bone brittle
they say that love is like an ocean and you can feel the waves
filling up your stomach, saltwater rolling against your nervous system.
they say that when you're in love and you curl your toes in pleasure
you can feel wet sand between them, warm against the skin.
but your love was like a desert.
our love left me parched, throat raw, the taste of grit in my mouth.
my stomach empty, growling for some sort of sustenance,
something you always refused to give me when i needed it most.
you told me you loved me, like a mirage floating amongst our heat.
if love is like an ocean then you were loneliness, i guess.
every saltwater tear you cried evapo
Literature
Empty Ribs
Her heart is gone.
Sure, it still pumps blood,
But that is all it does.
No compassion thrives
In her barren chest.
Once, she believed she was loved,
But her heart lied,
And liars must be punished.
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this poem is dedicated to katie, hadley, mark, stephanie, andrea, alex, mary, cas, will, tori, hunter, dana, john, mili, sam, danny, tyler, and anyone else who can identify with one of these seventeen stories.
and guys, wow. i have no clue where this came from, or why it's so freaking long (i apologize for its length). and that i tried rhyming at least three times.
i want to know though--which story was, well, not your favorite but the one that hurt the most, or that made you think, 'huh,' or that caught your attention or was the best written?
don't ever let me write at midnight ever again. -.-" xD
and guys, wow. i have no clue where this came from, or why it's so freaking long (i apologize for its length). and that i tried rhyming at least three times.
i want to know though--which story was, well, not your favorite but the one that hurt the most, or that made you think, 'huh,' or that caught your attention or was the best written?
don't ever let me write at midnight ever again. -.-" xD
© 2013 - 2024 MisfitableGrae
Comments27
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thirteen and fourteen
urgh
my ribs hurt
urgh
my ribs hurt