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Literature Text
I think about all the wishes I made on every birthday cake,
on every coin I tossed in a wishing well,
on every random star I picked
whether it was shooting
or not.
How they’ve gathered through the years,
dusty with all my metaphors
and forgetfulness,
a centimetre away from completely fading.
They were like roses in full bloom—
heavy with distant breaths
and light as they scattered through the air.
But these days my wishes are simple,
thrown to clouds and flowers
that are not daffodils:
to be able to sleep without dreaming
and to wake without wanting to go back
to sleep.
The stars don’t stare at me the same way they did
as I looked for constellations, small arms
reaching into the slight glare.
Now my hands are in my pockets
and I stare back blankly,
empty of any wish.
Literature
clock hour three
a fan of black,
i lie peaceful, half-conscious,
ensconced in the damp
of the gritty, cold sidewalk cement;
metamorphosing,
it could be said,
with my butterfly wings of taped-on paper.
fragile and crinkly,
my skin has become translucent:
reminiscent of peeled grapes.
i hover, ghostly,
in the bright reflected space
between double window-panes.
i can feel the timeout,
reach the apogee of breathing
trapped and silent in the kitchen light;
my fingers pale, probing
under my flaking skin.
the space is stretching, growing,
agonized with acidic mezzo moaning
and the static close memories
that are all too real for an insomniac.
Literature
cycle.
(birth.)
i walk home, crisp shoelaces, bloodied nose
middle of autumn, frothing at the mouth
kids took summer skin too far, brought on apocalypse
i tell myself it will be over soon, wintertime freckles
will be here
incensed
(childhood.)
stove milk and delicate murmurs
the technicolor alphabet teaches itself
purple bowls with animal faces
hospital bracelets around tiny wrists
won’t come loose
mama
(adolescence.)
the clouds are gasoline, wisps of gin, addicted
there is vomit on the floor, new candy sores
sky is burning, orange with hungry flame, vying
i don’t know who to talk to, crying
let me go
alive
(adulthood.)
doctor
Literature
Invisible spark
Like a sun resting on a stormy cloud,
My thoughts are screaming, but maybe too loud.
Like these eyes of lasers burning me whole,
When I am by myself, they take a toll.
Am I too timid? I was once alone.
Watching cliques that mold me into thick stone.
Like a volcano wants to pour lava,
When I speak, words twirl like rotten guava.
Why cannot I be me? Why must I bleed?
Like a sun resting on a stormy cloud,
My thoughts are screaming, but maybe too loud.
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