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Literature Text
I think of all the metaphors
I’ve given to people- us,
in all our being raw and
costumed in a mask;
we are many things
it’s almost a joke-
the kind that makes you
spit your drink then guffaw
because it’s just that funny.
But now I’m going to settle
for the opinion that we
are spiderwebs.
Stronger than steel and yet
easier to fade out
with our own palms.
We’re our own destruction
but somehow we have the
leniency to give permission
for others to do the same.
We may not be the gods
who hold lighting bolts
in their hands, but I know
that we’re more transgressive
than ants on an anthill,
than rain spittles on a window
pane. And while we bleed
easier than cut-up fruit,
we scar faster than we think,
we can heal and we can fight- fight
as if the heat didn’t graze us,
the bullets didn’t see us.
And I have two feet
but I have stumbled.
I have crawled and lay face-down
because tiredness goes
deeper than bone. It takes
more courage to tell yourself
it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay even
when it’s not. Because you’ll
make it through. goddamn,
you’ll make it through.
Just spin your thread,
in spirals and in circles
and come home.
Make a door if there isn’t one,
and come home.
Literature
Excision
Excision
This is the only way to cure it. Would you trust someone who’s never been? Now listen: you need to get yourself a rope. Coarse preferably. Tie it as close as you can to the wound. Make it tight enough to starve it of its origin. Isolate the damage. Let the abrasion as you move distract its cause for you. Let it twist and spark and scrape away the rust into a clean flame. Take the flame and douse your fingertips as deep as you can, then deeper every time. Work your way up to the knuckle. If it scalds, good. Let it erase the infected nest from the forefront of your mind. The problem is self-constructed; unnatural, not organic on
Literature
in the box
is a brain, removed from shell
disconnected
from signal wires. still viable (?)
maybe.
blue teeth and instant grams
and gallons of conceit;
our granular portrait no longer flatters
unless dull spots and imperfections are rendered
out in the wash--
we mask and filter, ask and answer,
bask in banter
understanding no one ever even thinks
to change the thought they've already had.
old news, rotten
if revisited. inquisitive
minds have nothing better to do
but second guess assumptions,
better than first-blush conundrums
that don't fit the formula we've written
for how the world works;
it's absurd to think
this is where our
Literature
The Introvert's Curse
The Introvert’s Curse
As I sit in a room, alone, waiting;
I wonder what this day will bring.
Will there be excitement, laughter?
Adventure, exploration, action?
Excitement grows inside of me!
As I sit in a room, alone, waiting;
I realize that I am afraid of that.
What if something goes wrong?
Why did I make any plans at all?
I feel awkward, silent, uneasy.
As I sit in a room, alone, waiting;
I am convinced excitement is wrong.
Action, exploration, adventure?
I want them no longer; go away!
Silence; racing thoughts race away.
As I sit in a room, alone, waiting…
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Yes. You're strong.
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