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Literature Text
there is a quiet desperation
in this decision to grind flesh into space
minimalist cartography of the bay.
why do you always set sail in these
lagging
this is the right thing to doas if it was your cross to bear
seas, pins and needles waters.
attenuation, delay.
and craft carapace rafters, make habitable do not inhabit hang a poster of the sunset do not expect-
or do, or refine brow ridges.
every minute you ask yourself "have i been too cruel,
my microintake of breath too sharp?"
rooms, impersonal rooms,
set up to trap numb water.
and how much longer before you catch her
to be her floor, walls and ceiling
and will you?
so you fill the space with helium
& sniff & soar.
in this decision to grind flesh into space
minimalist cartography of the bay.
why do you always set sail in these
lagging
this is the right thing to doas if it was your cross to bear
seas, pins and needles waters.
attenuation, delay.
and craft carapace rafters, make habitable do not inhabit hang a poster of the sunset do not expect-
or do, or refine brow ridges.
every minute you ask yourself "have i been too cruel,
my microintake of breath too sharp?"
rooms, impersonal rooms,
set up to trap numb water.
and how much longer before you catch her
to be her floor, walls and ceiling
and will you?
so you fill the space with helium
& sniff & soar.
Literature
recovery crawl
beating
is kinder
than leaving.
sometimes I wish
your last words were
movements.
a hand against my cheek,
a fist to my chest,
an arm around my neck,
nails on my wrist.
the ache more real
and easy
to find.
every night I ache and
I point all over.
mostly my heart,
mostly my mind,
to the words stuck
that won’t loosen
that wedge themselves
in my teeth and fall out when
I’m drunk,
in his lap. he doesn’t need them, boy
that loves me until his
teeth rot, who says I don’t
deserve you who constricts
my waist with his hands and who
whispers I love you before
we fuck. he’s got courage like
the front lines of war
Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
Literature
Winter
I remember winter in
the old stove we huddled at,
an audience of shivering limbs
within cold walls.
There was a desperation to this closeness
that love could never inspire. It glowed
within us, a common flame
we dared not feed, and through
the night we curled in embers
and burned ourselves to sleep.
I could almost remember summer’s
cotton arms, the playfulness
of ocean waves in August. Those dreams
wished to drown us beneath memories
and wishes, but
in the moment before we awoke,
as the tide cried
for me to stay, I always
always swam to shore.
Every morning, I breathed snow-capped
mountains in the air. They were nothing
more th
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Comments1
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such a wreck, son.
i hear this over a television with faulty reception in a hotel room.
i hear this over a television with faulty reception in a hotel room.