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Literature Text
and dammit
there are ghosts where my heart should be.
they don't know how to die.
there are ghosts where my heart should be.
they don't know how to die.
Literature
process
think how much blood
a woman sees
in a year, a lifetime.
think how very much more
one like me
encounters—think what happens
when bleeding becomes
less necessity
and more art. think of every
scratch and graze, every glaze
of rust-coloured paint
you've worn on your skin
as armour.
then multiply that by three.
Literature
comatose.
i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
homesick.
--
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you –
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an
Literature
softened
the sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.
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it's been so hard to let go of some things lately.
and i just like the word dammit
i'm just chillin' to some helen humes and nibbing on blueberry muffins.
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