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fallingFall air sneaks through the gap between my
jacket and my neck on my way to class, but I just
pull my coat tighter and continue walking because
there is nothing I can do about it right now.
i used to know how to knit but now the
metal needles feel cold and foreign between
my fingers, like when i try to hold your hand and
fall asleep at the same time, but i know it is more
comfortable to just lay there beside you and
pretend that it is enough.
sometimes i send myself postcards in the mail and
sometimes i try to hold my own hand when i sleep.
i wish you were here or, at the very least,
i wish i had a scarf.
addaxyou made me feel guilty for being happy,
for moving on and forgetting,
for being normal.
you made me feel guilty for writing poems
instead of writing papers, for counting stars
instead of calories.
now im going to have a fan-fucking-tastic day
and you aren't going to ruin a single bit of it.
it's not just the leaveslast autumn i spent an entire afternoon
on my back in the grass waiting for a falling
leaf to drift downwards into my open palm.
i was convinced that there was something
special about being the first to hold on to
something that had never touched the ground.
i pulled my eyes shut and tried to make a wish
but when i opened them it was spring again and
i had forgotten how to believe in something that
was heading towards the ground anyway.
breathing or bouncingif you told me i looked pretty holding my breath,
i just might pass out from asphyxiation
i wouldnt mind because lately i never seem to have enough
lung capacity to tell you everything i need anymore
or maybe i lose my breath before we even begin
around you i always forget to breathe
if i were a ball of emotion i would be blue and green
and could bounce all the way to the ceiling
i would consider trying to avoid you
but end up throwing myself as hard as i could
straight towards the upper left of your chest
and it'd be no surprise when you caught me right out of midair
you always catch me out of midair
what we do.we kiss underwater and
have sex on a Sunday.
we send letters, pictures,
and love with postage stamps.
(somedays i think i am going to break the mailman's heart)
we wear each others clothes to bed
and pretend the bodies that used to be
inside them are right next to us again.
we break weeks into days, and days into
how many hours it's been since we've
been on the same side of the state.
we're working as hard as we can
but sometimes it still doesn't help.
drunkstaring at the phone in my hand, i contemplate
about how many words i would have to misspell
in my text to make you believe i was drunk.
i settle on four.
when i try to type in your number i realize
there is still something cold and wet in my hand,
i put it down and it promptly gets knocked over.
to be honest, i feel almost jipped that i have to
pretend to be drunk as opposed to being able
to just let go.
i find another cup to drink again and it's warm
in my throat but there is a sweet aftertaste that
almost completely covers up the bitter undertones
that bite even the morning after.
i think it's fruit punch, or maybe lemonade
i just know that i dont want what i'm doing
to be covered up, because then it almost
makes it seem alright.
i pour it out and open my phone again to tell you something,
anything, even though i havent heard back from you in weeks.
that's the last thing i'll remember.
in the morning, between the tunnel vision and
the room spinning, i'll open my phone and see t
he loves me?the flowers you sent me found their way
into the trash, but it doesn't matter because
most of their petals had odd numbers, and
i always start with "he loves me not"
johnson citySometimes you look at me like I'm
the only thing keeping your feet glued to
the ground and whatever I'm rambling
on about at that moment is more precious
than air itself.
I was never someone who made guys glance
back for a second look, but god damnit,
something I did made this boy think
that he could find the answers to his
problems in the crook of my neck and
the curve of my waist,
and who am I to set him straight?
dear megan.dear megan,
i think that we'd be amazing together. i'd write you little letters on post-it notes
and even though we're hundreds of miles apart, i hope you'd write back. when
i'd get them, i'd sit at the foot of my bed and read them by the glow of the
fireflies drifting through my window. i would think of you and i'd sigh while i read,
because you must be made up of harp-strings and six-o'-clock sunlight
(that golden hue would really highlight your cheekbones) to be able to think of
such beautiful sentences.
i hope you'd be able to read my messy handwriting and scratched-out words and
think that even though i'm not as good as you, at least i was making an effort.
megan, i'd be trying to make you happy.
and i know i'll never amount to much, at least, not compared to him. because
when you do find him (and i know you will, because you aren't the kind of girl
who stops looking) he'll be perfect for you. but before you find him, i know you'll have some rough times, and you'll compare your li
the blue doorthere's a woman who lives opposite me, on the other side of the road. her fence is too tall, and so are her shoes. she has a blue door with an oval of glass in the centre. it looks like an ugly mirror; she likes this because what does it imply of the subject within the frame if the mirror itself is ugly?
she was born in austria and still has the accent to prove it, but no longer the husband. she writes at night, on a typewriter because that's what he liked. she wrote him letters, she wrote stories of his life. mostly, she focused on his inability to differentiate between 'always' and 'never.'
"what's the difference?" he would always say, a furrowed line, one that looked like it belonged in a brown field of upturned soil with radishes beneath it, appearing.
and she would tell him (,")everything.(")
she has horseshoes wrapped around her hips for no other reason than they're poetic to her lonesome ears. i would see her on palm sunday and christmas, and she would always look younger in apr
the first night it snowed that year, you brushed my hair out of my eyes and smiled. i asked, 'what are you smiling about?'
you said, 'i know what my new year's resolution will be.'
i asked, 'what?'
you said, 'i'm going to be more careful. my goal is to not break anything out of clumsiness.' and suddenly, we were centimeters apart, and i could smell your cinnamon breath on my face.
you said, 'i promise i won't break you.' and then you kissed me, and it was our beginning.
the snow was still falling. you said i reminded you of a snowflake; how i had six sides, but in the end, they're all the same.
i pointed out that snowflakes melt.
you smiled and said, 'yes, but we need the water that they become.'
but you never needed me, did you?
the snow stopped falling.
and you broke your new year's resolution when you left - my heart shattered when you stepped on it on your way out.
and i decided february would be my new beginning instead of january; a beginning to
federal express EDITon wednesdays, anne would wake up at nine o'clock.
she would take a shower at nine-thirty, after she made herself a small cup of coffee with a teaspoon of sugar and a drop of milk.
by ten o'clock, she was dressed. anne would spend the next hour and a half in the kitchen, baking cranberry scones and picking tea leaves from the small pot next to the coffee grinder.
at eleven-thirty, anne would be finished with the scones and fresh tea. she would take to pacing in front of the large picture windows at the front of her house- he would be here in thirty minutes.
anne's nervous tics showed when she was pacing. her fingers would wrap around her projecting wrists within the first few minutes; she would begin to wring them shortly after; then she would begin scratching along the veins with her always-painted-red fingernails, never drawing blood but leaving welts. her hands would move quicker the closer the minute hand crept toward twelve.
he would ring the doorbell. anne would stop d
hearts.I think its funny how everyone draws hearts but no one bothers to fill them in.
So theyre always empty?
A pause, and then, sadly: So theyre like yours.
I wish I could fill your heart in for you. I have a black pen, do you think itll help any?
When I say hearts, what do you think of?
They make things run.
But they die.
Some are rechargeable.
And most arent.
My heart gets lonely, some days. It feels like its the only star in the sky. It misses you, sometimes.
But no one was listening.
This is loveCome away with me
fall into my arms
I was weak,
but you made me strong,
your love has given me wings
and I can fly.
Let us disappear into the clouds
I'll take you there,
and we'll travel to a distant land
where dreamers dream
and society has no hold.
We'll be free
like horses in the wild
with an unquenchable desire
I call love.
be my windi'm not just a lonely girl.
i'm a girl that is alone.
a storm without its wind.
just rain, quiet rain
[until you come around.]
picture books-Dear Malachi,
I miss you, but I think you already know that.
You know you were the only thing that kept me in that terrible town for so long? I stayed until I knew you didn't need me anymore. I know you're fine.
God, the ocean is beautiful. It really is. At night I'll break away from everyone, and I'll just sit and watch the waves kill each other. I imagine you doing homework, dad unblinkingly watching a football game, and mom burning something in the oven- I feel so lost here sometimes.
Have you asked Alicia out yet? If not, then the best to do it is to be as straight with her as you can. Girls love honesty, and if you're as honest with her as you can be she'll always remember you for it. It won't be long before boys will be lying left and right to her. Just tell her, "You're absolutely beautiful... and I really like you. Do you want to go on a date?" and if she says no- then the grass keeps growing.
I hope that you're not still mad at me, little brother. It has
and she asked him:do you love me?
she hears no hesitation in his answer, the rushed eagerness of
someone's emotions bursting to come out
apparent in his voice.
she laughs quietly to herself, saying,
good, because i love you too.
but there is always some apprehension in his reply, really,
always a split-second of silence before he answers. she tends to erase it from her mind,
telling herself that it doesn't matter. but the silence always matters most.
do you love me?
yes, don't you believe me?
there is a slight edge to his voice, as if this is an obvious point,
but he almost never says it, and not to her face.
and she doesn't want to believe it, but that means something.
it means a lot of things, and she doesn't want any of them to be true.
do you love me?
her question sounded ridiculous even to herself.
he sighs silently. his very posture screams he's uncomfortable, arms linked
tight across his chest, a subconscious barrier. he grips his wrists and even from here,
she can see his skin turning
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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