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Literature Text
skintight ripple this
visual bleed
cranial seed
of arcane means
fitted over you
gateway settings
programming an old time
transition
<open>
</close>
void avoided, null and
broiling
clouded slim and slender
snap fingers when bones break
dimensional mistake
we suit up again.
leave it behind again
and pick it up again
leave it behind.
visual bleed
cranial seed
of arcane means
fitted over you
gateway settings
programming an old time
transition
<open>
</close>
void avoided, null and
broiling
clouded slim and slender
snap fingers when bones break
dimensional mistake
we suit up again.
leave it behind again
and pick it up again
leave it behind.
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Literature
indelible
it is 3 p.m. when hope visits me. his t-shirt is light, jeans ripped and frayed at the cuffs, feet bare against the scattered leaves on the ground. the sun hangs halfway in the sky, the breeze carrying the taste of cooler air— it is the kind of weather you fall in love in. when he sits beside me, i shiver. it’s been a while, i say, slipping off my shoes, toes digging into the dirt. thought you’d forgotten about me. his smile is beautiful in its sincerity, eyes blue in their wistfulness. he tells me he’s sorry he’s been gone so long, tells me how much he missed me, tells me— i didn’t realize how much you needed me til now. i trace the veins along his hand, absurdly envious of the blood that flows inside of him, of the fact that we will never be that close. he cups my chin, tilts his head as he reads my face— smirks when he understands my desire. if i could dream, he says, every dream would be about you. when he kisses me, his tongue tastes like summer. he is cotton-candy stained
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prompt: your dimension suits me
barely barely barely made this one on time. nine minutes to go as of now.
© 2015 - 2024 scheherazades
Comments3
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this is fantastic
<open> and </close(d)> case *swoon*
<3
<open> and </close(d)> case *swoon*
<3