ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
you exude suicide--
even the rain hurls itself at you
on the corner of slice and open
and I'd hold you with the rest of the droplets
pooling in the folds of my hands
and I'd bite my tongue to mix our waters together
but you begged to be wrung out
in july of the last summer I saw you
and the stars scraped your shoulders that night
like the sky was a birth defect
and I watched as the moon in a half-empty halo
fell to the side of your body in the morning
even the rain hurls itself at you
on the corner of slice and open
and I'd hold you with the rest of the droplets
pooling in the folds of my hands
and I'd bite my tongue to mix our waters together
but you begged to be wrung out
in july of the last summer I saw you
and the stars scraped your shoulders that night
like the sky was a birth defect
and I watched as the moon in a half-empty halo
fell to the side of your body in the morning
Literature
Advertisements
She was only six when the funeral homes started sending us advertisements, all competing with each other to be the best, to win her business. To win our business, more like; six is hardly old enough to understand what's going on. It's not old enough to understand why everyone is covering their mouths with their hands and failing to hold back tears when you walk into the room, or old enough to understand why people begin to outright sob when you start talking about what you want to be when you grow up. Once it was a doctor, before that it was a fairy princess, but right now it's a policewoman.
And of course all the children have heard about t
Literature
Romancing Cotton
Someone told me that the balled-up almost was growing inside her like
a sapling, that soon the girl would be all swell and wet. What she said
was, "don't leave". Her ego was a white sheet caught on a branch, the
type of fabric my mother treated with contempt. Frippery, beautiful
but impractical: keeping it alive was like trying to catch a bubble with
dry hands.
The wind carried the sickly smell of opium and morning sickness,
signals of a spring in which fingers like white spiders cradled
the beginning of bloom. Hope seemed at once skin-near and star-far.
What I offered her was not a marriage proposal, it was a murder
o
Literature
if she were any more tomato she'd be blueberry
xvii.
i want to write about how this world of
absolute truth, knowledge, and solid food—
that which we hold high between two fingers is always
full of watery applesauce and little white half-truths.
and about how utterly strange
it is that all the simple things that people
write about on pages are, in reality,
very few and far between.
xvi.
and i want to write about how there is
peace and war and
poverty and treasure and
cruelty and sometimes,
sometimes,
small and
important
moments
of grace.
xv.
i want to write a poem about why the hell i'm wasting
my time writing poems when i could maybe
actually be doing something produ
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
.
© 2012 - 2024 poetic
Comments9
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Hi there! Just a note to let you know that I've featured this piece in my journal 