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Literature Text
Fatigue burrows deep
into my splintered bones like
incessant termites
Literature
i can't title this i can't even remember who i am
i. take everything i own.
take everything i am.
take, take, take,
and don't give back—
don't give any of it back.
i don't want it anymore.
it's yours now.
it always has been.
ii. don't know how to be soft,
or tender, or kind.
(all we've ever known is
sharp edges, sharp knives,)
and isn't it better this way?
better to feel familiar,
all of this blood pouring out?
isn't it nicer for us to feel the
pain?
iii. i don't know how to love
and i never have, never will,
and when your eyes go soft
i want to slice myself into ribbons.
she could pick me up in pieces
and tie my skin into her hair,
string my heart onto a necklace
of bone. if you kis
Literature
.
all the words
taste like salt
on my lips,
although all the oceans
evaporated and stopped
throwing up corpses
long ago;
now all our souls
lie bloated in the
burning sand -
the sun beating
down on our heads
like a war drummer
that got lost
along with the
cause.
(there's a feast for the crows,
but I don't think they're hungry.)
Literature
i am too much and yet not enough.
i.)
she tells me i have
the heart of a mouse,
put your ear against
my ribs and hear the
trapped hummingbirds
crying to escape. today,
my wings are slashed. this
is nothing unusual, this
is nothing different except
it's a Tuesday and i
promised to cry only
Mondays and Thursdays.
(its a good thing we both know
i only keep half my promises)
ii.)
we do not speak about it. but,
neither do we pretend it's
not there - something to
be ignored and overlooked. she
acknowledges, salutes and
moves on; she's a soldier
that refuses to fight and
i think i am glad of this.
(learning to be peaceful after a
lifetime of war is slow going,
but we're getti
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