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Literature Text
i. unshaven skin prickles against the whitest of your sundresses and the sun smothers your nose in red. freckles dance across your shoulderblades – smeared stars marking their existence. his brown eyes are all you know and you can feel September creeping nearer, a physical weight poured on your bones.
ii. you spend Mondays in his arms, rosy flesh and summer skin. he smells like July and tastes like October, and you waste your day reveling in the peppermint of his lips and pine ocean of his chest.
iii. the rain patting against your windowpanes lulls you to a dreamless sleep. pale light streams in bars against the wall and his fingers are unrelentingly pressed to your skin. he whispers that he loves the curl in your hair and the ridges of your spine, his voice a (bitter)sweet murmur in your ear.
iv. you like to use the hours without him sitting on the shoreline, saltwater clogging your throat, sand clogging your pores. the orange-purple of the sunset would be nicer with arms wrapped tight around you, but on second thought, most things would be.
v. city lights pierce your wide eyes and you’d like nothing more than to get lost in them a while, breath reeking of alcohol, another drunken stranger on the street.
from the first sip you’re gone.
vi. and truth be told, you really aren’t too picky about what happens to you, as long as you can still feel his hand in yours and the wind hard in your face, tears pooling behind your lids.
--
ii. you spend Mondays in his arms, rosy flesh and summer skin. he smells like July and tastes like October, and you waste your day reveling in the peppermint of his lips and pine ocean of his chest.
iii. the rain patting against your windowpanes lulls you to a dreamless sleep. pale light streams in bars against the wall and his fingers are unrelentingly pressed to your skin. he whispers that he loves the curl in your hair and the ridges of your spine, his voice a (bitter)sweet murmur in your ear.
iv. you like to use the hours without him sitting on the shoreline, saltwater clogging your throat, sand clogging your pores. the orange-purple of the sunset would be nicer with arms wrapped tight around you, but on second thought, most things would be.
v. city lights pierce your wide eyes and you’d like nothing more than to get lost in them a while, breath reeking of alcohol, another drunken stranger on the street.
from the first sip you’re gone.
vi. and truth be told, you really aren’t too picky about what happens to you, as long as you can still feel his hand in yours and the wind hard in your face, tears pooling behind your lids.
--
Literature
makeshifts and shooting stars
dear diary,
if my calculations are correct,
this is day 24.
24.
the number of circles i've walked
around sky-scraping hopes
in worn-down shoes
filled with sand and salt.
24.
the number of makeshifts
i have learned to make from things
that once washed up on the shore
(just like me).
24.
the number of songs
stuck in my head
that prevent me from
hearing the ocean.
24.
the number of stars i count
before falling asleep.
i look up at the sky
and catch myself wishing upon every shooting star
that it's actually a man-made airplane,
coming to save me.
Literature
constellations named after you
This solar system will self-destruct in...
FIVE)
i'm planning my exit strategy
four hours ahead, just for it to
fail and fall in the cracks of the
ground; sinking, six feet under,
just let earth swallow me alive!
i promise not to scream or cry,
but promises might as well be
broken if the owner's heart is.
FOUR)
it's a common misconception
that i was born in a planetarium,
so let me clarify:
one misguided prediction–
a simple misrepresentation
or flawed communication,
can eclipse common sense.
our universes are imploding
and my bones are exploding
and i'm out of empathy fuel.
THREE)
i'd eat every star in this forged
Literature
brighter.
i. you say my name like
it was meant
to be pretty.
x. you told me that
watching candles glow
in the night was beautiful;
but they are nothing
compared to you.
iii. you could take out
my heart. you could
rip it, and you could
put it back together and
make me into something
beautiful.
z. you glow
the prettiest shade
of silver.
Suggested Collections
I'm not sure if I like this.. especially the title.
but, it's about time I started posting writing here again.
but, it's about time I started posting writing here again.
Comments26
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stunning. recongizble also.
the orange-purple of the sunset would be nicer with arms wrapped tight around you, but on second thought, most things would be.
is a wonderful, and awfully true line.
the orange-purple of the sunset would be nicer with arms wrapped tight around you, but on second thought, most things would be.
is a wonderful, and awfully true line.