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aqueous.she had never come within ninety-three million miles of anything like love, but she said if she ever did, she would name it "september" and keep it in a dirty glass bowl like a mindless goldfish. she'd watch it swim back and forth, waiting for its belly to meet the surface so she could cry for something worthwhile.
she considered the consequences of scribbling down every thought that crossed her mind, pushing it into a bottle, and sending it across the sea. she wondered how long it would take to crack and sink to the ocean floor, and if whatever dwelled below would understand her better than those here above.
she dreamed that life was an all-consuming tsunami, and she figured drowning in it felt something like a soul blistering from a body and slowly drifting away. she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she knew the secret to breathing underwater.
Softcore Porn and Moldy FruitYou'd expect the bite of lemon juice to be enough,
o' but no, the incisions always indulged in moldy peaches.
Raunchy, biodegradable fruits
full of foul odors and seeds that say "Fuck You"
if you ask them to grow.
You'd think someone would begin to loath
the invasive glint of steel soaked in citrus rot,
but no, her stitches kept tasting for the ache
of scalpel beneath skin.
That familiar ooze;
peaches and crème slipping down forearm.
She grew accustomed to the daily rituals of apricot patches
molding to skin.
She understood the necessity of routine,
the demands of a schedule.
Scabs peeled and picked
to a fleshy, citrus dessert.
I find her infatuated with tangerine ice-cream
sliding from the seam of arteries,
and I'm wincing as she
relishes liquid candy.
And it's demented, but her eyes shriek "Delicious. Delicious."
And this is revolting and wretched, but her eye's say "You Love
Bethan.You had never read the same book twice in your life.
I remember watching you rip the pages, one by one, from their yellowed binding. Devouring every word with such a hunger you could swear you were famished. Leaving lipstick fingerprints on every page. I remember when he asked you what you did with them. The pages. The next day he opened the mailbox to sheets of lipstick laden classics. With etched out words he could swear were love poems.
But you never believed in love anyway.
I remember the way you used to smirk at the fools who whistled when you passed by. I laughed because of your expression. You laughed because I didn't have a clue.
He was different.
He couldn't make you laugh, but he made you think. He didn't send roses, he planted you a whole damn garden. And maybe you were happy. But you'd never really know.
You weren't a cynic, just apathetic to a fault.
Cheery, but never close to anyone. And that wasn't the result of your disrespect towards literature.
He never lied, or asked
UglyUgly girls are always ignored.
Boys always go for the cute ones, the hot ones, the beautiful ones.
There is just one thing those boys don't understand,
Beauty is not important.
The thoughts and ideas,
Creative abilities and charming words;
These things are above the slight qualities of the body.
Waists as thin as can be,
Long flowing hair,
Shining eyes and perfect smiles.
The beauty of a body is nothing compared to the beauty of minds and souls.
Beauty is a ticket to a different world.
A world without struggle,
A world of dampened pain.
The rest must fight through the insults,
Through the judgment,
Through the rejection,
Through the massive field of ignorance they wade each day.
These girls are punished every day,
For the terrible sin of a flat chest
Or for the heinous crime of unpainted skin.
Routine7:45 AM. A woman wakes up, dresses her best (her coat, a stranger's gift), and walks outside. Empties her wallet to charity. It is nothing.
1:20 PM. The addict stumbles down the busy street, hungry, shoots his dealer, bystander, and takes his prize. Walks away and no one follows. Indulges. Clutches his chest, falls over, is dead. It is nothing.
8:00 PM. The woman walks home, sees body, smiles. Is he sleeping? Takes off coat, covers man. Slips money in pocket--he'll find it there. Goes inside. It is nothing.
3:15 AM. Adulterer, fearful, kicks the ground, angry with world. Sees vagrant, robs. Is he cold? The coat is familiar. Ignores. Buys gun. Shoots spouse, temptation, damnation.
It is nothing.
You are the DrugVelvet blue eyes;
rich and eager tug me.
no patch, no therapy, no miracle cure
I am your addict.
You are the drug.
The terminal infestation of dependence;
a life support where without
my mind withdraws.
anorexicI only wash my hair
cuz it grows longer,
no name shampoo
won't make it softer.
It's nice to know
I have an option,
nice to know
my god's behind this.
I sit awfully crooked,
on belts and sweaters
If I lean far back
and suck my tummy in,
it looks like I work out
and like I care about my looks.
Some flour and eggs
feel good against my skin,
though they mix,
and can't be taken apart.
So I guess I can't eat
either of them.
Guess that it's better that I tease myself
I have to lose some weight
I gotta swallow these pills,
so I can lose myself forget everything
you heard about fate.
I'm going to start smoking more hash,
and stop stressing about nothing.
I'll give all my clothes away.
I'm going to read more.
start planning and getting
ready for my date.
It may not be tomorrow,
but if it is I don't want to rush it,
forget everything and end up late.
I'll stop trying to make things sound good,
and just say them.
I've stopped caring, if i offend anyone,
started being who I am.
Nightmares of BeautyThe nightmares consist of mercury faced monsters complete with glass teeth and gargoyle eyes. I have not the power to deny them
(Look deeper. Creatures creeping beneath pupil.)
It keeps asking me to digest the butterflies with the sharpness sewn to my jaw, and I say
"No these are your teeth,"
Don't you want to taste beauty?
(yes, but I don't want to destroy it.)
She kept claiming to be me, and her smile of soil
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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