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Literature Text
Your mother wants to know
if you've had anything for breakfast
and the way she talks splits through you
like an axe in a melon, nervous
like she's talking to a man with blood
that stains his teeth. And the kettle sings,
too loud, that ugly old whee-oh-whee
that makes you feel like a poet or a
native, nervous wreck, a girl dragging
her toes and drawling
as she snaps a cat's
neck. She asks you again, more
impatient this time because you are
the kind of person that is hard
to put up with, the kind of person
that never begins to listen, and there is
a beating heart sewn into the back of
your head where your hair meets
like a cleaved moon in the middle.
The stitches hurt and the room is
frightening and sad as you pick
yourself free with your nails,
wishing the pulse would give out.
if you've had anything for breakfast
and the way she talks splits through you
like an axe in a melon, nervous
like she's talking to a man with blood
that stains his teeth. And the kettle sings,
too loud, that ugly old whee-oh-whee
that makes you feel like a poet or a
native, nervous wreck, a girl dragging
her toes and drawling
as she snaps a cat's
neck. She asks you again, more
impatient this time because you are
the kind of person that is hard
to put up with, the kind of person
that never begins to listen, and there is
a beating heart sewn into the back of
your head where your hair meets
like a cleaved moon in the middle.
The stitches hurt and the room is
frightening and sad as you pick
yourself free with your nails,
wishing the pulse would give out.
Literature
tell a lie
i. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their size
they tumble through sharp mountains
but they never, ever stop
ii. i can rush and pick up sediments
and disperse them where i wish
iii. i'm lying -
i knew you saw it anyway,
there's seaweed in my fingernails
and salt on my breath
Literature
Paper-Thin Promises
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statu
Literature
for all intensive purposes
i am accused of being
a category five--
but i will not excuse the way my skin aches.
i want storms.
i remember the way Katrina screamed &
if you press your ear to my chest you will hear the same.
the moan turning into a pitch, the pitch
screaming until the throat is too raw to be
more than a whimper.
the way it stops
and pauses,
silently racked until it bursts forth once more.
i will not apologize for being demolition.
scars exist on every woman
too powerful to contain herself.
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this is really really bad
i was trying to think of a way to describe chronic, clinical depression to someone who hadn't experienced it today and i've come to the conclusion that it's the same feeling you get the day after doing a shitload of pills, except all the time.
i was trying to think of a way to describe chronic, clinical depression to someone who hadn't experienced it today and i've come to the conclusion that it's the same feeling you get the day after doing a shitload of pills, except all the time.
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Comments8
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this is not bad at all, i actually like it very much. those images of the melon and the kettle and the man with blood-stained teeth are so descriptive in their simplicity. 