I wish to run from this place like the river
I long to make amends with the ocean and
Languish in Marianas Trench,
Where I’m vaguely comatose, and my skin is sloughing off my skull;
I’m feeling blood make hasty descent from it’s home,
I’m feeling it sharp and ghastly ‘cross my bones,
I feel night sever my intestines and leave them to dry among the stones.
I feel i’ve walked 100 miles on my knees
And the gravel they’ve slaved upon has marred that fragile skin
Fragile like my mother’s corpse in an upturned bathtub of vodka and vomit;
The glass which resides itself in her skin is stained by sunl
I would like to call attention to an immolation of a boy whose anatomy is of bare bones and the leftover pills in his mother’s medicine cabinet. But before he slinks beneath his fissure of earthy lichen at a mere accusation, take notice of the blue that willows shallow beneath his lurid white and how it purples and blacks at the insides of his elbows, where skin meets perforation. He barks, all frothy and enraged at you, spitting profanity at your discovery.
Then he tells you what heaven feels like; how it breathes better in his veins and capillaries then it does all trapped inside those hypodermic needles. He whispers shame in that he
God carves me a paper heart,
In response I wring myself of tears
And while I know my shoulder blades were not made for angel wings,
I’d like to believe
That in throwing myself from canyons, cliffs, and mountains alike,
I will find myself in the breeze
But I do know that the ravine whispers from sweet cherry lips,
And the barren ground below,
Would fare quite nicely with a crimson cold blanket of my own
So, God willing and a heart of steel,
I will answer the calls,
And waiting for me, the street corner canyon,
Will lay in wait upon my doorstep doused in that cherry red,
With nails to scratch my back,
Lips to bruise my skin,
And hi
What you could tell from your first glimpse of Emily was that she was the shameful owner of too many freckles and a telltale blush. Every time she opens her mouth she feels her skeletons lifting their burdensome weight from her gnawing stomach, full of acid and not much else. You think that must be why she covers her smile so quickly.
You feel you must’ve seen her before, but ashy, keeling beneath what smoky gloom reveals itself from resounding flame. You witness her musing on the encumbrance of blood on her hands. It’s not her’s and not anybody else's either. You wonder where it came from but not to such a degree that you
I wish to run from this place like the river
I long to make amends with the ocean and
Languish in Marianas Trench,
Where I’m vaguely comatose, and my skin is sloughing off my skull;
I’m feeling blood make hasty descent from it’s home,
I’m feeling it sharp and ghastly ‘cross my bones,
I feel night sever my intestines and leave them to dry among the stones.
I feel i’ve walked 100 miles on my knees
And the gravel they’ve slaved upon has marred that fragile skin
Fragile like my mother’s corpse in an upturned bathtub of vodka and vomit;
The glass which resides itself in her skin is stained by sunl
I would like to call attention to an immolation of a boy whose anatomy is of bare bones and the leftover pills in his mother’s medicine cabinet. But before he slinks beneath his fissure of earthy lichen at a mere accusation, take notice of the blue that willows shallow beneath his lurid white and how it purples and blacks at the insides of his elbows, where skin meets perforation. He barks, all frothy and enraged at you, spitting profanity at your discovery.
Then he tells you what heaven feels like; how it breathes better in his veins and capillaries then it does all trapped inside those hypodermic needles. He whispers shame in that he
God carves me a paper heart,
In response I wring myself of tears
And while I know my shoulder blades were not made for angel wings,
I’d like to believe
That in throwing myself from canyons, cliffs, and mountains alike,
I will find myself in the breeze
But I do know that the ravine whispers from sweet cherry lips,
And the barren ground below,
Would fare quite nicely with a crimson cold blanket of my own
So, God willing and a heart of steel,
I will answer the calls,
And waiting for me, the street corner canyon,
Will lay in wait upon my doorstep doused in that cherry red,
With nails to scratch my back,
Lips to bruise my skin,
And hi
What you could tell from your first glimpse of Emily was that she was the shameful owner of too many freckles and a telltale blush. Every time she opens her mouth she feels her skeletons lifting their burdensome weight from her gnawing stomach, full of acid and not much else. You think that must be why she covers her smile so quickly.
You feel you must’ve seen her before, but ashy, keeling beneath what smoky gloom reveals itself from resounding flame. You witness her musing on the encumbrance of blood on her hands. It’s not her’s and not anybody else's either. You wonder where it came from but not to such a degree that you
to the nineteen-year-old girl who killed herself by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
to the nineteen-year-old girl who killed herself
dear Madison,
they say there was a blanket of delicate snow
at your service, flurries falling from the sky like old friends,
and winter has never felt so cold in Philadelphia;
even the willows weeped candlelight from the highest
branches— on friday Rittenhouse Square was breathtaking,
the sun setting on an amber day— there was a radiance
about you, a spark that burned a little too bright
and I know that you tried all you could,
but sometimes you can't help but choke on the flames
you fell from the roof gently, like the tired petal of a flower
compelled by the promise of gravity and a place
to sleep in the soil down below,
but
i.
dear sunshine,
you are my bruises. welts
along my wrists, fingertips
dancing on my neck. bluebird,
you were a midnight mistake
leaking over the next morning.
you wept and all
the world called you beautiful;
we kissed the naked silence between your bones,
we watched you drown yourself in vodka and not-so-
secrets, and we brought you back to life;
we held you as you quaked
like a tragedy in its first bloom.
I called you beautiful,
and you used all of me
[I am as naked as the breeze, as
useless as a songbird without
a note. I am as hungry
the tide and as lonely
as the moon who calls
upon it; starlight,
you took all of me,
the negative sp
i.
we were seventeen
when you promised me that
this tiny dustbowl of
a southern town was not going to be
everything my life was made of.
it wasn't hard to believe
because the maps you'd spread across
your ceiling never lied (since you claimed
it was easier to dream when they
were stuck above you
in the night).
i remember the lines you'd drawn
in a felt pen, red because it seemed important,
seemed louder than the rest, and
i remember how you
would trace the roads with your eyes until you
fell asleep. you had a knack for
memorizing every escape route, and when i asked why
you answered that it was because one day you
would have to run
an october apology to my body by apoemhowsweet, literature
Literature
an october apology to my body
i)
the crook of my arm is blue once more.
a round bruise, a globe of the earth, laced with green.
a little world in the boomerang curve of my elbow,
which i peer at from far away.
-
(i’m sorry little arm, i know you’re sick of blood tests.
i know you’re fed up of all the poking with needles,
to check up on my poor struggling liver.
i’ll tell it i’m sorry for starving it, too).
ii)
i’ve decided to take up space in the world again,
to make myself part of it, join in.
but i’m like a wobbly child strapped to a car-seat
on a long nauseating journey to the beach.
a child clutching a puzzle book in their
Hello there! Thank you very much for choosing to join . Feel free to submit your written works to our gallery and help yourself to sampling the works of other writers our gallery has to offer. A writing prompt, our theme of the week, is produced every Monday to help provide creative inspiration. I hope we'll be able to help you grow as a writer.
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