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Literature Text
.monday.
today is the first time in a long time that i have woken up afraid; afraid because i cannot see the sunrise, and because i do not remember who i am without you. we listen to the weather report on the radio, and your fingers are freezing in mine.
.tuesday.
the storm that blew through in the night shattered my bedroom window, and i breathe you in like burning driftwood as you help me clean up the soggy leaves and broken glass. i cut my finger on a jagged edge, and neither of us speak as you help me wash off the blood, because some wounds leave you with nothing to say.
.wendesday.
my room smells like smoke and vanilla and the way you used to touch my skin. now we lay like parallel lines along the mattress, silent and unable to breach the darkness that separates our bodies. i fall asleep crying and in the morning there is salt on my eyelashes. i leave before you wake.
.thursday.
i don't kiss you anymore, and my heart is so cold. you are my best friend, i whisper as i clutch your hair between shaking fingers. i feel like boulders and autumn and maybe i'll rob a bank. i swing back and forth and run through empty houses, tracing my hands over the abandoned rooms.
.friday.
.
.saturday.
tonight i sleep on what i'll always know as your side of the bed, and all i can think about is your warm body pressed against my back; a perfect fit, arms citing my existence in a parenthetical reference as the candle burns itself out on the shelf and the wolf-winds howl outside the window.
.sunday.
i miss you, not achingly or with a sharp loss, but simply and factually. you are gone, and i am no longer whole.
today is the first time in a long time that i have woken up afraid; afraid because i cannot see the sunrise, and because i do not remember who i am without you. we listen to the weather report on the radio, and your fingers are freezing in mine.
.tuesday.
the storm that blew through in the night shattered my bedroom window, and i breathe you in like burning driftwood as you help me clean up the soggy leaves and broken glass. i cut my finger on a jagged edge, and neither of us speak as you help me wash off the blood, because some wounds leave you with nothing to say.
.wendesday.
my room smells like smoke and vanilla and the way you used to touch my skin. now we lay like parallel lines along the mattress, silent and unable to breach the darkness that separates our bodies. i fall asleep crying and in the morning there is salt on my eyelashes. i leave before you wake.
.thursday.
i don't kiss you anymore, and my heart is so cold. you are my best friend, i whisper as i clutch your hair between shaking fingers. i feel like boulders and autumn and maybe i'll rob a bank. i swing back and forth and run through empty houses, tracing my hands over the abandoned rooms.
.friday.
.
.saturday.
tonight i sleep on what i'll always know as your side of the bed, and all i can think about is your warm body pressed against my back; a perfect fit, arms citing my existence in a parenthetical reference as the candle burns itself out on the shelf and the wolf-winds howl outside the window.
.sunday.
i miss you, not achingly or with a sharp loss, but simply and factually. you are gone, and i am no longer whole.
Literature
The Only Poem I'll Ever Write About Periods
What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
Right?”
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.
Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tinder
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’
Literature
To believe in something
i’m drowning on the pavement
and all the voices are repeating over and over and over again
words i can’t make out
i wanted to be something beautiful
but my cells can only perform mechanical operations
no stars supernovas oceans exist in me
and the moon is like a hard knot in the sky
bleeding ichor on his other side
the sun flashes hot cancerous light blinding
and i am blind nonexistent in the daylight
invisible refracting the world around me
repeating over and over and over again
hard drum beats and tangled roots that reach out
rhythmic dying in the cold winter sun
god
oh god, i wanted to believe in something
Literature
Apocalypta
Dawn breaks soft,
You are sun glare
in the rearview;
and I, the heavy mist
ahead
on a road that forgets to end.
Suggested Collections
letters to matthew.
i'm over it.
obviously.
---
returning to this 4 years later is such a strange homecoming...i still remember everything - his pale face with its infinite sadness, the weakening winter nights, the broken bend of his back as he hunched on the edge of my bed. i kept the burned out wick of that candle for months after it could no longer hold a flame, unable to throw away all the things it had seen.
to this day, i can't buy anything that smells like vanilla.
thank you all for the attention, even so long after the fact
i'm over it.
obviously.
---
returning to this 4 years later is such a strange homecoming...i still remember everything - his pale face with its infinite sadness, the weakening winter nights, the broken bend of his back as he hunched on the edge of my bed. i kept the burned out wick of that candle for months after it could no longer hold a flame, unable to throw away all the things it had seen.
to this day, i can't buy anything that smells like vanilla.
thank you all for the attention, even so long after the fact
© 2009 - 2024 SuddenlyAutumn
Comments22
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Astoundingly good.