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Literature Text
Emotions run near the surface, dead electric wires brought to life by fear, by the unknown, by the kindness of strangers and the heartache of family, of re-learning lessons ignored, shut off or broken, while pieces of empathy, jagged and sharp, bring tears, shame, embarrassment and the all too-human connection with others you never knew you needed, never knew was the answer as you hid away silent, shy, sullen, regretting your life choices and how they were never what you thought you wanted but they changed you for the better anyway, gave you a purpose outside of nothing, as you dreamed for the things you were never going to chase no matter what you told yourself, and
now.
Now.
NOW
What are you going to do with this knowledge, this revelation and evolution of self to put you back on the path, to find the path you wandered off of so easily, so quickly because one little, two little, three little heartbreaks twisted your way of thinking and pushed you into the darkness where love became lust and you longed to be someones obsession of skin, carving notches on the bedpost that look a lot like scars that will never heal and you trusted yourself less and less and less until you found isolation was your only friend- and he doesn’t send get well cards.
now.
Now.
NOW
What are you going to do with this knowledge, this revelation and evolution of self to put you back on the path, to find the path you wandered off of so easily, so quickly because one little, two little, three little heartbreaks twisted your way of thinking and pushed you into the darkness where love became lust and you longed to be someones obsession of skin, carving notches on the bedpost that look a lot like scars that will never heal and you trusted yourself less and less and less until you found isolation was your only friend- and he doesn’t send get well cards.
Literature
Wildwomen
I borrowed a horse last Thursday to hunt the Wildwoman. He was tall and painted hungry; She’d borrowed time, then disappeared.
I could not bend to pick the rocks. The horse kept kicking dusty circles. ‘Round the barn, the Wildwoman crept in boots that used to be mine.
We didn’t see Her till the last three barrels, where She sprouted from the grit between my fingers to silence shouting hands.
Winding down sore muscles, drawing ankles to earth, She traced my body before darting up my spine - straight line from heels, to hips, to Crown.
And in the half-breath the horse spied hay and tried to throw me from the saddle, She
Literature
solitary confinement
there’s a terror with its claws so deep in my heart
that they only hurt when it shifts or squirms in my chest
i always forget the way that kisses
pour thickly down my throat like too much honey
and smother me
i always forget how the moon only ever speaks to me
in the cold and in the dark
when it’s sure no one else is there to hear
Literature
notesleep
playing my emphases like harp strings
your voice smokes thru the oaken bramble
pour a carbonated apology, a sun-stained
mile marked envelope, two ill-fitted birds,
hands small holes right before a rush of river
what it feels like being swallowed from the outside
crushing rings into truth serum, pretend
to be out of tune with that deception
I have been unable to parse my own persona
a pink cotton voice I remember thru the phone
I remember because it formed me into a granary
one crop after another of patriarchal idioms
whisper my secrets so softly into a glint of red hair
a saucer-eyed lace pattern cut into pine paper
I practice radical self lo
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This may be a thing for a bit. I like the rambling processes of thought that these stream of consciousness pieces bring-
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Comments35
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i love this.
i can relate. maybe a bit too much.
