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Literature Text
love words
hide behind
my teeth like
stolen pennies
stashed under
my tongue until
the taste leeches
into my blood
like the poison
of your
forgetting
I swallow
them
bitter
little pills
burning like
bad liquor
that turn
my heart
to ash
hide behind
my teeth like
stolen pennies
stashed under
my tongue until
the taste leeches
into my blood
like the poison
of your
forgetting
I swallow
them
bitter
little pills
burning like
bad liquor
that turn
my heart
to ash
Literature
fingers dialing
I wrote a letter and buried it in the dirt. I wrote it for the tree's unraveling roots- just wanted to let them know that sometimes being awake isn't enough. I needed them to know that my mind is based on a story about a broken hand, and what goes on in my brain is not a rush of words, but rather a headache of loud sounds. and speaking is nothing more than these sounds falling out through my teeth. I needed to stop dreaming about losing my head and floating away. so this is me finalizing all things, saying I know I'm on the right track when I'm tied down and a train is coming. this is me screaming into a telephone, whispering that I'm scared
Literature
our sleeping patterns collide.
I wake up tired.
I wake up tired and it's afternoon again.
I wake up tired and I am alone.
It's like every night i fall asleep with you on my mind, and I quickly sort through my thoughts leaving the prettiest ones on top so I can try them on in the morning. So everyday, I wake up and try on being in love with you. Except every morning, it's three inches too big or a centimeter and a half too small or it's brushing my kneecaps like it's too long. But I wear it anyways, since I'm used to being a shade left of ordinary or two steps past crazy. I'm used to wearing love and I'm used to you.
I'm used to falling asleep next to you and waking up
Literature
we are swimmers
think about it- you're not who you think you are, and you're surrounded by silent bodies and their loud, loud thoughts. you're wondering who has punched their girlfriends tonight, who wants to rip out your lungs, and who wants to grab you by the hair and tell you that your head is going to burst, that your fingers will fall off. you're staring at the people with circles under their eyes, and you're wondering which ones are high, which ones are ill, and which ones are just tired. one of them mutters something, and you look at the bits of blood tangled in his teeth as you say, "I'm not depressed, just tired."
think about it- you're in a room w
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