Posts
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i wrote a song about you
I wrote a song about you, and I thought I'd always feel the way I did when I wrote that song.
But now I don't, and it's just...strange.
You didn't do anyhting to me. You're still the same person you always were. -
Blue Eyes Chapter 1
Note: This is a near-future sci-fi/dystopian novel I am writing called Blue Eyes. I decided to share the first chapter, hope you like it!
Emma -
falling
last year, i liked you so much
you filled my mind, my heart,
every doodle and imagining,
a faraway dream i knew i'd never reach
but i would try anyway.
i would stare at you
passing by me,
so effortlessly beautiful, -
random thoughts
sometimes i feel like you can just meet someone, like at school or in some other public environment, and you just know that they're going to be your friend. -
overcome
sadness
it comes to you
every so often
baring its teeth and sinking its claws into your skin
until you bleed all over the floor
your blood the taste of iron
and the salt of your tears.
sometimes so unexpected -
i found you
i found you
hidden in the dark,
your face blazing in the yellow glow of my flashlight.
your eyes staring,
blue-streaked green,
soft and hopeful.
i reached out my hand, and--
Loves
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I am a rotten mango
I've been seeing a lot of girls on Pinterest
With bodies that don't look like mine
And I don't look away, because they are beautiful--they are pictures I look for and want to see
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sleepaway #1
it rained the night of our arrival -
big, whooshing gasps of whitewashed rain & thunder that
shook heavy against the darkening skies. dinner went long.
we only sang louder, deafening echoes beneath the storm as
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Summer
the air tastes like honey and promise
sticky with the scent of blooming jasmine
and freshly cut grass that crunches beneath bare feet
the sky drips blue
stretching wider every afternoon
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ASHES AND BIRTHDAY CANDLES
your birthday was halo-lit nights and cigarettes in sugar cakes—
melted icing smeared over the tips of flames snuffed out in the dark.
you asked for a songbird, said your lungs were burnt with apocalypse dust
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living room record player
I'm six on the living room floor -
the pink album the pink album I chant -
dad puts the Supremes on the record player, the jacket handed to me -
pink, with three of the most beautiful women I've ever seen -
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Morning in Paris
It’s morning in Paris,
and the city still sleeps,
though the sun has long risen
and the cat has long been stretched in the light
that washes over the quiet courtyard.