Posts
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An audition
when she sang, she sang a rhapsody
tender words that arced across the room on golden strings
like her un-brushed curls that flew in the wind
from the open window behind her.
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the last day of march
Mud mingling with snow mingling with dirt,
the remnants of red nail polish from
Valentine's Day,
how has it lasted so long?
The sun a hot fiery ball over the cloud-speckled horizon,
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Good news
I don't want the cold hallways,
their chill seeping underneath
my thin regulation gown and settling in my bones.
I don't want the nurses,
with their tight, sympathetic smiles
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Us
I cling to the rollicking waves of our tumultuous friendship before they slip from my grasp, white-knuckled fingers and tangled legs praying not to be tossed astray by the unforgiving current.
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The back of the bus
They sit in the back of the bus,
the shimmer of secrecy ignited in their eyes,
her head in his lap, his hands in her hair,
her lips twisted in that sickening smile. My neck aches
from looking behind me, and my
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Rehearsal
We're backstage, giddy with nerves and
tired out of our minds, whisper-laughing as we mess
with our hair, with each other, try to put on makeup in the dark.
Loves
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Rain Running
My watch did not enjoy my run in the rain.
This morning before the other humans had stirred,
I woke to the ringing of an alarm that was not my own,
and saw the irresistible rain.
Now my watch doesn't tell the date.
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Take a Moment
To you
you who lives among our rainbow hills--
green one moment
orange the next
and always blue in the distance--
you who lives along a river
you who lives looking into sunsets
you and you
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the ending
I'm finishing the story,
How can it be true?
I'm nearing the end;
There is no future to see.
It doesn't feel real
But it is—it's all going to be over.
Months it's been since this world's been right,
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I love you
-Can I tell you something?
(I have a secret, and I am dying to tell you.)
-Yeah, anything.
-I love you.
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poppies are the color of blood
this president can turn even the solemnest of holidays into an opportunity to say whatever he wants. the gravestones crumble in their fields of poppies listening to him speak. all uppercase. all lies.
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amnesia
wrap your laced-up fingers around my throat like you don’t want to breathe,
hold my pupils in your palms. do you want to smile?
amnesia. the brain doesn’t like the watercolour poem of my skeletal frame,