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Literature Text
I want to tell her the things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
this fourteen-year-old
now woman,
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
this fourteen-year-old
now woman,
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
Literature
what we're not supposed to talk about
I could make a story out of
this. The blackout epiphanies
blinding me like a total eclipse
of any sense of rationality I ever
stole out from my parents' blind spots
when they turned the other way. The
boy I fell half in love with and
my therapist's unassuming questions
about why he was different, the way I
was never beautiful to him but he
still looked me in my bokeh eyes,
betraying and quiet, so that was enough.
My vain addiction to anything
permanently damaging and
more or less glamorous. The dreams
I can’t swallow no matter what shade
of delusion they come in, about
the imminent death of stars named
after deader lovers, and place
Literature
this won't end up as a suicide note
there aren’t enough moments
to love you, or words
in the English language to call you
beautiful. there aren’t enough
heartbeats in me to dedicate you
something you might deserve.
you can no longer lie.
a vengeful earthquake births itself inside
your unkind frame-- bones and skin and
muscle knotted together as an attempt
at something durable; but when you scream,
you don’t wake up. your world
collapses in mounting seconds. words
are a currency and you are
finally rich. you have lived
in the mouths of ghosts for so long
that you can walk through walls;
you aren’t here, you’re choking
on other planets from a
Literature
Kore
when they pass me by
i cannot help but thank aphrodite for
the miracle that
is women.
for we have stars embedded
in our flesh and hellfire
burning in our eyes. we are
immortal. we are infinite.
we are celestial. we are
the penumbras that rip into
your feeble heart and the golden
dreams that make you wish
that you had been born to
a different universe.
we are persephone;
we are hecate.
some days and
most nights, i close my
eyes and imagine her—
the girl whose tongue
tastes like poetry and whose lips
bless me with a thousand
curses.
and by all the goddesses,
was sappho right when she was
awed by her splendor.
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Another collaboration with the incredibly wonderful Nichrysalis, because we're cool like that.
This is a rather deep and touchy subject; I'd appreciate it if you all keep any drama out of the comments. If you're going to comment or argue or whatever, don't ATTACK people with your words please. Keep it cool, okay?
Things I Would Tell HerI want to tell her things
I'll tell her when she’s older,
but the information terrifies her.
In order of importance:
she has luna moths in her head,
monarch butterflies in her stomach,
and a feral fetus in her womb.
Her hands
are collapse-clasped and folded
in her lap;
she holds her elbows like wings
away from her ribs,
ready to flap,
to flutter,
to fly.
I want to tell her
to keep one hand in her purse
so she can always find her keys,
to keep an eye on the door
and the door always open
so she can run if she doesn't feel safe,
but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch red
and the tension in her shoulders
warns me she's not ready
to hear this.
And there is the possibility that
maybe I’m not ready to tell
this fourteen-year-old
now woman,
I’m just as devastated as her;
that she is surrounded by friends and family
who are violated by a community
where no man can say yes all men.
June 27th, 2014
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