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Literature Text
Trauma looks like my kitchen clock.
The hours,
minutes,
they are dead
and the second hand stutters,
heartbroken.
I imagine every inconsequential twitch
is a plea for the freedom
it will never see again.
When its futile heart finally gives out,
I won't try to fix the timepiece
because after all its wasted sufferings,
allowing again such a disjointed tic
would be a deeper level of cruelty.
The hours,
minutes,
they are dead
and the second hand stutters,
heartbroken.
I imagine every inconsequential twitch
is a plea for the freedom
it will never see again.
When its futile heart finally gives out,
I won't try to fix the timepiece
because after all its wasted sufferings,
allowing again such a disjointed tic
would be a deeper level of cruelty.
Literature
better half
My lover tells me: no
no, no
sweet love
not him
he doesn’t know your
favorite shoes or
the food
you raid the fridge for
when you’re finally home
again
sweet love
he cannot tell you
why it’s A-
sharp minor
that holds fistfuls
of your heartstrings
or
how many dimples
grace your face
when the smile is a
lie
he doesn’t know
that stretch of skin
low on your arm
that makes you catch your breath
or how to stroke
your hair at midnight
when bitter dreams
call colder tears
and love
he won’t ever know
just how to hold you
when the stardust in your veins
is bursting
and you cannot find relief
in chemical or pheromone
an
Literature
always half finished
i can tell you how much i loathe anyone or anything that lingers, even when they're beautiful. My anxiety disorder can't handle any of that. Yet it's been 1 year and 1 month and i'm still stuck in reverse.
nauseated is the prettiest emotion i've felt so far cause for once, i can see an actual physical rejection, rather than these invisible strings snapping on the inside, but never showing even a blemish on the outside.
my screams have begun to ferment as they remain bottled up in what i imagine to be gruesome-colored vials within the shelves of my intestines. each vial must be carrying individual, heart-straining yelps, yelling and sobs f
Literature
a different exploration
we talk about
astrology and ex lovers. the raspberries
dying in the heat, the way the water
bit our skin, the homeless man set out
to buy California, the center of our universe,
you. that feeling labelled “blah,”
and the notion I am not my own.
we leak questions
like overrun rivers, excess spillage,
draining curiosities about that tragic skeleton
balled up beneath your clothes.
and for you,
I’d travel the length between heartbeats,
shallow and vain like your promises,
your liquid eyes.
above all, we were lucky.
miracle children. one in ten,
one in a million, a pair of stragglers
in seven billion exempt from
clarity and u
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The prompt was "the second-hand of a clock" from =QuiEstInLiteris. The first few attempts were dreadful, until I remembered the poor clock behind me in the kitchen. It makes me sad to look at, as there is something dreadfully heartbreaking about a second-hand that tries to move forward, but can't.
Comments33
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Hello there, dear heart.
I've used this piece's title in my title poem over HERE: [link]
I hope you enjoy the read!
I've used this piece's title in my title poem over HERE: [link]
I hope you enjoy the read!