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Literature Text
he told me that
he didn’t want to be married in a church because
churches were too holy and he was
probably going to hell anyway,
and he was probably scared of a
god that never answered his prayers and shit.
he didn’t want to be married anyway,
even though his
girlfriend of two years turned fiancee
within a couple months of knowing me.
i wonder if they’re gonna get married or not.
i wonder if they’re gonna start the
family never wanted. or at least that's
what he told me.
i wonder if she’s gonna be the blushing bride-
no wait,
that’s me,
because she was always a strong character and i was not.
she drew hearts on her cheek even though
i don’t believe she had one and
he just ate it up like it was heroin.
heroin
hero-in
you were never my hero, you were
never the hero. i had to save myself.
but anyway,
he told me if he was anything,
it was a villain, and i told him that
there's no such things as villains because villains never
think that they are villains and i guess
that should've told me that he was up
to no good. he was out to hurt me.
he told me he never meant to hurt me.
and so i ask,
"was he a bad person?" the boy who
is helping cradle the roots that is
my heart said that he didn't really know.
but then later his voice stuttered and he said yeah,
because it was a decision; it was a decision to hurt me.
i wonder if he ever told her about me.
maybe he likes black curls instead of bleached waves.
maybe he likes tall, voluptuous figures
rather than short, curvy girls.
maybe he likes deep, knowing women, not
girls who still ask "why?"
but her eyes were the same as mine:
rich and brown and sad.
he didn’t want to be married in a church because
churches were too holy and he was
probably going to hell anyway,
and he was probably scared of a
god that never answered his prayers and shit.
he didn’t want to be married anyway,
even though his
girlfriend of two years turned fiancee
within a couple months of knowing me.
i wonder if they’re gonna get married or not.
i wonder if they’re gonna start the
family never wanted. or at least that's
what he told me.
i wonder if she’s gonna be the blushing bride-
no wait,
that’s me,
because she was always a strong character and i was not.
she drew hearts on her cheek even though
i don’t believe she had one and
he just ate it up like it was heroin.
heroin
hero-in
you were never my hero, you were
never the hero. i had to save myself.
but anyway,
he told me if he was anything,
it was a villain, and i told him that
there's no such things as villains because villains never
think that they are villains and i guess
that should've told me that he was up
to no good. he was out to hurt me.
he told me he never meant to hurt me.
and so i ask,
"was he a bad person?" the boy who
is helping cradle the roots that is
my heart said that he didn't really know.
but then later his voice stuttered and he said yeah,
because it was a decision; it was a decision to hurt me.
i wonder if he ever told her about me.
maybe he likes black curls instead of bleached waves.
maybe he likes tall, voluptuous figures
rather than short, curvy girls.
maybe he likes deep, knowing women, not
girls who still ask "why?"
but her eyes were the same as mine:
rich and brown and sad.
Literature
under the unders
lately i’ve been under the unders,
which is to say lately i’ve been hosting the ghosts
of everything i’ve ever loved and that silence gets to you,
you know, it tears you like the idea of something horrific
and before you know it, your entire existence is
a fresco of maybes and apologies and snapped skulls
and by snapped skulls, i am alluding to the notion that this sterile noise,
this silence, drives you crazy. once, a man told me that boredom
has its holy uses and i laughed at him and the rush of nostalgia
that immediately followed was the worst melancholy,
let me tell you, it was like feeling each of your trillio
Literature
Aftershocks
In the dark of the cemetery,
I feed my troubles to ghosts--
a complaint about fickle muses
to Wyoming's Poet Laureate circa 1992
falls on deaf ears;
he's too busy wailing rhymes
over his wife's silent grave
to hear about the silence circling my veins.
A story or two about my health
is given to a doctor who passed three years ago;
he haunts the oldest sections he can find
in his stethoscope pajamas.
Tonight, he diagnoses the cracks
in the headstones. An improvement.
Mostly, he measures his own pulse
and mutters to himself.
Sometimes, a pair of knights on painted stallions
rush each other from across the hills--
the clash of the impact they n
Literature
the anticlimax
snapshot of a stained-glass tsunami
changing its mind
hanging over the coastal town
and retreating to its kennel
swimmers see beginnings
of a rainbow
its baby rattle of a roar
swarovski
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a companion piece to "bone brittle" because i don't write sequels
i write continuity through my pieces, not just a continuation.
i write continuity through my pieces, not just a continuation.
© 2014 - 2024 A-Lovely-Anxiety
Comments14
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I just love the ending here.