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I.
in the dip of my throat,
in the maze behind my nose,
something starts to turn.
and the bittersweet burn
is (c)older than a star
and it builds from within.

this time, when it happens,
i sink in so quickly,
i admit defeat.
it's as if all the dust
from all my little craters just
gathered up and pinched
something shut; and it
stings like a spice when
the tethers are cut.


II.
i lean and sip
from ocean, pour
a bit of sea into
me. i taste salt,
i froth foam, i make
waves that lap at
my lips and dance
over the closed holes
in the depths of my
neck.

and if this sickness is
the sand i hope this
lukewarm water can
wash away every grain,
i feel like someone sets
a sailboat in my mouth
every time i tilt my
head back and let
the tides turn again.


III.
i swallow slick capsules of
little plants, kissed by
the sun. and each one
of them weighs
tons when they flutter to
the bottom of my stomach
and gently dissolve, leaving
my raw throat just more
swollen out. my eyes feel
like planets compressed to
the sizes of marbles. i run my
fingertips over my lymph
nodes and they (cl/n)early
roll; i wonder how
i never noticed.

whole forests sprout in me
as i scrape myself towards
sleep, and i can almost
picture the black- and elder-
berries and the olive leaves
swaying in my dreams. and
it's a wonder anything can
grow now
when i
am so
empty.


IV.
there is a sinusoidal
itching thick in me; i
blow storms to life and
rain again again again and
the sick tastes stale and
it's a wonder that my
tendons can tenderly lift my head.

i respin the story of the
hell of a body in the
hull of a boat torn with
holes and the burning of the
estate exiled by the sea and
my claim is strong but i am
manderley, weak and uneasy
with fragility. i crave recovery
by the next time i walk
through the door; i've
forgotten how it feels
to breathe (cl/d)early
anymore.
me: (catches a cold unexpectedly four days before A Really Big Thing happens) (stays up until 2 in the morning sneezing uncontrollably and uploading poetry about being instead of getting much-needed sleep)

hi im pea and im the illest poet u Ever have met. haha ahaahah get it wow that was so funny!!!!!! im rotting its fine
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:iconslenderblade:
slenderblade Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2016
hey sleepyhead
i think your mind wrote more than your fingers in the "walk through door" part :hug:

ok but anyway

this concept you've conveyed has floored me. i love it i love it i love it!

i just want to soak this poem into my very being. every bit of it. i want it in my ears, behind my eyes, between my skin and muscles, and coiling in my marrow.

gah

ok poem squee complete

really excellent job here, pea :hug:
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:iconpeaseblossoms:
peaseblossoms Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
you're the best ian!!!! thank you so much for loving this poem!!!
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:iconpeaseblossoms:
peaseblossoms Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
also the stuff in the final stanza about the body in the boat is a direct reference to rebecca by daphne du maurier (one of my favorite books) which i spent 9 hours writing an essay about today. also im so tired that i just typed "boat" as "bote" i need to go to sleep im going to be a wreck in the morning
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:iconxxflamefrost101xx:
XxFlameFrost101xX Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh my gosh I've just been in Cornwall and I went to Jamaica in and reading this I thought abt Rebecca I kid u not 
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Submitted on
September 10, 2016
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