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Literature
comatose.
i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
homesick.
--
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an
Literature
we play sappho says in the morning
don’t tell anyone about the curve of her neck. the jagged ends of her hair. how she expects you to think with her & how easy it is. how you shared lecture notes that day & couldn’t stop thinking about her hands. don’t tell anyone about the gasoline dreams and the way your heartbeat changes for her, and her alone. don’t tell anyone how the day only really begins when she smiles at you. try and look away. try and look away. you’re not an angel, you’re just a girl with moth wings & a moth brain, and she’s the sun and you can’t keep away and you’re burning with it. no icarus metaphor here. jus
Literature
III.
her name was Atlantis; her doctor
said she drowned herself
in an ocean of sadness
by downing the bottle
of salt-water on
the bedside table.
(i think she was only lost, Sir,
i think she was just trying to
find her way back home.)
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*drops dead*