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Literature
how to tell me my scars are beautiful.
leave roses with thorns on my stairwell, the kind
that would entice me when i was fourteen but now
serve as silent irritation—when we eat steak, use
your thinnest, sharpest knife to cleave the meat
into tiny squares and let me watch you wash it
and put it away when you’re done—open your
packages with your trusty pocket knife, peter
pan boy scout, and when i move in, let me
borrow it; don’t question the t-shirts i order
in winter and the sweatshirts i order during the
sweltering heat of summer—when i lay beside you
at night and talk about the state of the universe
that day, nibble on my ear, scratch my arm, sl
Literature
letters on leaving.
i wrote my first suicide letter in 10th grade.
they told me it didn't count if you felt like dying
unless you had it down on paper
like a vetoed birth certificate.
i've rewritten it enough times since
to realize i could never leave with a proper goodbye.
goodbye is too heavy a word for paper to hold
and i was never brave enough for the kind of courage it takes to tell them
why.
why they weren't enough to keep me here.
but i'm finally learning a different kind of bravery-
the kind it takes to
stay.
stay.
i learned to wear death
like rope burn my junior year
my senior year we became friends
but i finally stopped cutting the insides of wrist
Literature
drowning with him
there’s this boy i work with.
he is five.
he wears long sleeves
and shorts with holes in them
that are only kept together with
small clothespins and thin threads.
his hair is always cut close
to his skin, though his bangs are left
just long enough so it covers his eyes
and i know no one can see them.
but i always watch him.
only sometimes i will allow myself
to watch over someone else, even though i know
this boy will only continue to follow me.
he asks me to play,
he asks me to speak,
and sometimes, he even asks me
to hold his hand.
they are always cold and strong,
with calluses and chipped nails
that dig rough into my skin,
and
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i had an anxiety attack in the middle of notetaking in creative writing and then this happened idk
this kid is killing me and i am a mess
this kid is killing me and i am a mess
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Comments7
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only you know how to break my heart so