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Literature Text
i am a spinster, a classic fable
spinning away with my needles
folded neatly in my hands.
i sew hearts just to rip them apart
at the seams all undone.
too much poison.
the soldiers fed me too much dirt
and lies so i've been hiding them
between my crooked teeth
with the lords and ladies of
endless pasts collapsible into a
paragraph, a word, a letter.
i need a different kind of letter.
indian summer has its way with you
when you use it for your work.
it swallows you and will drag
you back into freeze if you look
away long enough.
i am a spinster,
not even a widow, no young to
carry in my mouth to spit out over a cookfire.
she never felt herself or human without
a boy attached to her arm, fumbling with her limbs
and putting her back together only to pull her
apart again at the joints.
reminiscent of my stitched hearts,
except they like to chew off the flesh
and me i like to pretend.
we pour poison into our glasses because
there's nothing else to do
and bodies are disposable
shred-able as paper.
even when i've married three men
and thrown them away
i'll still be a spinster,
still sewing my crooked hearts
to every dead chest.
but who will sew mine?
spinning away with my needles
folded neatly in my hands.
i sew hearts just to rip them apart
at the seams all undone.
too much poison.
the soldiers fed me too much dirt
and lies so i've been hiding them
between my crooked teeth
with the lords and ladies of
endless pasts collapsible into a
paragraph, a word, a letter.
i need a different kind of letter.
indian summer has its way with you
when you use it for your work.
it swallows you and will drag
you back into freeze if you look
away long enough.
i am a spinster,
not even a widow, no young to
carry in my mouth to spit out over a cookfire.
she never felt herself or human without
a boy attached to her arm, fumbling with her limbs
and putting her back together only to pull her
apart again at the joints.
reminiscent of my stitched hearts,
except they like to chew off the flesh
and me i like to pretend.
we pour poison into our glasses because
there's nothing else to do
and bodies are disposable
shred-able as paper.
even when i've married three men
and thrown them away
i'll still be a spinster,
still sewing my crooked hearts
to every dead chest.
but who will sew mine?
Literature
the ghost
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
because I am a ghost and yet
I sit on my hands and wonder
where you've been -
I walk the forest in circles,
the methodical crunch
of leaves beneath my feet
and I remember
that you made me feel small,
and alone. here I am, facing
this brilliant hue that is me and myself
and I am the ghost but somehow
you are haunting me.
Literature
Lightbulb
How many times do you have to
screw with my head
around like
an electric socket that goes to a lightbulb until it goes dead
from so much exhaustion of always having to"stay on"
for a faulty parallel circuit that just gives in
to the slightest trigger that touches its brim
copper wires wrapped around power that is trying to glow
Why are you hiding me in a restrictive shallow sheath skin
when I'm trying to grow
all I want is to feel complete in a formation
that travels like traffic, paving a way
for my electrons to scurry like the information I have to retain
that shock me in the brain
that mold ideas and thoughts that
awfully hurt me
Literature
the trees change
soft gray sunset
fluttering limbs like trunks in the breeze
banana leafs shuffle,
a yellow-green wave
dyed with the thought of rain
the blue of cloud and steel holding back
the bowl of blackberries and milk, a teaspoon of sugar
crosshatched where the birch-hairs twine
in overlapping lines scrawled above
the white bodies turn brown
stretched from molten crucible
into blown gestures
faint suggestions to the wind
the upside-down birdcages
unfurl near the brim
their arms splitting and
growing barbs like battle maces
when the leaves carve away
the paper bark shivers,
leafs, electric on the stem
the shadow from the trunk bleeds
and stains the b
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Comments18
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Hm, how intriguing.