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Literature Text
and i'm sitting here
slathered in water droplets and
a bright light about to
meet my skull.
the concrete
ground breaking into
fourteen hundred hundred pieces.
the rain isn't rain anymore because
it’s stopping two inches
before it
hits the ground
and my ankles are dry but
the rest of me isn't because my mom
always told me never to get
my feet wet so i don’t catch
a cold.
and i'm only fourteen
episodes in and my
shoulders are too bony and
my fingers never touch
the broken bones scattered across the
bathroom tiles. i let a
broken machine control
my life and every single goddamn
day it disappoints me. numbers
can’t be low enough but
they only go lower and
lower. i’ve been
searching and waiting for the right words
to be written on the page
but all that comes out is scribbles.
my life a lie and i’m the one telling it.
slathered in water droplets and
a bright light about to
meet my skull.
the concrete
ground breaking into
fourteen hundred hundred pieces.
the rain isn't rain anymore because
it’s stopping two inches
before it
hits the ground
and my ankles are dry but
the rest of me isn't because my mom
always told me never to get
my feet wet so i don’t catch
a cold.
and i'm only fourteen
episodes in and my
shoulders are too bony and
my fingers never touch
the broken bones scattered across the
bathroom tiles. i let a
broken machine control
my life and every single goddamn
day it disappoints me. numbers
can’t be low enough but
they only go lower and
lower. i’ve been
searching and waiting for the right words
to be written on the page
but all that comes out is scribbles.
my life a lie and i’m the one telling it.
Literature
Bulimia Nervosa
Does mother notice my visits to the bathroom
Have become more frequent of late?
And how they always seem to be after meal times
When with my parents I’ve just ate
Does she stand in the hall outside the bathroom
With her ear pressed against the door?
Wondering why the tap is running so fast
And what I’ve flushed the toilet twice for
Has she seen all of the empty sweet wrappers
Hidden under my bed when she cleans?
Does she fully understand the significance
Of what this behaviour actually means?
Is purge even a word in her vocabulary
To which she’s able to define?
Does she believe my words or my sunken eyes
When I insist
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
Literature
Bad Habits
S.
She always rubs her mouth,
like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.
Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.
Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.
Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.
Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fall
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yeah this doesn't make sense.
© 2013 - 2024 ghearradh
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