en routemy body is theen route by herbodyismycoffin
on main street;
my body is the
burnt hull of an
only now in repair;
my body is a
feeling of shame,
a pungent rot,
a score of roadkill
in half decay.
my body is migratory:
a flock of wearied birds,
a search for belonging,
the fat on my hips.
with too few windows
and a steep indoor climb,
my body is home.
The Crying Of BirdsI pluck their calls from the sky,The Crying Of Birds by Flutingspirit
Stuff them into my pocket like so many marbles.
Sometimes I cast them on the ground
And like runes they advise me,
Nudge me about things I already know.
Afterwards I’ll scoop them up and in cupped hands
Breathe gently into a cave of skin.
Then there will be music.
StrayMy fatherStray by saartha
alone in the white, white room.
This place, which is not empty
which was my fig leaf, my raison
seems small as a crab shell.
Enough for his back,
his hideous grief.
Little else. It is unforgivable
to leave him so little
to leave him, that dark body
in that blinding room.
an infinitesimal sibilancea wisp of a whisperan infinitesimal sibilance by alapip
remains in possessions
long after we're gone
things we create
or just treasure
faint echoes of others
faint echoes of us
llp - dA - oct2013
DD - jun03/2015
Throwback ThursdayYou know what I miss?Throwback Thursday by hopeburnsblue
The simple days
Of aimless buses and trains,
Like magic carpets
That helped us to escape,
If only for a little while.
I miss the endless walks
That led to hours of
Shopping center shenanigans--
Spinning in desk chairs,
Petting that little blind kitten,
And reading anything
From cheesy joke books
To Frost's melancholic verse.
I miss cheap deli lunches,
Discounted coffee house milkshakes, and
Midnight conversations on the swings
At your old elementary school,
With the moon so bright that
I could see your T-shirt.
Remember that time when, hot chocolate in hand,
We followed the sound
Of live fiesta music
Sailing on the hollow winter air
Until we nearly crashed
A Hispanic family's party?
Or what about the moments
Of heartbroken silence
When we discovered
The ruins of a piano
At the church
That was once your daycare?
I remember climbing, barefoot,
Halfway up Ricky's fence
To watch his illegal fireworks
And stealing Mom's car
In the dead of night,
Just for store-bought C
lady macbeth remembers her motheri was her kindling, my teethlady macbeth remembers her mother by injuredjaw
set the spark. all i do remember
is the trembling.
they say that once born, once raised to suckle
from my mother's flaccid breast,
i chewed so violently at the bit of life
that i brought blood.
they say that i would not be pulled away at first,
squalling like a small animal mangled,
pink petal lips demanding gore.
my mother's touch was gentle henceforth,
her fingers ghosted with flour
twirling themselves in my hair.
she held me as a dove. an egg.
she supposed love could cure me,
serve a balm to the black devil warts
on my soul. here, a spot of sunshine.
here, the grains of sugar held out to me
on her fingertip. she called me angel
and found the shrunken bodies of the flowers
uprooted. she called me precious
and found the mice, fetal and unblinking,
underneath my pillow.
her love might have worked,
had i not seen, each time she turned,
each time her eyes first found me in a room,
the glassy fear that she then tucked away inside her
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you can't erase me
like an incorrect answer.
I have started to learn
that being wrong
taste it like honey
at the back of your throat,
embrace it the way
your spine would embrace
your mattress after a long, tiring day.
you cannot rub it away;
this is our natural tattoo.
engrave it on your skin,
that the path you walk
is forever under construction.
the important thing
is that we keep building.
we have an instinct to fight.
not long ago
I may have compared humans
to intricate things like roses,
but now I think
we are stronger than that.
call us white blood cells.
we do not rest.
our battles are internal and infinite,
and our conquests are
the beast that defeats us
is the final one,
and we will not go down
without leaving our opponent
scrape your knees
with the shards of your broken heart.
at times you may feel like you want to.
but hearts are not made of glass,
and no poetic metaphor
will make i
The sound of my breathing,
a heaving of waves against a desolate rock,
punctuates the morning light -
an island entire of itself -
churning proud stone into an ocean of sand.
She peers tentatively through
jagged crag shades half-lidded with
broken eyelash window panes
collecting house fly delusions
as they tap against a glass illusion of freedom
(window? or ceiling?)
A rhythmic tap-tap-taping
that only a mother can love
enough to smother.
I had placed those shades to keep
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