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  1. 8 points
    waxen citrine sunlight turns our eyes to tinted crystal from the side, they look evil- not like i'll destroy half the universe and call it mercy evil, more like i'll slice you down to marrow with a smile we sit on bottle green park benches three girls, with nihilism seared into our cerebrum (someday, our generation will get a better name) laughing into the golden hour around the peridot-hued grass is cold under bare feet, so unlike the tar lines in the road we sing hallelujah as we walk home harmony melting into the pavement and into our hearts
  2. 6 points
    let's endeavor to be soft and round like the warmest muffin, the sweetest marshmallow; place her on your tongue and she tastes like confidence. let's lift up her soft spots and give them a trophy tell her that flight is free of gravity that her size is not detriment to soaring through the stratosphere. dress her in jean shorts and a crop top. belly button showing and thighs bared to the world; look at her stretch marks, proudly displayed, inked in sharpie look at her hips, round and powerful imagine your hands are full and you need to close your car door. there you go, swing those hips! sometimes her reflection transforms into hideous monstrosity, into too much flesh; sometimes she hides beneath sweatshirt and blanket, does not bear her roundness well this is when she needs you the most; your reassurance, your warm touches: i love your roundness, your softness, how good you feel to hug. let's place her on a stage and encourage her to dance let's praise those thighs that jiggle, that stomach that spills let's find the laws of physics in those hips and that presence is like a hurricane let's teach her she's a force of nature and that nothing can move her let's teach her to love herself in her entirety.
  3. 5 points
    Logan suggested that I make a Logan-esque post about my experience making snow cones for 30 kids...Here we go. Hot college girl that my aunt and uncle hired almost made me out myself. Holy shit, she was really hot. I burned some sugar on the cotton candy machine. It turns out it was missing a part and never worked again, even when we got the missing part. Whoops. Little kids do not. Forgive. When you say there's going to be cotton candy but it doesn't work out. However, if you offer unlimited snow cones, they'll forget about it for a little while. The unknown red colored flavoring was a favorite. Something about the red dye? Hot College Girl knows my sister. She's too old for me, lowering my risk of outing myself anytime soon. Little kids will back up twenty steps if it means getting their snow cones. Even the ones that can't count. To little kids, short hair+cargo shorts = guy. I didn't correct them. Not once. Why do little kids like scaring frogs? Frogs are just sunbathing. No need to scare them. Let them sunbathe for christs sake put down the stick say douche bag one more time and not only will I not give you anymore snow cones but I'll ban you from the bouncy house you 5th grade piece of shit Yes, 11th grade is a lot harder than 1st grade Ran out of the paper cups, so I gave a kid a plastic one that came with the maker with instructions to give it back. No one ever saw it again. One 3rd grade girl came with an iphone. She got a minimal amount of cotton candy and left the party. One kid kept looking for drinks in the cooler of ice for the machine. There was a polite little smartass of a 4 year old who forgot where the front door was. I wanted to babysit him so bad but he lives in a different state. His sister came back to the machine like 5 times. I had to tell 5 kids "No, don't touch the machine. This is my job. Yours is to have fun" I stumbled. My mom laughed and asked "Too much to drink?" I replied, having made snow cones for hyperactive kids for the past three hours, completely deadpan "Not enough to drink" My 2 year old cousin made me chase him for two hours straight after the party was over. I am never going to be an elementary school teacher. @drowntown is very helpful in keeping what's left of my sanity.
  4. 5 points
    infinity must be shades of blue war paint old brushes flutter over forearms fingers sweep across jawlines in groups of three drips of royal rain collapse down necklines drizzle into hair (stained further as we card our hands through) legs are pressed by palms handprints left as memory streaks of darker-than-sky swatches bridging wrists ocean-dipped fingertips tangle drying paint coats the curves of our necks a second splintering skin splattered inverse stars freckle cheeks stretched by grins lips half-touched by blue
  5. 5 points
    i miss when everything was an achievement when getting out of bed was not a responsibility and things did not start at 6:00 AM i miss when friends were just playground buddies and bathroom partners gossip was just crushes and not who just killed themselves or who is high right now and where can i get some of that i miss when we called hanging out play dates, when we played make believe because we wanted to, and not because we are afraid of real life
  6. 4 points
    i. find a subject. it can be life or death or nature, emotion, love, pain— pick something. ii. get out your paints. your alizarin red your yellow ochre your ultramarine blue iii. paint me a sunset. paint me your pain, your love— paint me a sensation. iv. realize your subject changed. it's fine. perhaps this was intended. v. write on parchment with old black quill. scritch-scratch of metal end of paper, words forming in loops and lines— condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet. twenty-six letters to paint a universe. vi. name it. name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'. or, perhaps— do not name it at all. leave the outside of the envelope blank. let it be a surprise. vii. press your lips to the seal. this will mark it yours for eternity. even without your name, it will hold your essence— and your essence goes beyond your dna. viii. nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. make a deal with the fairy queen. 'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk. and though you may think you are alone— someone is listening. ix. 'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.' 'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable: 'but it is yours. of course it is good.' x. breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn— bid the old beggar goodbye. your mark is made— immortality is at your fingertips.
  7. 4 points
    I caught the paper not seeing the paint opposite you laughed when I scowled when I swiped at you with yellow fingertips you dodged you asked me to teach you a game you said you had never learned so we started slowly right clap left clap both back clap and again right clap right clap left clap left clap faster now both back clap both back clap you stumbled I laughed that time I said we could stop only if you wanted you insisted we keep going And so again right clap right clap right clap keeping time with raindrops left clap left clap left clap It’s easier to smile when you are, too both back clap both back clap both back clap and I can make eye contact but you stay focused on making our hands touch right clap right clap right clap right clap your hair falls in your face slightly into your eyes I brush my own hair away without breaking pace left clap left clap left clap left clap you shake your head at me both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap You ask to keep going I step to the side out of the way I hold out my hands right clap right clap right clap right clap right clap I nearly miss half distracted you call me out with every syllable of my name you can remember left clap left clap left clap left clap left clap I reply with every syllable of yours You asked if I knew your middle name David, isn’t it? You shook your head said something in Hebrew that most certainly was not a name I must have looked stunned because you laughed again Yeah. It’s David. both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap both back clap You grabbed my hands before we could keep going not anything affectionate You said we had done it perfectly I said you’d only just learned the game and in a moment you had let go you had seen the yellow paint that stained your hands now, too I wonder if you washed me off with the yellow note: fuck fuckity fuck I don’t like feelings how do people cope
  8. 4 points
    you let her slip into your brain with her stupid shining hair (that you know is just dirty blonde but looks like shimmering gold to you) and her stupid voice like melted butter so soft and sweet and lovely and that stupid laugh like bells (you feel strange describing her like this because that's how authors talk in books but there's no better way) and plus her stupid stupid eyes the stupidest part of all that you hate the most (those stupid stupid eyes gazing velvet soft blue satin dark and light and all the colors of a summer sky) with stars in them and all the brightness of the world stupid, stupid, stupid.
  9. 4 points
    the most ridiculous thing about realizing you’re probably a lesbian is that it’s also the first time that your heart pounds really, really fast like lightning strikes flying out of your body when you see a boy, not because you think he’s hot but because he’s gay. too. he’s gay too, and you’ve talked about Love, Simon together (you told him how you cried 3 times) he’s gay too, and you forget to agree with him when he calls other guys cute (because it’s so exhausting to trick yourself into saying something you know you’ll never actually believe) he’s gay too, and when you make a comment in English class about how hypocritical biblically driven homophobia is when you talk about Oscar Wilde in class (you blush too hard and stumble and stutter over your words too much) you're afraid he did a double take from the desk behind you, gaydar: on insecurity: detected you: gay it’s not like you’re even really friends- you don’t wave to each other in the hallway because to be honest he’s a little intimidating (and you’re 95% sure he does drugs, and even if it’s just weed you’re 500% sure you don’t want to get mixed up in that) and you’re a nerd and you don’t like his popular-ish friends (they’re snobby, and this comes from experience) but still, these are the lightning strikes you can finally point out in dark, dark blue skies and lean back, laughing at how stupid and blind you were before for thinking the fires you tried to start out of a broken matchbox and fear could ever compare to a wonderfully platonic feeling of not being alone.
  10. 3 points
    here, in these heavy, yellow-bellied clouds swelled with the storm, pleased by the weight unraveled & mouthy comes thunder where spindle-weak fences pin down the hills & the hills let them, & the winds scream praises, & the barbed wires rename themselves please small suns dot the gaps between lightning fingers & the sky sobs yellow-green, like the stomach of a frog here, under these dripping prayers, sweetgrass laid limp over itself and dew-shining, i ride my bike to the end of the sidewalk & that, where the rain peels itself up from the concrete humid for the sunlight, greek iris in prosper & that, where i stop propped on one foot that is what love tastes like
  11. 3 points
    there is an entire science to the tectonic plates. but we are not continents, so why are you so far away?
  12. 3 points
    hewwo everyone! im doing alright and im feeling pretty safe bc my decoy worked and since my dad thinks it's broken im going to get it out of the house and say i threw it out...my qpp stella has my working phone so it's 100% safe and i hope i can get back to you guys soon. also i have silly art of my polycule to show u guys soon sdhskjdgksjdfs
  13. 3 points
    i. drunken bees dip and bow through blueing twilight and past solar-powered pseudo-suns gilded flickering wings ii. toeing the sunset lines stars lift borrowed light from topaz-yellow honeycomb iii. may tastes like summer's first kiss like pirouetting barefoot from tar line to tar line to streetside curb like bolting through the forest heels kicking up and out as if they don't touch the ground at all may tastes like things might be okay iv. and after the rain falls, all that glitters is gold.
  14. 3 points
    So I went to the clouds and hails sprung down down clatters rock solid tiny pebbles of ice! On the windshield they hit like golf balls Oh but they are small bouncing like glass beads And then they're gone! melted sublimated I can't tell And then they're gone. Just the drizzle of a lazy rain and stuffy air. Note: Wrote this with the rules that I couldnt go back and fix anything or think about the next line for too long. Feel free to make critiques and suggestions. -Hydralio
  15. 3 points
    maybe it's the way jasmine coats string lights coat rooms with the magenta you feel humming under your skin or maybe it's the way you fill the space between him with galaxies like puppets strung from your fingertips i don't understand your effervescent feeling, the sight sound smell touch taste you have come to crave so much or how your name rolls off my tongue like skinny jeans cuffed high on a summer afternoon maybe that's why i didn't bother making a rhyme scheme, or why alliteration failed me this time i really fucking like you. the end. author's note: this is just a thing i wrote about my boyfriend in 10 minutes, idk
  16. 3 points
    My teacher just threw a field trip form at me and I didn't realize I'd caught it between two fingers until he said "damn. Nice catch."
  17. 3 points
    @queenie_flower in a sense @drowntown die @Connor not exactly so basically the answer is jess is incapable of telling the difference between liking someone as a potential friend or as a potential romantic interest and it's frustrating
  18. 3 points
  19. 3 points
    i wrote so much about you, my love, and like the timeless greeks, i compared you to marble and the gods, and i deified you so much that when i think about your name, i do not know who you are and I know i said i was over you but, i am bad at quitting things and as much as i hate it, i am weak willed, my love, and like wicked ivy, the gorgeous idea of you has trapped me in a firm embrace, and i am running out of oxygen. author's note: back on my bullshit
  20. 2 points
    there's something about brand new bright red converse that just instills confidence in a person
  21. 2 points
    I want to write something real, Something worth more than Dark doorways and empty rooms, Broken light bulbs that will never glow again. I’m stuck in the gear rooms, The wheelhouse and all the springs and screws Are rusted shut, but it’s like I thought I could keep them turning. We’re both running Out of time and memory and the words Are only echoes now. I know time weathers all things but I thought that my parchment Would never turn yellow, curl up at the edges, That the ink would never dry. I’m trying too hard To bring the words back, make them sound good Against each other and flow like rivers Or maybe magic, until they reach an end. Then maybe I can rest, assured Because I’ll have written something That has a meaning And isn’t only soulless noise.
  22. 2 points
    when do prayers become bedtime stories, when do holidays become histories? when is candlelight a memory? why must star necklace become a weapon? why do i nail blue glass to wood frame, and do it because i feel i have something to prove? (why do open doors become silent thieves, why must i resent what i should welcome? when does adopted bird become unwelcome cuckoo, resting in my nest of sparrows?) that song is a call above— rather, it is a history. i open my arms and welcome you, but inside i ask myself cruel, unfair questions. there are my ancestors, heads bowed in forbidden temples. where are your ancestors? where is your history? i clutch my necklace and my histories and i cannot stop the beat of my heart that turns your words into lies. why must your presence turn me into the liar? (this is not a torah but a history book. this is not a religion but an identity. i am defensive of that which i should not be, there is bitterness in my welcomes.) i wish i could greet you warmly. (i am sorry that i cannot.)
  23. 2 points
    let my walls crumble even if I am tossed beneath the columns the rubble of what I was once constructed of the remains of my potential, all my what-ifs and coulds and shoulds red-smeared marble is impure crumpled; unnatural in texture corinthian carvings etched onto my skull for now I see through the glass darkly and commaless phrases only add my dearest to my destruction of structure the demolition of myself from the inside daggers wedged below my skin since childhood cloaked phrases swim below the surface there is beauty in destruction in pain in ruins no candles to light the way to the top sparks must come from somewhere else one by night two by water maybe the sparks have died when they touch the ground dew-coated grass smothering the small infinity of an explosion my walls will fall from within
  24. 2 points
    I'm working on editing some of my better poems from middle school right now, so here's one of those edits: someone lit your Hate aflame and taught you not to see when you Kill now you're shooting bullet holes in the cosmos splashing the night with Blood and everything you've forgotten
  25. 2 points
    i. find a subject. perhaps life? (gold-red ichor in veins and laughter on rushing wind) or, perhaps, death; (bones in dirt, in earth fed to plant roots and worms, dark crypt-shadows, ashes on wind that is dry and tastes of smoke) or nature, emotion, love, pain— pick something. (find those worms in your bone-dirt and find the life and death tied together with handwoven red yarn, red like blood in veins and lips for kissing) ii. get out your paints. your alizarin red your yellow ochre your ultramarine blue iii. paint me a sunset (bird calls in the night, cricket song; paint me i love you's in the violet evening) paint me your pain, your love— paint me a sensation. iv. realize your subject changed. it's fine. (love turns to anger or vice versa; grief becomes tranquility with the cyclical patterns, the geometric consistencies.) perhaps this was intended. v. write on parchment with old black quill. scritch-scratch of metal end on paper, words forming in loops and lines— condense your canvas onto the end of a pencil and place your sunset in the alphabet. twenty-six letters to paint a universe. (twenty-six letters for the birth of a star, the spinning of a galaxy, the first cry of an infant as she opens eyes into a ever-moving world— twenty-six letters for eternity.) vi. name it. name it 'my heart is here' or 'the sun is bright' or 'the world is burning'. or, perhaps— do not name it at all. (names hold power, after all, and your poem already holds your heart; take care not to trade away your soul as well) leave the outside of the envelope blank. let it be a surprise. (here is a secret that is not a secret but a gift) vii. press your lips to the seal. this will mark it yours for eternity. even without your name, it will hold your essence— and your essence goes beyond your dna. (it is beyond your blood, your name—your essence, perhaps, is closest to your heart.) viii. nail it to a tree. tie it to the leg of a bird. trade it to the fairy queen for something precious. (leave it untitled for the latter. to fae, your words are weapons when named, and perhaps they are right: the pen, after all, is stronger than the sword.) 'this is my heart,' you will cry from the hilltops, or from the barstool, or from the lonely tree trunk. and though you may think you are alone— someone is listening. ix. 'i don't think it's very good,' you will say. 'perhaps i should not be a bard.' 'ah,' the old beggar will respond, for all old beggars carry wisdom immeasurable: 'but it is yours. of course it is good.' x. breathe out your essence from the tree stump, the hilltop, the corner of the inn— (the crackling fire, the people laughing, the mead sitting warm in your stomach.) bid the old beggar goodbye. (his songs will follow you on your journey, humming in the back of your thoughts.) your mark is made— immortality is at your fingertips.
  26. 2 points
    This is the you I remember loving The girl curled up on the floor laughing so hard she can barely breath let alone do another set of crunches This is the girl who used to give me bedroom eyes on Sunday afternoons while everyone else was still at church Who used to pull me into a broom closet and put her face so close to mine we were breathing the same air This you is the reason I fell so hard Not just because I have a soft spot for big brown eyes and the gentle touch of your lips lightly grazing my neck But because you used to have this amazing fire inside of you This passion I could feel from across the room I fell for your wildness And it’s these moments where you’re smiling brighter than I've seen in practically forever When I have to remember not to lean in not to wrap my hands in your long dark hair not to touch your skin not to do any of the things we used to because people change but not all that much
  27. 2 points
  28. 2 points
    I want to be a lighthouse, to look out at the sea, To stand at the edge but never fall in. I want to call you home with glowing eyes, Tell you I’m here, I’m here, In golden yellow blink-rhythm time. I want to be tall, something steadfast That won’t ever crumble In a thousand years of storm. I’ll wait by the water for lost souls like you, Call out over the tossing waves, say Hold on, because I am a sentinel, Guardian of the wind-swept and weary And my light will bring you through The jagged rocks without a scrape. If I was a lighthouse, I could bring you back Safe, steady, protected from the wear and tear Of life on an angry, unforgiving ocean. Green, foaming waves would turn Into dry land and gentle rain, Smooth sand and windless calm. And if I was a lighthouse, I would still stand there, Over the cliffside, waiting as the years, Like gulls, flew over my rusting, red tin roof, Eyes wide and searching, hoping To rescue the wanderers, and even If you are beneath the blue sea now, Perhaps lighthouses can lead ghosts Back to shore, too.
  29. 2 points
    how does one tell one butterfly from another? when they both reside inside your chest, who can know the color of their wings?
  30. 2 points
    @thepensword R E L A T A B L E
  31. 2 points
    dammit jess stop eating all the samples in biology class
  32. 2 points
    there's a fog in my mind and bees in my throat there is a deafening silent pain to being sick and things to be done are sailboats caught on a tide i am reaching, grasping— wading through molasses my voice is locked inside my chest and my thoughts alongside it drop it to the bottom of the ocean may the mermaids guard it i'll see you when i relearn to swim
  33. 2 points
    and it’s horribly cruel but who would ever love you? red marble is bloodied not pure unnatural in texture and weak lunged slow-witted wild hair (knotted mess) obvious blush ugly tears liar fishing for compliments and playing dumb isn’t a good look for you and not much is a good look for you purple veins seen beneath pale palms bloodied specks hiding in shadows of knees and elbows smooth you are not with tiger-clawed hips a patchwork of scars and dependency who would ever love you? never first except in birth mantle heavy on your shoulders tied back to them by love and deep-set fears of losing failure is an old friend or at least it pretends to be masks only cover they don’t free stop and let your breath catch catch your breath instead or you are weak sick fragile useless undeserving why do you think you’re good enough you should be grateful loving family some money friends that care they do care a school an education a future white straight cis neurotypical (probablies) those curves are ones nobody will ever want to touch the eyes shine not from tears but determination because big girls don’t cry unless they’re disappointing unless they’re failing but then they see they’ve gotten to you they will remain cloaked daggers already under my skin
  34. 2 points
    The principal is on the loud speaker And everyone is silent my senses breathe a sigh of relief until I hear what she says the school has more police than usual because someone made a threat everyone is scared but we don't say it instead we bury ourselves in matrices and multiplication pretend that we're gonna live forever a youthful fantasy for a generation that has ages years in the past two months we go back to our studies like we aren't bracing ourselves for lockdown like our hearts aren't pounding like our hands aren't shaking like we didn't know deep down this day would come I am not going to die huddled in a dark corner dying a sitting duck is no way to celebrate this life I've fought to live Schools these days feels less like a learning environment and more like a warehouse full of ready made martyrs A surplus of names for a list we all say we're going to memorize but shouldn't have to in the first place
  35. 2 points
    ive been jolted awake enough shoved out of sleep, aftershocks the split-second startled impact back on the mattress to stare blind-eyed at the ceiling like a mammal shutting down from too much adrenalin rabbits close their eyes as they die i never have the god damn common sense to i always stare straight at the trigger finger flinching at the kickback, the warm red stain soaking my shirt, waistband and draining into my shoes it's not always so quick as being shoved off a cliff or the silenced whisper of a gun i have woken up rattled to the marrow because my mind has cracks and edges and memories might have fallen through my subconscious is that even possible? is the human brain capable of erecting walls so impervious that i could forget-- could forget-- it's too impossible to put words to. instead i more easily brush off nightmares wherein again at gunpoint im used, his thumb shoving into my mouth this is easier because this i can remember though the firearm was absent in the waking world i should have bitten down. should have saved myself is the human brain capable of really forgetting? rather: is it capable of fabricating? through dreams, of course but nightmares so vivid i couldn't forget-- consider touch (back against his chest) sight (blank ceiling) taste (bitter fear, one of his hands over my mouth) sound (his breath in my ear) smell (this, blank) how do i end this poem? closure? don't give me 'im sorry's and 'im here if you need to talk' if you touch me i'll flinch.
  36. 2 points
    i grow out of clothes often, but i never miss them, quite as much as i miss my horse sweater, all itchy and pink with rolled up edges or my purple dress, that i only wore when we made banana bread or at my birthday party in australia with the sterling roses and tea cakes
  37. 2 points
    tonight, i will not drown myself tonight, i will not spend hours wallowing in my own sorrow. i will not hate the way my body feels or lament about how dresses make my skin crawl. i refuse to. tonight i will not kill myself over the size of my chest, or my stomach. Tonight i will not chastise myself for having a complex identity. i may be a frustrating puzzle, but i believe i am a beautiful one. tonight i will not drown myself. tonight i will celebrate. AN: i saw an article/post/word thingy that was talking about how there is a sad lack of poetry about celebrating lgbtqia+/queer identity, so i thought i'd make something to contribute to that! coming off of a stressful week, this was really nice and relaxing to write, and definitely helped me feel a little better in the moment.
  38. 2 points
    hey ok so this? this is something i struggled with big time when i was trying to figure out who i was. i was afraid to identify because what if i was wrong? what if i was (for lack of a better word) 'appropriating' the identity? i have since come out to myself and to others and my advice to you is this: you aren't lying to anyone, you're not appropriating any identities, and you aren't hurting anyone. feel free to identify. say, "i'm bi" or "i'm a lesbian". or any other term you think might be right. try out that label for a while. see how it fits. if it doesn't, return it to the store and try on something else. maybe it wasn't you but at least you learned from it. it's not a huge deal. and if it does fit, then that's all the better, because now you know yourself better than before. people talk about coming out a lot and how much of a challenge it is but what isn't talked about is just how hard it is to come out to yourself. so take your time, don't worry about anyone else, and consider coming out to yourself, even if for just a little while, even if in the end it turns out you were wrong. it's not a lie. it's just another step towards discovering who you are. identity is a challenging concept no matter the subject. i hope you find yourself eventually and we're here for you in the meantime. <3
  39. 2 points
    It’s easy to laugh right now, and there’s something so easy about sitting around the table on three sides, telling stupid stories and waiting for our parents and we aren’t quite the last ones but it’s getting close. We gesture towards the fourth side of the table— empty except for the backdrop of the school, and I think that side would be where the cameras are for the insane discount Breakfast Club we must look like. Her with her all-black clothes and blue-tipped hair, eating salad with her fingers. You with your beanie only present in spirit from the heat of the day, your hair only sort of a mess, and jeans skinnier than mine. And me with my yellow-bright hair and pastel shirt and bag heavy with books. He closes the circle, sitting on the edge of the fourth wall, the fourth bench and grinning. He’s not waiting for a parent, but supposedly getting food for a team. We let him join the circle. It’s easy to tell stupid stories if you’re killing time, and it’s easier to do it with this combination of people that somehow would not have collided in this liquid state otherwise, running over each other. His tricep lift story is arguably the best, especially when I have to cut him off to say, for the sake of the story, let’s assume we know after he asked you know? for the fourth time in two sentences. He proudly shows off his triceps, she and I both laugh and are reasonably impressed, but dissolve into hysterics when he compares them to a mountain range. The football team laps us. He and I wave. You roll your eyes and take a suspicious looking crouton from her salad. And the stories get sillier until she mentions the fucking stair thing and I start laughing and nodding at her but he’s confused and that little half smile is pushing for information as distracted hands tap on the edge of the table. I’ve never seen you get so red. And then, the laughter dies down for a moment, and you asked if I’d make you say it in front of him and she and I make eye contact across the table again and nod. The inevitable sentence comes and the sheer ridiculousness of that statement registers on so many levels that now we are all laughing, and you nearly fall off the table because there is nowhere to go from that, especially since that’s your mother’s car, and she and I are still explaining our pity for her between gasps of laughter. The football team laps us again. You climb off the table carefully, still shaking your head. She puts her salad away. She hasn’t made a "not in front of my salad" joke yet, but it hangs in the air anyway. He stands up and begins to walk towards the woods. There’s a path that leads to the gas station that serves the best fried chicken you can get for a price that low. He stops to turn and wave at us. We wave back.
  40. 2 points
    It’s like being stuck in Possum Springs, In a changing town and a dying church, A fading life and an aging world. The stores on Main Street are closing, Have you seen it? It’s all small here, hidden away, so There’s no escape from the people; They all know me, They all know what I’ve done. They won’t forget and I won’t leave Because I love it here, The childhood I never outgrew. And we’re all broken here, Together and alone, The dust swirls as everyone moves on, And I’m too naive So I keep hurting them, Saying the wrong thing. It’s precarious, walking these telephone wires, Looking up at the stars. And Mae, she was a violent child, And me, I was a monster. Bea, she can’t see a good future anymore And I can’t find hope. And Selmers, she writes the empty away; We are poets, the both of us, Writing about this weird Autumn Where I came home for a while. But it’s night in the woods now And there are spirits in my dreams, A Whatever-god who tells me It’s too late for us because The forest god is gone. It’s the end of everything and I’m trying to hold on. So Greg, you get out while you still can But I don’t think I will die anywhere else. Author's Note: This is a poem inspired by the indie game Night In The Woods. (It's a story-based game with lots of dialogue and it's art. Also it's kinda heartbreaking but it's so good) Also it relates to my life a little too closely so I wrote a poem about it
  41. 2 points
    The spring jumps for Joy, she is here Here to play Warmth spreads like Wildfire, butterflies dance Upon the air all around us The night air just as warm Fireflies dance around Dazzling with their glow.
  42. 2 points
    you will grow stronger than sequoias and in time, you will touch the sky this whole earth is a blank page and your fingers are bleeding colored ink the waves of the sea cannot compare to your eyes oracle beauty universes wait to be unravelled, secrets yearning to be found sadness sinking in like fog over fields, but soon, the sun will shine through laughter, golden smiles even on sad days, you are truly ametrine you will find your way although wolves howl at night, you are safe here with us. ~~~~~ author's note: to selah, kalani, emma, alejandro, jocelyn, oliver, and emmelia. these could be read individually or as a single poem? i think i'm going to rewrite this with different line breaks because it seems a bit weird like this.
  43. 2 points
    can you just fucking not do that because i’m a rational girl independent learning to be strong trying harder than you ever seem to and like you’re throwing me off a lot can you just stop interrupting my thoughts? please? can you just not smile quite like that when you step in my way just so I’ll bump into you and like my name? if you could dim the light in your eyes across your face before you say that particular combination of syllables it would really help me sleep at night can you just look at the paper when i’m trying to help you you’ll understand the material better and i know that you can because if you can possibly talk about that many other things with that type of skill and you’re asking my bad-at-math ass to help you you must be pretty fucking desperate can you just (while you’re at it) stop making me fucking laugh i’m supposed to be taking notes and you’re over there calling out comments looking at me when i stifle a laugh fuck you now i want to make you laugh stop making me consider texting you at goddamn one am because i thought of something funny stop making me say stupid shit because you saying that one time that i looked like a classy prostitute was definitely not supposed to be responded to with a question if it was working especially if your expression shifted to that maybe it was the dark you paid for my dinner i had agreed to buy you coffee and that lady she thought we were dating? she called us cute? and you essentially ran away (you went upstairs. very fast) you barely finished ordering i overthought it i nearly ordered with your name (it would have been easier for them to read aloud i had the excuse planned in case i had made that mistake i hadn’t) you grabbed my arm so i wouldn’t walk into the street i didn’t even notice the street or much else i don’t remember any cars, though (was i like this even then? fuck.)
  44. 1 point
    My brain is a mess Of overthinking and homework I haven't done I'm so tired and anxious I've forgotten how to write poetry. Do you know how sad it is, to forget how to do something at the very core of your being? To suddenly up and leave your friends Because suddenly You don't have the energy to play Dad.
  45. 1 point
    That character-as-embodiment-of-an-idea was really just for that book, which is more of a big allegory than something like literary fiction. To be honest, I don't think about character that way at all anymore, but it was really useful for that story! A lot of the comics I've made since then have been autobiographical, which is still character-building in a way. I'm showing a version of myself; how I draw my clothes, or my posture, or what little snippets of a much more complex reality I try to represent on the page are in service of trying to tell a good story.
  46. 1 point
    Hello Cicada! This is Marnie--I'm here to talk about comics, art, writing, or whatever else you are interested in. Add a comment to this thread and I'll jump in!
  47. 1 point
    the rain drips down my window-pane morning, says the fog morning, i smile back earl grey and smoke mingle in the breath of cleansing shower and outside the wren puffs up feathers and calls: this is my terrain alright, i say, and close my eyes.
  48. 1 point
    Yes please stay here! We would miss you! But it's all right if you want to take some things down. Do what you need. We understand. I hope you feel better soon. 💙
  49. 1 point
    what if we could end all war it's simple in theory and impossible in practice because all it would take is an end to all fighting a kindness, forgiveness we could change the world now, we could end all suffering but just as everyone is capable of good, everyone too is capable of evil and why is evil so much easier to do? what if there were no lines and we lived boundless what if we were not confined by the borders scribbled in violent red crayon on construction paper earth what if there were no refugees because there was no need of refuge what if we ended pain and fear today what if what if we were birds and instead of fighting we flew? what if we were free? what if we were painted the colors of the canvas, bright orange and midnight blue what if we were all beautiful beneath the dust what if someone had a rag to wipe off the grease stains what if red was just sunset and not blood on our hands what if we said good morning and we meant it?
  50. 1 point