i.
there is
a
vintage lace dress
that once was
white like
chinese rice
yellowing in the depths of my
closet
with a burgundy
stain in the shape
of
a
wilting rose
hidden between
Today I am the sad tree.
My world is black and white and I cannot find the strength to be happy. Nothing's going right and I almost fell off a bridge on my way to school. I couldn't seem to get my clothes on right and I couldn't remember how to open my make-up. My homework was scattered in the back yard and the dog had gotten hold of my new shoes. There was nothing edible in any room and I had a breakfast of toothpaste. I didn't know where to get any water so I washed my hands with beer. When a strange ringing echoed through the house I ran out the front door. I tripped over concrete and couldn't recall the laws of the street. I swayed into
I draw you in pencil
by listening to your movements beneath fabric.
By peeling open pomegranates
and leaving them lying in different
phases of moon,
I drain your segments over each other
in watercolor.
It's not long before
you are a gathering of toppled crescents,
a sphere breaking into sensations,
a door that is not open, not closed.
I sketch you with pebbles for cells,
umlauts for a voice,
a cursive vowel for each ear.
Days pass for your eyes.
Days pass like letters of the alphabet.
Animals die in all your spans.
An hour is a strand of hair,
a week is a warmth off the side of your neck.
I add color with the pomegranate's wetnes
Our tennis shoes are crushing dandelions.
I save one fortunate soul from the masses. You are crying, but I'm making daisy chains and daisy crowns and daisy necklaces. I am pretending that they are earrings and smiles.
It's funny what a simple smile can do. It's funnier what all the smiles in the world can't do.
I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know why I am oblivious. I don't know why I'm apologizing. You are mumbling about parallel lines and the sun is drying your tears. I can't stop looking at you. We are standing here and it's
daylight wakes me up and i turn into the green moth on the windshield.
a few months ago i would have died to be someone with the same kind of pulse
as you. i wanted to know what it felt like to breathe your same
air and listen to the fabrication of your words, your lies like lists of things
you wanted me to hear, essays crafted to the palaces of my mind.
you knew what i wanted because you know the architecture of so many women—
not seeing my poisonous nature, the blisteringly sweet aftertaste that crumples
you into me again, again, again, each hit better than the last. together
we chase the dragon, needing more and more of each o
maybe i will be a landfill. by Aquarius-Claire, literature
Literature
maybe i will be a landfill.
maybe i will be a landfill. it is not difficult. you lie
flat on your back and people throw garbage at you.
or an argument. i could be two pale faces end to
end to end stretching fuck you and rapid pulse to infinity.
or i could be crazy glue. and hold things together so hard i
forget that even the best adhesives sometimes need to crack.
i could be a lot of things i think. but never the point of a pencil.
i could never write your name into the pages of a song.
and i’m not armageddon. the world wouldn’t fit into my matchbook wings.
i could never sink my teeth into the poetry of your faith.
hansel and gretel, with ptsd by back-bones, literature
Literature
hansel and gretel, with ptsd
when hansel comes to with
the witch dead at his feet, he hangs gretel
off him like a blood bag, drags
her toes through the dirt, and he thinks
she has to be broken in a ballet,
she has to be broken in a pirouette.
her toes continue to click in her shoes
years later, a crunch that he is
reminded of years later again
when the moon hung
like it does at midnight, as yellow as
a sick child, facing the forest. hansel
is rubbing his blue jeans like he does
sometimes, the heels of his palms
dragging the surface like nails on wood.
it feels like fire and coal, a numbing
that feels necessary until hansel says,
“stop.” and when he sees her