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Literature Text
when i grow up,
not everything will be beautiful.
we, us, you and me, they won't be simple terms
but more like impossible math problems where
x= you and y= me,
z is all the times i have to derail a train
of thought, m is the number of times
i wish you were my last first kiss
and we'll throw n in there as that one
variable we don't fucking know
that keeps us from equaling us.
we'll end up making a very dangerous alphabet soup,
but leave out the vowels, they always tasted rather bitter
when we were children and i doubt that will change
in any future. i'll tell you a secret,
happiness can be a rather deceptive bitch,
especially when we become math problems,
statistics, numbers. but secrets, they fall
on deaf ears because you never listen,
and you never change
so i'll just sit here and paint my toes
various bright colors you always hated
while you learn the names of girls in movies
and business management, but don't worry,
i'll still be here when you get home,
well. maybe. we haven't happened yet,
remember?
Literature
I Call Him Compulsion
Three. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six…
Seven. Done.
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factor—it's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon
Literature
Disposophobia
Disposophobia
She had always kept everything. Ticket stubs, receipts, the torn-off edges of notebook paper. Any doodles or scribbled ideas, and any note afforded her by a friend were kept and saved. Not everything received the honor, but particular things from specific events did. She wanted to keep track of each and every thing she had ever done. She did so, on a corkboard encircling her room from floor to ceiling; each day had its spot, and one could trace her life along the wall with the zigzagging strings of yarn that connected each day.
She didn't often invite others into her room, for fear they might displace something, either by
Literature
Moon-spun moths
Perched in your throat,
it is like a prayer;
an exhalation
against your palms,
soft as a secret
in the womb.
How weightless we are
under the tender moon
in this enchanted twilight.
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Comments53
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now my favorite poem in existence, and i appreciate that you wrote it.