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Poetry

Poetry Writing

These Words are Nice Enough to Leave Scars

I’ve been very brave recently. And you’ve inspired all of it. You’re beautiful. You’re pure. You’re hurt in all the right places and golden along those scars. I’ll never paint you, but I’ll write you time and time again. I’ll make your paintings jealous by how much I have to say.   via *…

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Poetry Writing

hot summer nights

My heart is made of summer nights, that crushed velvet violet tye-dyed with wisps of hot pink ribbons cutting across the surface. It sneaks up on you and then presses down on you entirely, imprinting itself much deeper than you’d realized. But once you notice it, that violet fades to tender blue. That’s where you live in my heart. You live where ocean breezes and oil paints cascade in summer…

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Poetry Writing

bleeding out

Feel the pinprick in your heart, right in the left ventricle. The sweet spot. Right where he tattooed his fingerprints, unspooling those swirls and winding them down your arteries and nerve endings until they were clouded in cotton candy films of blood. Feel the hole in your heart, smaller than a needle tip begin to grow, widening very slowly with every shared word and photo, every fantasy and dreamscape you…

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Poetry Writing

cookie cutter

Weeks of rain led to dripping lightning and sugar cookies, lovely with roses. He smiled and my heart bloomed; I owed myself some bravery. I organized my words like the outline of a puzzle, working to connect the skyline before the center can become clear. Truth tastes better dipped in tea. His fingers spread across the table top, I ached to join mine with his, create a paper doll chain…

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Poetry Writing

What They Were to Me

A night of milkshakes and split latex. A wasted wedding in all senses, A tired and slipping drive home, The smell of cigarettes buried in my hair follicles, broken air conditioners. Unanswered messages and easy Conversations gone silent after Confessions of President’s Day. One night in summer snow watching Deer skirt past the truck. Casual coffee. Nothing serious. Awkward movie nights with Christ on the walls watching. Wiffle balls and…

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Poetry Writing

rock candy

He was so beautiful, that long haired boy. Smelling like weed and guitar strings And fogged up car windows in January. Hot summer sidewalks. Blown out matches. Skinned knees. Ice cream cones. Sticky rock candy Now transformed to whiskey and cocaine. The cobwebs now pull his mouth down, Sand has settled in his cheekbones, speckled His face with pretty lies and bad boy charm. Everything burns him like guitar strings…

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Poetry Writing

constructing the interstate

the body was made of pure cement. each rib glued together. thumb tacks lining the mortar between each nerve. the hair was the hardest to pin down. it was wild, covering the body’s face and obscuring the leakage pouring from the blank spaces where manhole covers were still needed. holes for men to climb down into the sewage lined heart, the shit infested wasteland constantly dumped on by countless men…

5 Comments
Poetry Writing

the first attempt

Her name was Mary, but she was no virgin. Her insides were made up of blackberry dust and needles, memories of the day the ferris wheel froze. It stood in the middle of the fair and made shadowed cliffs across the snowy hills. The voice behind her licked at the space behind her knees, blew her kisses as the edges called her closer and begged for a release. “You’ll die…

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Poetry Writing

battle scars

I dressed like Seattle that day, my hair liquefying into the Puget Sound. I wanted to be my own home, built inside my own bones. But inside his strong arms our lavender bodies fell together, Struggling humans opposed to these falsely perfect people riddled with expectation. He moved me, begged me to punch him in the ribs, Find his heart- he craved determination and diligence. Only screaming and breathing and…

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Poetry Writing

scorpion venom

It was easy for ninety people to drink eighty bottles of wine. It’s hard to paint the tumors hot pink, to let all of the venom in the world eat up your blood and sting your stomach lining. It was so hard to feel my breath and my bones turn to ashes while I tried to look happy to still be here. In the violet hour before it all begins…

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