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Capture her elegance in action
She leaves every curve captioned
Her beauty admired by nature
Her mind inspires creation
Lace contours her body with grace
No lower case used to describe her
With your finger
Retrace the lines on her face
Glimpse at her eyes 
She deserves to be embraced
Her belly - Bottom and her waist…

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the moon hangs in the sky this noon

i sit by the window, with nothing much to do

freshly baked nostalgia just out of the oven

with chamomile tea - flowers from my childhood

I hear the children’s laughter fade farther away in the street and soon

I fear the lazy sky will be covered by the hood

of the blackness of the night, all hazy and blue

taking my pen out, I scribble some lines , one or two

wondering how it would’ve turned out, the unfulfilled trip to malibu

for some unknown reason, my heart aches real good

over some freshly baked nostalgia , and camomille tea for two

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i was not born a toy
with whistles and charms
my scars are not scuff marks
to buff out or ignore.

i exist to destroy,
to salt the burning farms
of tyrannical oligarchs
and their amusing gore.

                  do not pity my role,
      or gift tears that you stole,
     from another’s empty bowl
                for your glutted soul.

i accept it with joy,
greet it with open arms–
let my saliva be fire sparks
and my silence a roar.

let the dead men chant
as they raise themselves to life:

     i. i was not born a toy,

     ii. i exist to destroy,

     iii. do not pity my role,

     iv. i accept it with joy.

- the chant, echo b.

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My jaw is wired shut
But in sleep, the bones grind as I struggle against it
I’ll rip every teeth out if need be
To open wide, to scream, to howl
Perhaps just to breathe in
To bite into all that has been promised and withdrawn
See, when this hunger rises
I swear I’d do anything in the pursuit of pleasure
I’d say anything, even the truth
And break all the rules, all my mother’s instructions
I’d stare at strangers, point and speak back
“I want”, “I need”
No “please” or “may I”
And no one to pinch me under the table
For polite is one thing, but happy is another

When quiet once more closes in
And tucks me back into bed
I know it will bring new hurt
The resurgence of a childhood ache
A childhood fury
Like sharks, I am always teething
In the throes of constant growing pains
And like them, I have three rows of fangs
Whenever one falls, another surfaces
Sharper and greedier
If you listen closely, you’ll hear it
My jaw clicking in the night, eagerly awaiting
I will not be silenced. I will not be denied.


Thank you for the prompt 😉


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so close, so far

There’s a blizzard outside.

It’s cold enough, at least.

There’s one in my heart.

I close my eyes.

I imagine finding her.

She’s there, so close to me, yet so far.

From her waist, five thousand unfurling frills, flush with feather, fur, flesh. 

Mouths, fingers, hands, and tongues prorupt from the folds, writing, speaking, typing, screaming all the thoughts and admissions I could never let out.

Her arms, covered in colour- cerulean, chartreuse, crimson, cyan.

They drip slowly, like paint applied too heavily to a canvas. They’re open, inviting.

Her chest is full, a warm glow coming from her many hearts, beating out of sync with each other, but somehow in tune with my own.

I feel the waves, pushing me back yet beckoning me forward.

The lips upon her face, so small yet so defined, form the smallest of smiles.

They whisper something to me. I push in closer to listen.

Her eyes pierce my own. They shine the deepest of violets, the brightest of verdant greens, the palest of viridians.

Our eyes are locked. For once, the contact is all I could want.

The coils of her hair reach out in all directions. They almost look like mine, but instead of masking her face, her body, her soul, they reach out, up, away.

I am held in the soft grip of her locks. I don’t resist.

I’m so close now. So close I could almost touch. So close I could almost understand. So close that I’m almost her.

I open my eyes.

My hair goes down to my upper chest. Stray hairs jut out in every direction.

My faint glowing eyes are obscured by a smudged pair of glasses. They feel as fragile on my face as my face itself.

My lips are chapped. They look almost as pale as the rest of my body.

My chest is covered by cotton and polyester. Faded blues form a barrier around me.

My arms have light brown spots up to the elbow. They’re held crossed in front of my stomach.

Below the waist is a twisted amalgam of what it should be, the saplings of what should be covered by the shade of what shouldn’t

She’s gone again. 

I see her sometimes. On a shard of glass, the glare of a screen. She’s here, so close to me.

But so far.

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i’m sorry nobody told you that she was never meant to be loved. m
i’m sorry nobody told you it’d be like this, loving Ophelia;
nobody told you she would circle you with boughs of bones in her arms as embers burn the soles of her bare feet, laughing as her flesh is seared / black and the scent of boiled iron fills the room. she finds it divine, / this perversion of a post-rain petrichor and it scares you sometimes, / how she bends things toward the beautiful. bruises become blush and cigarette burns look like love-bites and the femur she stuck between her split lips is a red rose without / thorns to slit her wrists with, unlike the broken glass that litters her satin sheets, unlike the crucifix mounted above her bedroom door that she’d / sharpened to a point at each end just to make sure / that nobody would turn it right-side-up. nobody warned you that she would delight in the way her mind / wandered from her, and how she likes to squeeze herself into liminal spaces that are too small for her, and how sometimes, / when the moon is full, and your skin is flush to hers, / and your breaths are intertwined like rope / pulling back and forth (she exhales and you inhale, in and out / in and out / in and out…) you open your eyes and she’s staring right at you, / tapetum lucidum, unblinking, her smile small and thin.
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mondd! hiányzik az érzés,

boldog akarsz lenni,

hacsak egy teljes napon át.

amikor minden rendben,

senki nem bánt,

minden a régi.

visszatekerni az időt

és újra átélni a pillanatokat

amikor még önfeledten cselekedtél.

akármit, amit csak szerettél.

szívből, vidáman nevettél.

nem fájt soha semmi.

itt ülsz most, némán,

üveges szemed a képernyőt

meredten bámulja.

állandó sírhatnékod van.


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La sorba e la canaglia

C'è stato un tempo in cui

avevo una pasticceria al posto del cuore.

Chiusa per fallimento.

Tutti erano pronti a servirsi della mia fabbrica

attingendo dolcezze

e sciamando come mosche.

Poi, la materia prima s'esaurì

e tutte le creme si sono inacidite,

andate a male.

Ora, al suo posto è sorto l'albero dei sorbi

e nessuno s'accosta più

per assaggiarne i frutti.

Gli avidi e i golosi si sono tutti eclissati,

i vandali e i razziatori della mia dolcezza, spariti.

Nessuno più s'avvicina per cogliere un frutto

dal mio albero amaro dall'invitante asprezza.

Maria Manca, 1990

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~ How futile would this world be? ~

How futile would this world be

without the sun and the sky?

Where would the clouds drift and go?

Behind them who would peep and hide?

What would we see when we

looked up above, when we gazed?

How dark would the world be

Without that brilliant sun’s rays?

Where would the birds soar

if their limitless, endless haven was gone?

How futile would this world be

if the rooster was never reminded of the morn?


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There could be love here one day.

How quickly you embraced each other

Arm over arm and chest to chest

Under sea blue blankets in the early, early hours.

The next day you will ask yourself, did the girl he fucked earlier this week hold him like that?

Does it matter?

Raynauds, your mother had it too.

Aka cold feet pressed between his.

You apologize and try to remove them

He says “ leave them there”

There could be love here one day or you could forget about it next week, so it goes.

In the morning tequila heavy eyelids open to construction across the street,

a cat laying in wait,

sunlight resting on the snake tongues in the window

You put your hair up in the mirror

Resting against the wall

Resting near the bed

To catch the 70 to up to the university for class.

“Wait” just a little longer and he’ll call a car

No sex

Just finish the movie.

He leaves you in velvet

In cotton

To buy another bottle of booze,

He returns glass clinking beside you

Asks his mom for his birth time, you wonder if he mentioned you.

This feels like nothing new but something old

Like how easily you slept beside him, the kind of sleep you must have had as a child

But who remembers

There could be love here one day, or you could forget about it next week, so it goes.

No kiss as the car rounds the block, no promise for next time

No fear either

An action triumphs promise, a picture is worth a thousand

You have a snapshot of desire, something that felt like home? Or the one you wanted.

There could be love here one day, or you could forget about it next week.

So it goes.

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I make fun of people writing poetry in the notes app but my phone is a mess so this is what you get

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French Fries

I could’ve died then
warm and tangled in the fuzz of your blankets
tossed on scratchy summer grass
And all I would’ve wished of the falling stars
would be for the chance to reach out and touch one.

You asked me last night if I was okay
I said yes and I meant it;
Because I’ve eaten myself sick with mouthfuls of french fries
and maraschino cherries.
I’ve cried gross, globby tears in front of all my best friends
And tonight I felt you shift
casually closer
so that our skin may touch just a bit more.
Tere is meaning in these things and I don’t know why

but they are enough to fll me.

The Sunday Ambition

Our warmth
heavy under cotton sheets

Euphoria seeps softly over me

And you know
as I do
how it flows
through our spines


Asten Fallavollita is a sentient tree. He studies robotics in California, where
he lives with his family and his four plush squids, Deckard, Ocho, Jumbo, and
Big Joe. His work has also appeared in Trampset and The Birds We Piled

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—When you find me
just kill me with your gaze—
That I no longer exist
and inhale my breath
—with your cruel sweetness,
with your cruel kiss.
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from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (14)

forgetting the pattern of fear

and doubt tangled about me

I fall out of sleep and remember

what parts of myself I need


to continue some resemblance

of the day the inessential shades

my ghosts as darkly as the essential

each shifts its position evasively


when questioned like a cat

slips through shadow and grass

(January 21, 2020)

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