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i have never once written anything good and i think that's fine.. what's important is that im having fun.
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— franz kafka, from a letter to max brod
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Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper by Richard Siken
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Nikki Giovanni, The Collected Poetry, 1968-1998
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leverage.
sliver an apple and leave a slice in my room. the fruit is sour. your love for me is a hollow duty.
- "poems for the starving girl i was, the starving girl i am", a collection by me
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?.
i’ve never loved anyone the way i loathe you. mirrors leave me bittersweet. there is no place for me to call home. please love me. please devour me. i mustn't be whole.
- "poems for the starving girl i was, the starving girl i am", a collection by me
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devour.
leave a starving dog a treat, dear? eat away softly at my ribcage. my spine will be leverage.
- "poems for the starving girl i was, the starving girl i am", a collection by me
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Predictions for 2022 🎉
an oddly tall man with a wide top hat will walk into your home. he'll sport a long winter coat and pointy black shoes, his collar scruffed up, as if put on in a hurry. his lonely gaze will be filled with somber, nostalgia for the unknown. he will bestow you a pig's heart - his hands, oddly long and pale, will tremble under its weight. you will turn down his gift. his cold, blue lips will cave into a frown as you stare in dread. rejected and embarrassed, the hunched man will leave in a hurry. you will never see him again. you will miss him like an old friend. you will regret your words.
as the full moon will rise, you will cry. you will not know why. something about it seems to care. its light will illuminate your pupils and hear your sobs. the moon will understand. its glare will embrace you, enclose around your heart with the care of a stranger for a lost child. it will leave. the suns’ harsh glare will replace it, taking no notice of your suffering. you will cry harder. you will wait for the moon. it will never come.
a mother in a pitiful rage will take her daughter's life. as the fury leaves her eyes, she will look upon her daughter's corpse and she will weep. she will lull her cold flesh and wail. she will grieve. there is nothing she'll desire more than meeting her daughter once again, in death if necessary. still, she will not be allowed. the gates of heaven will be forever closed on her. so she will weep, and weep and weep, until there is air to breathe. surely, if you listen closely enough on a cold January night, you might hear her mournful cries, lamenting what she once had.
one cold summer morning, as soft sunlight seeps through your curtains, you will find yourself unable to speak. opening your mouth, all you will find is a gold coin where your tongue should be. you'll find yourself apathetic to this fact. a few winters later, laying on a hospital bed, your grandmother will caress your cheek. as she'll lull you softly, you'll think of all the things you'd to say, all the comfort you'd provide, the soft “i love you” you’d give. her flesh turns cold. that night, where a gold coin should be, you'll find a tongue. you'll want nothing but to rip it out raw.
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“Madness as a defense against terror. Madness as a defense against grief.”
— Susan Sontag, from As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964-1980 (via luthienne)
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soaked in red
I WAS BORN IN DRY SOIL
DRENCHED IN CRIMSON RED
I THRIVED WHERE YOU DIED,
I'LL THRIVE WHERE YOU BLED.
- "short poems about my mother
and the girl she used to be" - a collection by me
my main : @edgyartkid
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Eric LaRocca, The Strange Thing We Become and Other Dark Tales
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brute
I'M NOT SURE IF IT IS MISERY OR MASOCHISM THAT KEEPS ME COMING BACK,
YET I ALWAYS RETURN.
I APPROACH YOUR SCENE WITH CAUTION,
MY SCARRED HANDS A REMINDER OF YOUR COMPETENCE
"IT'S SAFE" YOU SAY, "YOU'LL BE FINE, I PROMISE."
YOUR LIES WERE BITTERSWEET.
YET I BELIEVED YOU.
MY FLESH BURNS, GUSHING OPEN OLD SCARS. MY TEARS ARE LUKEWARM.
- "short poems about my mother
and the girl she used to be" - a collection by me
my main : @edgyartkid
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a widow's daughter
FORCED AND RAISED IN A CAGE
MY DULL EYES BEGGED FOR FREEDOM
I LOOKED UP TO MY MOTHER.
HOW CAN YOU ACCEPT THIS?
HOW CAN YOU SNUB IN THE FACE OF INEQUITY?
HAVE YOU NOT SUFFERED ENOUGH?
WHY MUST I SUFFER WITH YOU?
WHY WRITE ME INTO YOUR TRAGEDY?
DID YOU FEEL LONELY IN YOUR MISERY?
SHE DID NOT REPLY.
- "short poems about my mother
and the girl she used to be" - collection by me
my main: @edgyartkid
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like mother / like daughter
UGLY WORDS SLIP OF MY MOTHERS TOUNGE
LIKE VENOM WRAPPED IN VELVET.
DO YOU RECOGNIZE ME IN YOURSELF?
I DETOX MY FACE EVERY MORNING,
AS YOU APPLY ANOTHER LAYER OF FOUNDATION
“IT'S TOO LATE FOR ME NOW” YOU LAUGH. IT’S THE REGRETFUL KIND.
I AM ALL YOU WHERE
YOU ARE ALL I CAN BE
CRACKED MIRRORS OF EACHOTHER.
SCREAMING;
“WE ARE ONE AND THE SAME.
LIKE MOTHER LIKE DAUGHTER.”
- "short poems about my mother
and the girl she used to be" collection by me
my main: @edgyartkid
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The sage green grass embraces my corpse,
digesting my carcass,
as my side gushes red,
in its hopeless embrace.
The edge of the forest,
a distant witness to your crimes.
The woodland was supposed to protect me.
You seemed so harmless
so small.
The forest never warned me about you.
You promised the meadow would be soft and warm.
How was I supposed to know?
I miss the soft green timber.
I felt at home in its embrace.
I wonder, the cold autumn breeze caressing my back;
“Have I flown too close to the sun?”
Closing my somber eyes,
I can still see the barrel of your gun.
Did you enjoy yourself?
I will never be the same again.
I hope you rot.
As I accept my fate,
I slowly rest my scrawny hoof
in the sluggish mud.
I hope your duties haunt you,
I hope the guilt torments you,
I hope the humiliation plagues you,
like I never could.
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