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Literature Text
you
hold unto the knife
as if it were a prayer,
as if the steel held answers to your questions
and the blade answered them whispered
against your skin,
as if the bleeding from the wrists
were psalms.
get high on every cut,
as if every blood drop spent
were a revelation and you,
prophet of burned bibles
and nicotine
were a revelation and you,
tired of life
were transcending,
as if nirvana
hid in the space
between your palms
and the knife’s hilt,
as if you could only breathe
when you cut,
as if god only answers
when you’re numb,
as if.
hold unto the knife
as if it were a prayer,
as if the steel held answers to your questions
and the blade answered them whispered
against your skin,
as if the bleeding from the wrists
were psalms.
get high on every cut,
as if every blood drop spent
were a revelation and you,
prophet of burned bibles
and nicotine
were a revelation and you,
tired of life
were transcending,
as if nirvana
hid in the space
between your palms
and the knife’s hilt,
as if you could only breathe
when you cut,
as if god only answers
when you’re numb,
as if.
Literature
Looking With Your Hands
Everyone’s been there. As a child, your mom would take you to Wal-Mart, Target, or, if you lived near rich people as a kid, Toys-R-Us. Anywhere with toys. And being a child, you wanted to pick them up, play with them, put them in the buggy in hopes that your mom would buy them. Heck, at that age, you didn’t get the concept of money or buying things with money. You just wanted to play with it. And you wanted Mom to let you take it out of the store. If she said no, some of the braver ones among you would sneak it in the buggy anyway. Maybe mom didn’t notice. Maybe she did and bought it anyway.
But typically, what would happen
Literature
I do not like you poets
I do not like you poets
breathing into my sorry head
like the air hasn't been wasted a half-a-million times
folding up my lungs
to place them neatly into a wastebasket
how can you make me stop hurting
& then just leave me
a limp lettuce leaf
on the backside of some dirty napkin verse
I am not the jealous type
but I'm going to call up Melpomene & ask her where she's been
send her drunk texts
all night
because I'm too tired of filling up my skull
with cicada skins instead of led
while you make it all too easy
to sleep through a heartattack or two
my pygmalion, my god, my thing of legends
tell me
when you were being taught the siren's son
Literature
the 'd' word
when i was seven years old, my mother, tear-streaks
drying on her cheeks, fingered her wedding band
and told me, “love hurts, sweetie,
that’s how you know it’s a good love.”
two days later, my father came back home.
he was missing his wedding ring
and when he left again,
he left a handprint on my mother’s cheek
that she carried with her even after the bruise was gone.
i grew up without a father influence in my mother’s world
and without a mother influence in my dad’s.
neither of them got remarried.
they had found each other and that was enough.
they had found each other and that was too much.
i gre
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Comments8
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Wow, Kon... I showed up late to the party for commenting (I'm hardly on here anymore) but you still absolutely leave me speechless with your words.
Forever a fan and admirer of your writing!
Forever a fan and admirer of your writing!