we were sick of the land
so we shed our limbs
for gills and fins,
we crawled to the sea
that was crawling for us
so we could swim,
swim the ocean wide.
open your mouth kid,
let in the tide.
we were just past the
undertow when
the sea blurred with
the sky.
remember?
we died.
Tomorrow i won't remember you by Piano-Girl234, literature
Literature
Tomorrow i won't remember you
T o d a y
I ripped a page out of a magazine in the waiting room
Just because I could
And to be frank
I had been waiting too long.
I thought
Well hey,
I deserve a souvenir
right?
And the girl in the magazine
kinda
reminded me of
you
T o d a y
I smoked
because I
felt like it
And I don't really
give a fuck
if
I
die
prematurely
Of lung cancer
Because at
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing old by oracle-of-nonsense, literature
Literature
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing old
i.
Coupons and sales magazines
have become more than just junk mail
and the holes in my pants
seem more patchable
and I wonder just how much
my sparse jewelry would fetch
if I said I saw the face of Jesus
in the glimmer of my pearls.
ii.
I am beginning to miss the sea I grew up on
so much that I will read bad poetry
just for the mention of a salty ocean breeze.
I feel landlocked and sometimes I'm afraid
that I will never see the world
until I have retired from it.
iii.
Faith says her life is full of asking.
I wish mine were full of answers,
but I too have many questions
and only Time will answer them for me.
iv.
My mothe
Four thirty AM
I am standing in my kitchen
wearing my dark blue dressing gown
building a time machine
from assorted cutlery
and a broken microwave.
I am visiting you
three years ago.
I have calendars for you
with notes written each day:
some are highlighted orange
to show you when to ignore
the things I say.
Others are circled blue,
and on these occasions
I meant every word.
I am smiling at you,
already knowing the day you leave
I will understand
in time, despite what I say.
You look at me quizzically:
bemused by this odd smiling.
Its four years later:
upsetting things we said
seem like empty noise,
instinctive
1.
i used to go online and make fake
accounts on dating websites when i
was feeling especially malicious and
frustrated and rundown and sad.
female with severe trichotillomania
and kleptomania seeking male who
doesn't mind spotty baldness or
theft.
"that's mean," you would say.
and i know, i knew; it was mean. but
i hated telling you that you were right.
2.
sometimes i would ask my cat, "do you
remember who stole your eye? do you
remember your mother?" and i would feed
him bits of pasta and bread and wave my
hand in front of his nose.
"do you remember your mother? do you?
do you remember having two eyes?"
and i would be
this is our apocalypse by oneofthose-rachels, literature
Literature
this is our apocalypse
oh,
you
know, i was
a dreamer
before you
woke me up.
_
i knew we were doomed before we even began.
you are reckless,
a grinner who pounded through your days
injuring yourself on the edges
of brittle laughter.
and i am
not
you.
she was,
she was another disposable girlfriend on your list.
and she warned me, that day in the ocean
with the sand twisting through our toes.
she said, be careful.
i tried
to listen,
believe me i tried.
summer days screaming down the throat of the world,
shrieking our rebellion to sky.
we held hands, but somehow
our thoughts and laughter
never tangled together.
you were
separate
and i didn
i told you there is a difference between wanting to kill yourself
and wanting to die.
you said you didn't care, i could do either
and goodnight.
-
i taught you how to climb a pine tree
and how to tie your shoelaces one-handed;
i sang you the alphabet backwards until you knew it by heart
(you knew me by heart).
sometimes i would weave daisies through your hair
and you would keep them there
until they wilted.
-
once i dared you to scale the neighbor's fence and
bring me a tomato from her garden.
i thought you knew i wasn't serious
but you vaulted up and back over with a tomato in your hand.
you told me you would do a
you told me you wanted to live forever.
i said there is no life without death:
there is simply being.
-
you taught me about airplanes and liveliness and
how to jump out a window without twisting my ankles.
sometimes you would tell me about persia
or how a hot air balloon stays aloft,
but that was when you had fire to keep you floating.
-
you lent me a book last fall.
i put it in my room and
swore i'd read it later, but
when i went back to look for it i realized
i had lost it, before i even
cracked the cover.
i told you and you weren't angry; you just smiled
and said that all things lost are eventually found.
-
last w