I think I am leaking-
Imagine:
A woman pours her heart into a bowl
and feeds it to her cat. The heart
becomes a liquid thing- like heat,
a shocking,
but not so shocking red,
like my mother’s lipstick, like the first drop
of blood, like the tone of a poem
written all wrong.
Sometimes I look at people I don’t know
and think “I could love you”. My ribs tremble
with survivor’s guilt, and the branches of my
wrists spell out my future.
I think I am leaking-
and this is the sound of fragility.
We are capable of kissing
bruises and watching mothers cry
over lost children, who are not actually lost,
but hiding;
under the kitchen sink,
or in the upstairs closet, or in the concave
that is the human heart,
plucking ribcage songs.
1 hour ago | 36 notesMy name isn’t Annie and I don’t write.
If I were pretentious, I would say I bleed, as if by putting together words in a fairly coherent manner, I am emptying myself, I am leaking, I am hollowing out, becoming a shell. If my name were Annie, I would say that I bleed. I would walk barefoot on the beach and smile when I step into glass. I would know more about the ocean, the migration of fish, the feeding habits of coral. I would know more about the relationship between sharks and blood.
I would be allergic to bumblebees. I would be allergic to Spring. I wouldn’t write. I would bleed- but not in a metaphoric sense, I would have thin skin, I would be delicate and precious and shining. My lips would taste like fiber glass- my throat would be coated in it. Food would go down faster and I’d find it easier to smile at a mirror.
I would believe in God but not religion, and I would tell my mother that I love her every Sunday and that would be enough. I wouldn’t write. My middle name would be May but I would be allergic to Spring. If I were Annie, I would knit and I wouldn’t notice the lines of my knuckles, I wouldn’t press softly at the bruises on my thighs, I wouldn’t think of the world in a logical, tangible sense. I would be a metaphor, a literary device. I wouldn’t be real and I would not write.
2 hours ago | 45 notesHi, so a friend of mine is running this online writing workshop this summer, and I’d love for you guys to apply! I’m applying as well and really looking forward to seeing what comes out of it. :]
“Something VERY exciting will be occurring this summer: the first ever annual Adroit Journal Summer Poetry Workshop! This will be an online writing workshop/opportunity to share work and gain exposure to dark horse poets of the current and past generations. The editor-in-chief, Peter LaBerge, has decided to extend this opportunity up to 10-15 high school or college students and 10-15 adults.
APPLICATION DEADLINE: June 1, 2013
NOTIFICATION: no later than June 5, 2013
with her father’s whiskey on her breath
and her mother’s smile on her lips.
She is a fisherman’s daughter: sailor knots
and slick yellow gloves and bait that tremble in the bucket,
worms not quite dead yet. She is lulled to sleep
by the clumsy songs that the ocean lures from her father’s chest,
his voice deep and smooth like a fish spine.
Each night, her father tells her what the sea
has told him, and he pulls apart her braid
like it is something soft and fragile.
She is fifteen this summer,
pomegranate exploding, bleeding
like ink onto her skin. The fruit are ripe,
picked under the warmth of shaded, diluted sun.
She is a fisherman’s daughter: capable of knotting rope
thicker than her waist, capable of gutting
yellowtail and flounder with only a pocketknife,
capable of pulling on her father’s boots
and painting waves on her cheeks with her mother’s kohl.
She is capable of throwing the fruit against the shed
until they’ve made a Pollock of flesh and juice. She is capable
of pulling knots out of her own rusty, sunset hair,
and this girl is a women now, isn’t she.
Whenever I pray,
a dog somewhere dies.
My mother can’t look me in the eyes anymore.
I sleep with my contacts in
and I get sweats at night. I’ve gained six
pounds since December
and I’ve lost four friends and two possible
lovers. I bought two bamboo plants last week
and I’ve lied about six things since Wednesday,
(your haircut looks nice, I’ve watered the plants, I ate
already, I’ve got a test tomorrow, this isn’t your shirt,
I love you). Sometimes I think I’d be better off quiet.
I cheated on two math tests in the last year
and I want to learn how to stop bending
and finally break.
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3 weeks ago | 2 notesthis is how we unfold;
a mattress is bruised yellow
and water stains the ceiling a moldy grey.
it is 1994 and your mother’s skin
is a flushed tan under the moon’s glare.
it is 1994 and the crickets beat the ground
like a crescendo.
here is the truth:
your father kissed your mother
like a promise.
19 years later
and people say you have your father’s blue eyes.
i see something like summer in them
and i cannot trust the bunny rabbit in you,
still wavering on flight.
this is how we unfold;
we unfurl like the week-old carnations
from the supermarket that you buy only
when you make a mistake.
here is the truth:
you kissed her like a promise.
you kissed me like a promise.
Winter Tangerine Review is accepting submissions for our first issue for only 2 more weeks! Be sure to submit!
1 month ago | 16 notestheme by: heloísa teixeira
