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Literature Text
I am the soles of his shoes, I must like the feeling of my cheeks
against the gravel, he presses my jawline in
hard, I keep coming back in an attempt to pluck out
each pin shaped stone. There is not much inside apart from old cogs
and plastic tubes that twist around my spine,
something burrows into my stomach and sits,
clattering as I breathe and I have to keep on hushing it up
as its fingers start to pull my ribs apart
so the world can eye my heart up, open like empty drawers,
so I can walk around with my pores unfastened
spilling out everywhere.
I did not mean to crawl so far into his jean pockets
because I knew it would be so hard to wash my skin
out of their fabric. He is like a two AM fire alarm, loud
and I must heave my body up and stumble down the stairs,
'it's too cold to stand outside with all these half-asleep students
at this time in a morning, will you let me back in?'
He makes it rain and my eyelashes do not make good window screen wipers
anymore.
There's a book of poetry on the table
and he puts his cup of coffee
on it. I have never thought of my heart
as a book of poetry
until then.
against the gravel, he presses my jawline in
hard, I keep coming back in an attempt to pluck out
each pin shaped stone. There is not much inside apart from old cogs
and plastic tubes that twist around my spine,
something burrows into my stomach and sits,
clattering as I breathe and I have to keep on hushing it up
as its fingers start to pull my ribs apart
so the world can eye my heart up, open like empty drawers,
so I can walk around with my pores unfastened
spilling out everywhere.
I did not mean to crawl so far into his jean pockets
because I knew it would be so hard to wash my skin
out of their fabric. He is like a two AM fire alarm, loud
and I must heave my body up and stumble down the stairs,
'it's too cold to stand outside with all these half-asleep students
at this time in a morning, will you let me back in?'
He makes it rain and my eyelashes do not make good window screen wipers
anymore.
There's a book of poetry on the table
and he puts his cup of coffee
on it. I have never thought of my heart
as a book of poetry
until then.
Literature
_winter_snow_
Frigid dreams
Snow on her tongue
Ice skates and long walks
On cold December nights
Skin molded to resemble snowflakes
Opaque icicles hang from her joints
Frosted lips taste like peppermints
A snow angel lying outside for years
Her frozen breath goes unnoticed
Literature
passion
i feel you.
i need your warmth inside me
you taste d e l e c t a b l e
i need you
i feel your oily curves in my hands
i want to control you
be with you forever
i can smell you from here
i want to inhale you
p a s s i o n
everything i do is for you
stretch
i love to watch you stretch
stretch to me
stretch inside me
sometimes i c u t y o u
is this wrong?
is it even if it's done out of love?
my love..
for...
you...
my pizza. <3
Literature
The past haunts me -
- and I tie a ribbon around its scaly neck. The silk parodies the vermilion gold at my neck.
the metal is slightly rough and it chafes. but i don't mind.
one day i'll take it off and place it gently in a box,
pad it with black
velvet and let the radio scream
a farewell dirge.
but will it really be gone?
no.
the weight of the cherry-wood jewelry box will pull me down,
weigh me down.
a lovely pressure, don't you think?
smile at me, take a look into my eyes
and whisper, soft and cautious: I love you.
i'll write you a poem then, and light incense to watch the smoke
trace your face in gray dust.
.
© 2005 - 2024 inmyroom
Comments64
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That's a really lovely idea.