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Literature Text
I am an open book
Written in a language you don't speak
I am a self portrait
Drawn in invisible ink
I am the aching foot
Of a man with an amputated leg
Phantom pain
Of a life yet lived
The phantom beat
Of a heart broken
A phantom
In a house of the haunted
Written in a language you don't speak
I am a self portrait
Drawn in invisible ink
I am the aching foot
Of a man with an amputated leg
Phantom pain
Of a life yet lived
The phantom beat
Of a heart broken
A phantom
In a house of the haunted
Literature
to map sunrises...
one day I will tell my daughter to touch herself
before she ever lets a man do it for her, to learn
her body-secrets and the shape of pleasure. I will
tell her that San Francisco always keeps your heart.
that her skin is a blank canvas, that hair grows,
the value of the right kind of disrespect. that the older
we get, the more we need the people who knew us
when we were young. I will tell my daughter
to give away the secrets that keep her up at night,
and that there is never a wrong time to love someone,
but sometimes a wrong way. I will teach my daughter
to travel without makeup; that sometimes forever means
morning and sometime
Literature
leitmotif
(I will never forgive Millais for painting Ophelia calm in the water. My cousin Noah died shoeless and struggling under a lonely mans hands, his eyes full of rain runoff. Real people dont sink as pretty as oil on canvas: Noah was four feet five on the autopsy slab, no flowers, no frames. I am ruled by the aesthetic, but I would embrace his every imperfection if it meant having him back. This clumsy dilettante still loves Noah with the scabs on his shins, sitting sloppy at Sams recitals in sneakers and shorts. Give me the asymmetry of his eyelashes. For the fir
Literature
an augury of tears
your love is the wind
on water. mine heaves deeper
than cruel riptide.
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Comments15
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i love the second stanza.