I know good things take time—but I wish we were already at the part where he is texting me 'goodnight' and I am waking up with his breath on my back— that we already owned the studio apartment, the kitchen window looking out on cafés and city alleys, the baby in the living room and… Continue reading poem: happiness
Author: elizabeth claire
poetry for the desperate and the romantic. university student, bored out of her mind.
poem: they told her—Love is violent
and she did not believe it. because the Unrequited is soft, it is gazing out glazed-over windows and waiting for fictions in the mist and the raining grey. but when the boy—is horribly real, the Emotion comes wild, exploding imploding burning loose—the system torn up, the inheritance bolshevik-ed with three smiles. she makes the Raw,… Continue reading poem: they told her—Love is violent
poem: suicide is metaphor
she is leaning out the window, considering— the view. she cannot hang here forever, she will either step away and keep the sky a separate god or she will lean into the inevitable, her fingers splitting in the air her head smashing into damp pieces. her skull is a throbbing lump hanging on a broken… Continue reading poem: suicide is metaphor
poem: young love is a horror flick
I will make you my let-down song; so that when you are stuck in my head— I am sitting on the edge of swimming pools my feet in the water, the water going red. it's not blood—don't worry, this is not another sadistic, sardonic poem. it is only pink nail polish, melting in the water,… Continue reading poem: young love is a horror flick
poem: even the angels are damned
it is four o'clock: we are fucking in my head. it is eleven-thirty: you have left the room, the lights are off. you did not talk to me, you smiled with an odd, dripping darkness; I am ripped down my inner thigh the pooling coming faster, I put my hand inside myself and I become… Continue reading poem: even the angels are damned
poem: her poetry is chaos, it looks bad on instagram.
here is some polite narcissism: she writes but she will never be Known; she puts too much in each poem. other people write: bright days, depression, love, woman, sex, lies, lust, morning. she writes: lovelustsexdepressiongirlcomingofageselfimagehatedepressionpomegranitesredboyshope. it is impossible to break the constellation into stars. or—maybe—it is possible, but why should she try? if her art… Continue reading poem: her poetry is chaos, it looks bad on instagram.
poem: blame the angels
I should be writing love poems; I am in love. But I do not feel— whatever it is that the poets promised. My mind—is coming loose and falling far; the stardust hazy, hazy in the fear. the people are applauding, making riot noise: he is just a boy— it is just love. I am saying… Continue reading poem: blame the angels
poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason
girls in books do not have interior lives; they are emotion, they are not Thought. And here I am, sitting alone in the dark terrified to go out terrified to stay in— if I pulled myself apart you would find text, an introversion good enough for Tolstoy, but not good enough for—who else? Who else—is… Continue reading poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason
poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts
I do not believe men speak to smart women as women. They talk to us as men, as nameless faceless hommes d'affairs: we are leaning against the conference desk, in a (power) suit, with pin-tacks in our neck and the unfortunate addition of long hair, breasts, adultery. The young adult novels lied: there is nothing… Continue reading poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts
poem: girls alone go mad
keep him as an unknown, do not soil him: he is nothing yet, he is just shy; the infinity of possibility in glass lights, in small smiles. do not drain him out, or make him (yet another) overly-constructed fiction living in the city of the dead, whores cheering for rat fights and love sold like… Continue reading poem: girls alone go mad
the last pavilion 