five-thousand little fingerprints ringing around the inside of my head. their worth rung out to ladders and crystal dish-clothes where one china plate slipped and shards made blood we all made blood, through the touching singing whispers in my head. called nicely: poetry called cynically: otherness mostly, i say, it is just a trapsing melancholy… Continue reading poem: this is what i am doing instead of writing my paper
Tag: elizabeth xx
writing: untitled november 2018
him: so. her: hi. him: do you want to marry me? her: her: i barely know you. him: so? her: when you come over and say hi to me when i'm working part of me wants to ask you to go buy me a coffee because i'm always tired and i'm dying for a coffee.… Continue reading writing: untitled november 2018
poem: i think at this point
i think at this point i am mostly depraved and like a westward moth just barely breathing through the feathery lips, the science of all civilization shall thicken under me. so that i can break and call it a delicate prestige, a privilege of the girls with color-wine bottles hung from their irises, hung from… Continue reading poem: i think at this point
poem: light snow
in her head he brings her coffee and a small smile, which he places just before her as something young and fragile and maybe delicate. she bites her lips when she smiles back, the cold november in the crinkly spaces of her mittens that scrunch into his black gloves when he takes her hand and… Continue reading poem: light snow
poem: dear 2018
shall i tell you of my womanhood and the unpopular things that leave me sitting alone at parties, the 1960's splashed angrily in my face, and my hands now wet with mascara tears. but i am still not going to graduate school and i still don't want my entire life boxed into a career. i… Continue reading poem: dear 2018
poem: grey early afternoon
i think about him all the time. all of him and what he represents he is in me like smoke and rain even when i don't want him. it is early afternoon and foggy: i am trying but he is still inside me
poem: 1:42 a.m.
i make up all the wonderful things he says to me i think he fell into my mouth or maybe my mind and he only came out fictional. i think staring at my black dorm window is unproductive, as if all the lovers are merely out there and waiting like saints in the smoke, while… Continue reading poem: 1:42 a.m.
poem: why won’t people look me in the eyes
why won't people look me in the eyes what is so wrong with me that only ghosts ask 'are you okay.' and even they are grimacing at me, thinking oh this one is certainly sub-human certainly not worth what we give out as cash-currency because she [and this is where even i cannot insert the… Continue reading poem: why won’t people look me in the eyes
poem: the first boy
his eyes are sparkling liquid chocolate brown. a cliché description but when he looks over at her and whispers something anti-institutional her fingers want all of the excited energy clenched into his profile and the softness that comes when he speaks to her alone, purely as academics, of course, and as fellow students in a… Continue reading poem: the first boy
poem: the second boy
with a desperately quick--"wait"--! in the golden brown bricked coffee house with her hair curling over her eyes and her palms warmed to perfect cosmopolitan happiness by hands cupping coffee & hands cupping at fragile hopes which already written themselves into great chronicles in her soul: she can already see them: friends, first, then maybe… Continue reading poem: the second boy
the last pavilion 