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Literature Text
her ribcage burst into flowers
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
there
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
but the white crests of waves
swallowing creation
until the planet was blue once more
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
there
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
but the white crests of waves
swallowing creation
until the planet was blue once more
Literature
Constructive Criticism
"Tell me what you think."
"Of the poem?"
"No, of my face. Yes, the poem."
"I was going to say, because your face is just stupid."
"Very funny. Read."
"..."
"What did you think?"
"Why did you write this?"
"I wrote it for you."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"You make me self conscious when you say things like that."
"I know."
"I'm not worth this you know."
"What does that mean?"
"I am half a girl, and I deserve half a poem."
"That is not true, and you still haven't told me what you really thought about it."
"It's as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it's blood. There
Literature
Running Away
"What are you afraid of?" He had asked her as they lay there, under a bay window that showed a velvet black sky, sprinkled with sparkling diamonds. After a few minutes, a hand reached out and took his. He looked down at the soft hand, paper white with rivulets of sapphire under the skin. It had never occurred to him just how much he loved her hands until now.
"Would you like the truth? Or will a lie suffice?" A dulcet voice whispered. She had still not turned to look at him, but her hand in his remained strong.
"The truth." He always asked her for the truth. He didn't want rubies of falsehood, of lies, to ruin what they had taken so long to
Literature
A Silent Exclamation Mark
"They're arguing again," Said the boy, "My parents always argue. If their relationship was punctuation, then theirs would be an Exclamation Mark. I'm quite sure of it."
The girl, who was sitting on the garden wall beside him, giggled, "How can you compare love to grammar...? The two things are very different."
"Not to grammarians!" pointed out the boy, "No, it can. You see, my mum and dad are always arguing – but never seriously –and at the end they always kiss and laugh about it. Go on, think on it, what would your parents be?"
The girl's smile slid like a tear from her face, "My parents would be a question mark," she mur
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do not fear the sea,
for we are the sea.
Wanderlust (n.)
a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world.
for we are the sea.
Wanderlust (n.)
a strong desire for or impulse to wander or travel and explore the world.
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Comments63
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I love this. No-I don't think you understand. Really. This is the first and only poem that made me lean into the screen. By the third line my mouth was hanging open and I was gasping at every simile and metaphor. You have inspired me.