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Literature Text
your fingertips graze so very lightly on my skin. i know you're too close, but i let you push my sleeves up gently, a breath of regret in the air. you touch the gashes like a whisper, staring at the ragged red lines etched in my pale fragile forearm. only one or two cut across the visible vein, red against blue.
the silence is almost tangible. your hands are so soft, and i am aching with something i cannot name, but your eyes are shining and i'm sorry, i'm so sorry.
"i can't help it," i whisper, lips dry and voice thin and brittle. i need you to understand this.
your finger brushes across my torn skin. it stings, but i don't flinch.
"why?" you ask suddenly, voice sliced through with hurt and concern and maybe the slightest tinge of anger. "why would you do this to yourself? don't you know how much it hurts me to see this?"
i press my lips together, trying to keep the sobs down. they rise up my throat and tickle behind my eyes. when i'm composed enough to talk without a broken voice, i answer as quietly as i can, "i don't know. i don't know. i'm sorry."
you lean forward and drag me into your arms. i don't know how to hug back, so i bury my face in your shoulder and breathe in your comforting scent. "talk to me," you whisper into my ear. "talk to me. please."
i don't know how to talk to people either, not about the sort of stuff that tangles itself into my heartbeats, but i open my mouth and learn.
Literature
Anonymity
Confusion.
Forgotten access
memories of another person
another year
another moment
in time.
Literature
notesleep
playing my emphases like harp strings
your voice smokes thru the oaken bramble
pour a carbonated apology, a sun-stained
mile marked envelope, two ill-fitted birds,
hands small holes right before a rush of river
what it feels like being swallowed from the outside
crushing rings into truth serum, pretend
to be out of tune with that deception
I have been unable to parse my own persona
a pink cotton voice I remember thru the phone
I remember because it formed me into a granary
one crop after another of patriarchal idioms
whisper my secrets so softly into a glint of red hair
a saucer-eyed lace pattern cut into pine paper
I practice radical self lo
Literature
on the cusp
it is just that when i let go of you
when i let go
it's hard to remain that perfect without you.
--
the in-between of love, buds- so full of potential
our love is written in whispers on the pages
of a book which has not yet been opened.
--
that day, the sun had erased the last lines
of an unforgiving winter from my skin, i was renewed
olive skinned and feeling as if i had just fled the eternal
garden naked as i came- free, fallen.
--
the sky was dark;
nothing but the blood red smile of the moon
cut through the transient darkness of the night.
Suggested Collections
i tore myself in half when i left.
i just didn't feel it until now.
you were the only one to never turn away when you saw the things i could do to myself. everyone else turns away, as though they can pretend they didn't see. they think i don't notice, but i do. every time, i do.
i wonder if you'd turn away if you saw them now. they're ten times worse now. would you still care?
i just didn't feel it until now.
you were the only one to never turn away when you saw the things i could do to myself. everyone else turns away, as though they can pretend they didn't see. they think i don't notice, but i do. every time, i do.
i wonder if you'd turn away if you saw them now. they're ten times worse now. would you still care?
© 2013 - 2024 jikivigoig
Comments16
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I don't know how to make someone very important to me see this - see that talking is an alternative.
Beautiful piece.
Beautiful piece.