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Literature Text
I don't think we should mock what it was like to love at fifteen. I think that if we could all love in that way (perpetually and honestly and with so much passion that we could feel ourselves ready to burst with it) then this place would be so much happier. We'd be more fulfilled and so sure, so positive- this is the one. This is the one to complete me. And we wouldn't worry about details or the future or heartbreaks to come: just the time that is now. A time that is perpetually Summer and brimming with nostalgia. Loving at fifteen is loving young and loving "forever", and it's something I regret we grow out of.
Literature
why didn't you say goodbye?
Love wasn’t in the air the night you unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my skin. No, love definitely wasn’t in the air the night we spent in heat of moments, sweating and tumbling and fumbling on your father’s bed.
It was anywhere but there. Does love go on vacation? I ponder and make fleshy butterflies from my outstretched fingers. Probably.
I can’t remember much but I can remember the beginning. The burn of acid bleeding and gushing past my tongue and down my throat. The noises and then your silence. The clumsiness and then the awkward kisses.
You had a garden of dark hair growing from your scalp and dirt eyes. You had a
Literature
and all the things...
I'm in my underwear,
writing
because my pen was closer
than my pants,
the sun is practically
drawing the curtains itself
so I finish the job
with a squint,
this time last year
I had no underwear
and the windows
were boarded up,
It's so much easier
to get out of bed
and step on my pen
than a broken crack-pipe
or a dirty needle,
hope and desperation
at my sides,
knowing time will drown me
in it's wake,
I wonder things;
what Robert Lowell could have possibly known about life,
how the blind know they are awake,
if Erika got my letter,
lost to myself
for a second
smiling like a retard with a popsicle,
a p
Literature
The Thing About Cliches
I.
If this were a cliché,
A poem, or both
It would be about sparkling midnight skies and heartbeats and flowers and sex.
There would be oceanic eyes and rain that tastes like tears. We’ll throw in anxiety-riddled murmurs and metaphorical bullets and allusions to sharp objects for pity.
This is not a cliché anymore.
So instead I wrote about the flavor of emerald and the fragrance of April hope. I painted pictures of a perfect pencil, poised over a blank page.
II.
If this were a romance,
A message in a bottle, or both
It would still be cliché, to capture electric fingers and longings locked away with skeleton keys
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I have no idea.
~Finch
~Finch
© 2008 - 2024 AGoddessFinch
Comments75
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so true