breathing is secondary by bailey--elizabeth, literature
Literature
breathing is secondary
the tap water is too cold
to rinse the ice from my throat
and the chill from my lungs
but what does it matter, when
the birds in my ribcage
are all flying, up up up
and through my skull,
and falling, down down down
and onto the floor
landing in front of my feet,
the same ones that
stood me still in the snow
and wouldn't let me leave
to find somewhere warm.
got my mama
a golden needle,
but
she hid it
in the hay -
told me
the sweet things in life
are worth looking for
over
and over
again
'til your eyes just
can't see
anymore.
you are glowbracelets
and fireflies and oatmeal raisin cookies.
you are thunderstorms
and comic books and afternoons on the bleachers.
you are constellations
and crinkled denim and nights spent on the park bridge.
you are the best thing
i could ever hope for and i love you more than should be allowed.
i think it was a friday by synapticattack, literature
Literature
i think it was a friday
I walked about 4 miles home while nursing a bottle of vodka.
I've seen these houses, these businesses, every day for years
but now they glow with that pre-dawn illuminance offered by
speeding drunks and cops and kids on pcp screaming down alleys
when I'm the only one who can hear.
I don't remember it raining during the night
but the puddles huddling against the curbs seem to remind me of something.
Something lost and stagnant like the abandoned bastard water that exists
without the rain to blame it on.
I left the party and the friends when I realized that I hated everybody there
and I took the rest of the hard liquor with me.
It do