beth-wintersWhisper

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neon blue peace signsyou had birds in your mouth and sunlight dripping from your eyelashes. / i promised i wouldn't speak if you wouldn't change faces twice an hour. / we made conversation under a tree and sleep-walked through your kitchen.

8

5.9k

magnesiumshe is organza and rough, nubbly raw silk / that tears your fingers / and bleeds you purple, sweet.

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4.8k

cotton candypale lavender half moon / freshly bloodshot whites / dried pearls clotting in your jaw

3

3.2k

let's take a roadtripi'll make mixtapes we can lay down rubber in parking lots call out our joy and anger which are almost the same thing anyway i will cry at night but you will lick the salt like a wild deer pepper me with small bruises drive in our underwear just to feel skin sticking to something make contact with your hair as it billows in and out of the car in and out of sight make contact with the only part of your body that is not warm stop only in small towns that keep their stories close in those towns press silky moonlight to the warm parts of your body like poems like slits of light to let the light in through smoke and eat hanging out of the windows pretend we are leaving crumbs to find our way home with but never come back anyways anyways

1

3k

goodnighti put my voice into a jar, / and mixed it with lightning for you. / your tears made the sun shine brighter.

3

2.4k

eerinshe's not an artist, the only reason you say that is she eats less than 400 calories a day, without counting. she wears scarves and gloves in the summer-time: inside. her life mission is to categorize the vowels into three levels of hell. so far, she's found purgatory inside the tiny bowl she uses for an ash tray. / once, she spray-painted the wall that she passes on her way to the collective mailbox. it reads "send me peace signs in the shape of dying swans. love, me". she types exactly two words daily, ten point arial font. / she crashes funerals by wearing the only rainbow item in her closet. it made the local news one night, but her name turned inside out in people's throats and they ate without realizing they were different.

6

2k

cashmere sweatersbroken glass and christmas lights that don't light up anymore, i hung you about with glitter and gold, called you art, kissed your face. there were tattered things on our clothes, i spit words into the gutter and they ran down the stream into the ocean where the letters got tangled with a sting-ray, a clown fishes fins. tiny fawns painted themselves across your palms, they sung me to sleep at night, wandering down my back and across my nose when i couldn't breathe because there was something knotting my veins into pretty patterns, stopping the bloodflow and shutting down my liver slowly. ric-rac danced two-steps and alcohol-drenched cakes infiltrated tea parties where lace was all the rage and ladies always wore gloves, *** was a thing never spoken about. the fifth most dangerous city in the us took me under its wing, tucked me into train station corners while paedophilia took hold of the government and shook us soundly. people held candles into the night sky when the family was killed, when the police asked if they were involved with drugs, when tiny bodies littered the basement because they were old enough to identify the killer. notebooks and traced fingerprints hung on the walls like christmas decorations before thanksgiving, pictures of you taken in secrecy, dipped in fluid that looks black in the dark room. / i knit sweaters. they have rabbits and bears and deer on the front.

2

1.9k

a moist heart lineunwrap my ribs. carefully, / like a present you've been waiting for / since october.

31

1.8k

arrowhead mountain spring wateri was going to write a piece using the word we entirely too often. talk about the slip of your palms down my cheeks, the floaty high after you don't sleep for forty-eight hours and then skip gallantly through the albertson's parking lot. i was going to write this immense prose with weaving metaphors and phrases that begged to be spoken. a piece with a moral, about a boy and a girl, or maybe two girls, or an animal and the voice that haunts it. about a willow bride with gauze wrapped firmly around a puncture wound. describe the inner monologue of a park bench. but maybe not, because that would be deleted. / i could write you a letter, because you know who you are. or the empty waterbottle that is staring mournfully at me, or burlap sacks, or the words that i speak of constantly but never speak.

2

1.8k

nauseathere are earthquakes inside / the knuckles that held my hand, / and writhing rivers in the light

22

1.7k

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