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mollie-grant
mollie-grant
Creative Writing & Poetry student at UNCW that really likes punctuation.
History gets bottled up, shelved on its side, and put away for a day you might want to recall all of the vivid details. I don’t want us to be put down in the cellar, covered in dust, as just another overlooked year.
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Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
Vintage
Something happens when your eyes catch mine and I have yet to figure out if they truly do glisten or if I’ve just been getting drunk off of your incandescence this entire time and seeing stars. Fortify me.
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Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Alcoholic
Feet hanging from the deck of the bow, sitting shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. I can’t help but wonder in what ways the salt air is dancing off of the sound and over our taste buds, changing the way we read the Prosecco between us. I almost didn’t bring this bottle. The thought of opening the cage— six half-turns forward, wrapping my palm around the wire frame, twisting the bottle, by the base, off of the cork— it all seemed like too much. There are too many ways to mess it up, and I know that I don’t have a grip on anything when I am around you, but I no longer believe that bottles should be left uncorked.
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Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Muselet
She is lying in bed– tucked under her duvet, wrapped in freshly washed sheets, breathing into the phone that I know is on her pillow– 97 miles from me. It is her asthma, acting up right on time, that is keeping me awake so I am lying, under my own duvet, holding onto my own phone, thinking about the airways carrying every breath into and out of her lungs– inflamed, muscles tightening, narrowing paths thinking that maybe breathing in the same cells, oxygen mixing with carbon, me mixing with you, you might be able to breathe a little easier thinking that I know I breathe easier with you
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Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
Inhale her
When I lay my head down
 on your chest, I can feel
 the comets shooting through
 your veins. Stardust dances 
across your skin and I swear,
 the freckles on your back
 mark out the most captivating constellation that I have ever seen. It didn’t make sense to me
 how I could sit under 
the vast night sky and feel like
 it was suffocating me
 because it just wasn’t enough 
anymore, after I had your arms
 wrapped around me.
 I guess the universe was trying
 to send me a message:
 you are one of hers.
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Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
a child of the universe
the needle scratches on top of the spinning 33 and it just seems easier to play with the electromagnetic pulse of a cassette tape until I can pick song by song, light by laser, what to put on a CD but what does that matter when MP3 holds playlist on playlist of mixes in the palm of my hand, a hand that, seconds ago, had thumb on edge and finger on label and now the needle scratches on top of the spinning 33
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
spinning
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro has never had this one right. Operation is not a game for ages four and up–maybe four, multiplied by four, add four, and up. Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped, and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table: I like to start with the Adam's apple– carve away any trace of my origins and they will never figure out who I am because, like my mother used to say to me, who is Eve without a blameless man. Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar but they cannot be caught, only drowned. Naturally, the broken heart follows but the problem with pulling that out is the never-ending-silence, white-noise-science, black-hole-giant, You know, the absence that predates writer's block– writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the (best kept) secret IV of an author. Is that the price of filling up your bread basket, going to bed full on recognition and reward and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize? Be careful not to trip up on your own ego or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle and water on the knee. I still have to deal with the wishbone, the split-in-two-gravestone, the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone. And finally, I have the spare ribs but I just might leave those there because we see what happened when God bothered to remove those the last time.
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
Operation
Leaves singing their mourning song beneath my weight after the betrayal of the seasons' petals – falling as men falling back in my hometown from the top of the parking deck; men– falling as petals falling from their places amongst the roses in my grandmother's greenhouse.         Both calling home to ground. I forgive annihilation. I forgive eradication. I forgive termination, cessation, exhumation, and I forgive myself for ever being foolish enough to believe that death owed me an apology in the first place.         Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
litany
Alice said "eat me" and I complied. I dined on her dreams and got drunk on her laughter and grew to be too much for her in the end. I wish she would have warned me that the ways in which she changed me would leave me alone at the bottom of the rabbit hole– I think one time I used to call it home down there.
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Don't fall for Alice.
If you came here looking for a fight, know that you will not find one with me. My white flag was raised and I surrendered myself to you completely on day one.
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
Lover,