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Grey Poduska Jun 7
The emerald leaves were twinkling in the afternoon sun,
as I counted down the minutes, the seconds until one,
for I knew my end would be there soon.
I laid in the grass so the earth could consume
me as an uncorked wine, my spoil had begun.

Grey Poduska May 19
When the sun rises the mother will be ready
To push the infant’s head under the bathtub water.
So, for a few hours more, she presses him
To her bare chest, feels his weak heartbeat.
They share the same breath, inhaling the
Other’s exhale, pushing the wave back and forth.
She knows that he cannot see the next morning,
That they would both be dead by noontime.
She holds his hand, so tiny in her own,
She brushes his brown curls from his eyes.
And whispers to him, “I’m sorry for what
I must do. I hope we meet again in His presence.”
Grey Poduska Feb 2
The ugly is a fountain that never pauses. It just keeps spewing out the truth, over and over. The ugly is hot in the summer and cold in the winter. The ugly is exactly where you expect it to be. The ugly doesn’t hide behind anything. It slithers through the shadows by habit, and crawls into your mind by choice. The ugly tells you that you are going to become nothing and you believe it. The ugly doesn’t mind when the tears begin to fall. The ugly is in the pill bottle on the dresser. The ugly is on the phone telling you not to jump. The ugly breaks your heart and then you breaks its in exchange. The ugly makes you feel loved for a short while. The ugly kisses you goodnight, dropping poison in your milk. The ugly crosses its fingers, makes a wish, and blows the candles out.
Grey Poduska Jan 23
Hummingbirds can fly up to 65 miles per hour, faster than cheetahs can run. My momma says I can talk faster than that. She thinks my lips and tongue signed a deal with the devil to earn their speeds. She thinks I can say enough words to fill the empire state building and still have some left over just by telling her about my day at school.
My momma thinks I can do anything. She tells me every day “Baby, you are going to be the biggest star this world has ever seen.” So I puff my chest and put on a smile, ready to face whatever the universe has to offer me.
When I hold hands with her, my momma whispers softly to me. “Come closer, my dear.” She carefully lifts her hand, brings in to my ear, and pours her knowledge into my skull. Always giving, always pushing, always trying not to be forgotten.
When my head swims with too many memories, a mix of mine and hers, she holds me softly. Lets me weep in her lap, collects my tears and molds them into pearls, strings them on a necklace and places it delicately around my neck. Always giving.
Grey Poduska Jan 22
the polished night,
pregnant and sleepless.
stars prevailed,
memories whispering.
look up to the stars,
blind in the face.
Grey Poduska Jan 10
She held my hand and we walked through a field of daisies.
She made my throat burn and my stomach ache. “More, More!” she demanded.
I kissed her neck and flowers bloomed, she was always one for a floral touch.
She makes my family wonder why I leave after dinner. Why the bathroom smells of *****.
She was an oxymoron; She smiled when I touched her and screamed when I touched anything edible.
“Do you really want to know what it tastes like coming back up?”
this is about my eating disorder
Grey Poduska Dec 2020
There is no poem I cannot write about you.
About the way you tossed your hair, free as the bluebird,
or the way you smiled like the sun,
or maybe the way you swelled and shrunk with the moon.

There is no poem I cannot write about you.
About the taste of your lips after that cherry cola,
or the bend of your elbow as you ran,
or even how your sweat somehow managed to be delicate.

There is no poem I cannot write about us.
About the way you would look into my eyes like they were the abyss,
silent, unafraid, aching to dive in and see what all the talk was about.
About the way I felt lighter in your arms than any other time I starved myself
because you held me like there was nothing there at all.
Nothing there at all.
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