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Anne 2d
My blood still flutters
at the thought of you being
all I thought you were.

My face gains a freckle
every time
I remember that you and I watch
the same sunset every night.

Is it ever gonna be enough?
Treading water is getting old.
Can’t live with you,
can’t live without you.
Wrote this listening to metric and thinking of lost friends
Anne Apr 15
Why do spring and autumn look the same here?
Tears always taste saltier in April.
May flowers never come.
Why,
on the day I felt most afraid,
did the water in the creek stand still?
Doesn’t the water care about me?
Does this creek not weep for the dying trees around it?
For the fish whose corpses quietly float down on it’s floor?

This crow seems to know.
Alone, he squawks,
mauking my pain.

Maybe I’m the stranger,
The irrelevant dot in a map more complex than my cogged brain can understand.
Or maybe the world does dance all around me  each day,
Choosing to ignore my thoughts and actions.
But it’s selfish to think like that, right?
Or perhaps that’s just me falling in love with myself.
Wrote this outside after my friend said she’d try to **** herself and another friend rallied her mom and made sure was okay. She was. I always come back to my creek.
Anne Feb 26
I want to feel loved.

I crave the melting of flesh into mine.
Boiling pores and sweating fingertips
tracing my face.
I lace myself into your hair and make myself a nest.
I am safe,
but not for long.

For I will never feel safe again,
not in your arms,
not in the arms of any.
I am *****,
soiled,
used,
empty.

I am not a body of love,
No longer a *** of milk tea
on a cold day.
Watercolour stains wash away with water.

I am viper,
I am splinters,
hangnails,
and paper cuts.

I will never be soft again,
and it’s your fault.
I will never forgive you for that.
Big yikes, thanks for giving me trust and intimacy issues at once *******
Anne Jan 20
There’s a moving portrait above my sink,
her cheeks are pudgy,
her skin is pink.

Her eyes are melting,
teeth fallen out,
her noose is bleeding
a river of doubt.

The portrait screams,
she cries for aid,
she tells a dead god,
that he could have stayed.

No oil,
no paint,
no canvas,
not a brush;
Instead this portrait feels and aches,
her rawness still to gush.

Yet dusk is dusk,
and by dawn it is dawn.
You may look for such a portrait,
to find that it is gone.

Not a finger nail in sight,
not a single clogged hair.
It begs but one question:
Was she ever really there?
every **** night
Anne Jan 9
Sickly sweet boys fill honey combs like goblin hands in tiny gloves.
They taste like gummy vows and glass letters.
These boys will rot you from the inside out,
painting organs with grainy sugar,
which dissolves to sour acid.
Beware!

Sickly sweet boys know the right flavours,
yet their labels are flawed.
Always lick before biting.
Toothaches are common,
but sugar rushes won’t last forever.

Sickly sweet boys don’t stay sweet for long.
Candy loses tang over time,
coating is just coating.
Inside is a viperous liquid that oozes like oil.
Ebony, boiling, sticky.
Your tongue will never be pink again.
Written on December 17, 2018
Anne Dec 2018
Things feel different when you’re drunk,
Things feel rubber when you’re drunk
Anne Dec 2018
I thought I was smart enough to know that five m&m’s isn’t a meal
So I’m getting fat again yet I still have bulimic tendencies!! Awesome!!
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