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 Nov 2015
Tom Leveille
someone's in the next room over
having *** while we
are weeping
what a way to mark the occasion
the day my fingers found a wound
you let someone else doctor
it's upsetting see
the bible in drawer next to us
the way our hands still
fit together
like the torn halves
of a love letter
the way you got
all dressed up like the rain
and how we couldn't tell
the difference in the shower
it was the longest hour and a half
spent crying
the hot water wouldn't give up
so why should we
right?
even though it was scalding
neither of us touched the ****
we knew this was supposed to hurt
your hair
a black mess against my shoulder
my fingers
oil in the vinegar of your hands
our bodies
the great divide
all the sobbing
a river runs through it
without the courage
to carry or **** us
so we step out
and drip dry
down to a mute breakfast
composed of quiet
and last nights liquor
as we came back in
there were people in our room
at first i thought them detectives
dissecting things
to see who had died here
i had forgotten this
was a hotel
and they were only
cleaning up after us
i wanted to stop them
plead
that the sheets were still perfect
that if they clean the bathroom
no one will know
what happened here
someone has to remember
"please
i know
these cigarette burns
by name
i will bury the faucet
let me take the tub
i don't care how
if i have to
i will drag it home by hand
"
 Sep 2015
R
i don't know where my home is anymore,
so I guess I'll just have to open up my ribs
and find a place in myself.
 Sep 2015
sarrahvxlxr
There was this girl, not knowing where she was going.
At all times she wandered, she tried to forget.
What the real world tasted like—she did not know.

Tell her about the songs the sky creates; she'd like that.
Tell her you'll rescue her when she starts to drown
in them; she'd bleed down your name and not care
about the mess she would make.
As if saving someone, who rather have you deluge them
with more rain, was an offense.

One daybreak, the eighth page of my history book went missing.
The next night it flew into my window glass,
and then landed safely on the isle of my hands. It read:
*            The past is behind.
            The future is ahead and may never arrive.
            Why would you believe in them?*

She used to say there's something calming whenever
darkness wraps up the woods. And the silence that comes after it.
And something blazing bright—a cabin.
Never trust cabins, she once said, burn them before they burn you.
I should have listened.

— The End —