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 Aug 2017 marina
 Aug 2017 marina
there was a rainbow
after the rain came that day
filled my glass halfway
since he drank from it. **** him,
he knew i was near empty.
yet another thing i wrote for class.
 Aug 2017 marina
 Aug 2017 marina
women don’t die,
they vanish into thin air or
they melt
into a puddle on the linoleum.
plath didn’t die,
she dropped the deadweight —
see: her headless body on the kitchen floor
bloated & ready for consumption.
a small part of something (hopefully) larger i'm working on.
 Aug 2017 marina
from the platform, someone asks
where is this going?
from the tracks, two q-trains answer
with horns that sound like
i'm yours, i’m yours, i’m yours, but
when one pulls in
the other pulls away.
thinking of dropping the lowercase aesthetic, not sure tho.
edit: yeah, nah.
 Oct 2016 marina
Fridays are for drowning.
Tipsy, tipsy, let me ~shell out my kidneys.
-Says he works at the smoothie bar, looks at me, has a heroic jawline, I


Waves lash ankles, steer comatose foams - my waist is grabbed at as i slog into waters.

Smiles, nods, propels with wide eyes.

I ate with a fork.
 Oct 2016 marina
A mess.
 Oct 2016 marina
is God by your bedside
weeping against the bookcase
and the cabinets in the
kitchen, filled with long
grain rice shudder and
tremble, vibrating against
their hinges --
it's all over the floor, you say.

it's all over the floor.
something I had written in my journal from July.

(c) Brooke Otto 2016
 Oct 2016 marina
 Oct 2016 marina
He's tapping on the hardwood floor
to draw me out of the cracks, the
slender peels of sun stretched down the
hallways, arcing across the patio,
the way hard working men
rap their fingers against the walls to find
studs, stick pocket knives in the frayed wood
beneath the house--

shakes me out of the sand, viciously vibrates
me into his palms, tears me from
deep considerations
where i've already grown
where my roots have struck out
in all directions, says not in this place
not in this soil
not in this way

and I go where he pleases, kicking or
weeping, sometimes with ankles smarting,
raw from the whipping

not this place
not this soil
not this way
Written a while ago.

(c) Brooke Otto 2016
 Oct 2016 marina
Megan Grace
we have wandered to these parts
(yeah, 'these parts,' mim, that's what
we call that here in kansas
because you said this was the only
place the sky could almost touch you
if you stretched your fingers far enough.
when we reach the top of the hill
you climb up on a rock that seems
impossible, shout nasty words
because you don't think anyone can
hear you way up here. the sun
starts to slip toward the horizon
and you turn to me with a pink
reflection in your eyes, tell me to
reach my hands up until i can't
reach any further.
oh, this is a good one. you feel that? you feel that?
i look at you, your arms far above
your head and eyes closed, your
skin honey colored in this light.
*yeah. yeah i can.
journal archive #2
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