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someone who binds books
made to store sheet protectors
has steel rings, binder
L B  Oct 2016
Khamir
L B Oct 2016
I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture

Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--

Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders

“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”

"No way!"

Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”

“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got

“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”

Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”

Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president

and I almost vote for you
"Life" refers to a long prison sentence.

This poem is meant to be an indictment of the American
"prisons for profit" system that disproportionately targets African-American males.
Mikey Barnes Jun 8
I’ve got that new binder kinda feeling
That fresh out of the packet, still sorta smells like plastic kinda feeling
That stuck with my arms out trying to pull it all the way down kinda feeling
That are you sure it makes a difference? can you really see my **** less? kinda feeling
That posing side on in the mirror, new profile picture - hey look at me! I’m as flat as can be! kinda feeling
That finally belonging in my own skin kinda feeling
That blowing my reflection a kiss instead of pretending I don’t exist kinda feeling
That sun smiling out from behind a cloud kinda feeling
That five years down the line, I won’t even need to bind kinda feeling
That imagining a future with myself in it no longer feels like pushing my own limits kinda feeling
That skinny boy
too much noise
too-big shirt
stretched skin
wide smile
talks a mile a minute
can you tell there’s something different?
it’s my brand new binder!
kinda feeling
i can't believe i even have to say this but binding and fgm are in NO WAY the same, at all. binding has saved me, has given me confidence, is what allows me to leave the house every day. it is a choice that i make, and it is one that i don't ever regret.
Carter Ginter Sep 2017
I don’t wear sweaters much
Especially in the summer
But after a few hours of your embrace
My clothes smell like your detergent.
So I’ll peel off my binder
Strip down to my boxers
And replace that sweater
So I can sleep better.
She bought me this sweater but right now it reminds me of you
Carter Ginter Mar 2018
11:32am
My alarm goes off
I should probably shower
But I lay here and read poetry instead

11:40am
I could probably still shower
It's cold and the hot water would feel nice
But this sadness anchors me to my bed
So I write some poetry instead

11:52am
I'm still writing
And I definitely haven't showered
I need to get dressed to leave at noon
When did I get so bad at deadlines?

12:03pm
My ride is here
I'm still not dressed
No binder today
So I throw on an old sweater and some sweats
Good enough for me
Kaiden A Ward May 28
The deepest depths of our lungs
have been deprived of oxygen
for so long
that we cannot remember what is like
to breathe,
deeply and unhindered by
this binder
as the constriction threatens to
collapse the cavity of our chest.

Willingly, we trade our breath
for the exquisite, piercing pain
that we quickly come to associate with
peace of mind
and freedom
because it means the reflection of our silhouette
finally matches the physique our
dysphoria has been telling us
we should have had
our whole lives.

In time, this addiction festers and
we bind longer and more often as
our bodies grow weaker and
our minds more chaotic until,
despite the destruction,
we cannot bear to take them off
and face the truth
written in our curves.

The pain is at one with us now.
We endure, if only to be able to
run our hands longingly down
our flattened chests
as we wait, hoping that,
one day,
we will finally be able to learn
what it is like to
breathe again.
My first attempt to capture what it is like to bind and my personal experience and thoughts on binding. Everyone's story is different.
She would fold. Knees to chest. Flesh folding onto flesh.
Arms acting as a lasso.
Atomic binder.
A hand mirror framed in gold.
A spitting image of charcoal censored with bleach.
Her eyes, unlatched vaults.
Pitchers, carved from ancient rock, poured and surged.
Tsunami compacted into glass.
Pressurized by the weight of the atmosphere,
turned to diamonds in the pit of the lake
guy scutellaro Oct 2018
(picks up after "you 'll produce love and dreams. jack has moved into a room above the bar.)



Jack goes into the room. A place he thought he never end up. He studies it. The light from the unshaded lamp on the nightstand casts a huge shadow of him onto the adjacent wall. There is not much to the small room, a sink with a mirror above it next to the dresser, a bed pushed against the wall, and wooden chair in front of a narrow window.

It is raining.

Jack feels apprehensive. The panic turns to anger. His anger into rage. He rushes towards the white wall, meets his shadow, and explodes with a left hook. He throws the right uppercut , the over hand right, the left hook again. He punches the wall and his knuckles bleed. He punches the wall and when his arms are useless, he begins kicking the wall.

At last exhausted, Jack collapses into the chair in front of the window. Fist size holes in the bloodstained plaster revel the bones of the building. The room has been punched and kicked without mercy. The austere room has one.

Desperately, Jack takes the yellow note pad with the pencil in the binder from the night stand, and although he tries, no words will come.

Exasperated, and with the stub of the pencil he writes, "Insomnia , the absence of all dreams." and then he smiles.

He reaches for the lamp on the night stand, finds the switch, and  turns off the light.

The  Wagon Wheel sign outside the window seems to throb to the cadence of the rock music coming from the bar downstairs. Taking the Quaalude from his shirt pocket, he swallows it and sits back in chair watching the shadows of rain bleed down the door. His thoughts come slower. The darkness around him intensifies . Jack slides toward the darkness.

                                           * **

The rain turns to snow.

With each lunging step he takes the pain throbs in his arm and shoulder socket. His raw throat aches from the great drafts of cold air he ***** through his gaping mouth and although his legs ache, he does not pause to look back. Jack must keep punching holes with his ace axe probing the snow for crevasses.

The pole of the ice axe slips effortlessly into the snow. "**** it, another one.


(continues from "**** it, another one .)
Flint Holcomb Apr 15
A floral mat
Separates me from
The tile floor
I feel anxious despite the peace

The instructor speaks
My heart stops
Because I know
The chest binder can’t hold
Through another downward-facing dog
you shouldn’t really wear a binder when doing yoga but i would rather not exercise that do it without a binder
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