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letters to basil Dec 2020
dear basil,

this isn't about christmas,
though i hope you have a good one.

this is about crying.
or more like
how you don't.

i would say i don't want you to
but i know you.
and your eyes are my eyes.
so i need them to cry.

if they won't cry for her
let them cry for me.
cry for the me you lost
cry for the you that you can't find
cry for the person in the mirror
who doesn't ******* deserve this

because you don't.


just because your bruises are healing
doesn't mean that your skin is okay.

it's cracking.
you're cracking.

break open.

this.... this one is for me. but maybe... maybe it's for you too.

b for short Nov 2020
Thirty-two is fourteen short of forty-six.
Thirty-two collects pools of hope,
and swims naked in them without fear.
It no longer wears a muzzle
but proudly wears a mask.
Thirty-two sees through a lens
of remarkable colors.
Its prismatic visions are
years ahead of its time.
Thirty-two tastes like tinny blood
on a tongue bitten for far too long;
it sings confidence
through chipped teeth—
freed from four years of clenched disgust.
Thirty-two does not have time
to stop and smell the roses,
but will demonstrate how
to make perfume from them, instead.
It has the words that
thirty-one never had
and keeps them in a pocket
that will accidentally go through the wash.
Thirty-two walks in the opposite direction,
but ends up on greener grass.
It orders a drink with a covered smile
and still generously tips the rude bartender.
Thirty-two prefers both
honey and vinegar to catch its flies,
and professes that knowledge
is a weapon best sharpened by modesty.
Thirty-two is an even number with
an odd beginning.
It suggests that what comes next
might have even more curves.
Thirty-two sets the stage for transformation,
but, more importantly,
drops the mic.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2020
Anastasia Dec 2019
i bet you'd taste like chocolate
melting in my mouth
sweet and decadent
just give me one taste
of sweet love
a rich taste
of your cocoa kiss
and your silky lips
32 words exactly.
And here we are again
You're the one that I want
But stil you can't
We can't
I hate you
I love you
I disgust you
And I want you
People say
It's called love
I doubt it
A poem every day.
sky Dec 2018
I can't help but laugh
when I think about how
the only thing separating us
is 32 hours
and an eternity
All through my head
Whilst i writh in bed
I was more comfortable
Back when
We would start fires
Lay in lie
Smoke forts misfortune
Charred torched remains

— The End —