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Ineffable Feb 2
open up
first sip
burning
its relaxing
i look out into
the dark night, it's cold
how did I get to this point again?
no, I don't care, i just take a loooong
sip, sip, sip, i like getting warmer it's
not as lonely. i recently read that drink
ing tea is a cure for loneliness because it
imitates human warmth, even though just
sip, siiip, for temporary time is'nt that just
pathetic? swallow, burn, warmth, rinse
siipp and repeat. cold air freezes, freesses
frees me! the bottle is my best friend and
sihps, now even my best friend is hollow
wat a shaym, sh amme, shame
Miranda Jan 29
Every empty bottle
has a story behind it.

Whether it's a heartbreak
Or a happy tale,
There's a story.

And I'd love to learn yours.
Tell me your story
don't mistake love for ****
he may pry your legs open and kiss inbetween them in a way that makes you feel like you're touching heaven
but if he doesn't talk to your little brother like he's his own
or hug your mom so tight it's as if he's saying "thank you for her"
if he only calls you after midnight
when the liquor running through his bloodstream makes his body ache
he is only looking for someone to meet him at the bottom of a bottle and not someone to trace circles on his hands underneath his parents dining room table
he will keep his thoughts in like smoke he can't exhale
and you will drive yourself mad trying to pry them out of the same lips you thought would heal you
because the truth is no man can love you who doesn't love himself
Jessica LeVario Dec 2018
You said, “I’ll go find another love, I’ll go fill the emptiness.
I’ll find something better than you.
I’ve been putting my faith in the wrong person, trusting too easily, falling too hard.”

You will not find another love, you will not fill the emptiness.
It will follow you. You will fill your body with toxins.
And you will not find something better than me, and you will roam from bottle to bottle, drowning in your sorrow. I will always come back to you. Don’t look elsewhere -
There is no trust in you, there is no faith.
As you have wasted your life here,
With those bottles, so you have ruined mine.

~ j.l.
Inspired by Constantine Cavafy's "The City"
Jordan Ray Dec 2018
The genie was in the bottle against his will.

Forced to lurk in the darkness and brush his leathery skin against the cold brass walls that are now his prison.

At any given time, he might be freed for a few seconds to grant another ****** ******* their wish.

Feeding their gluttony until it gets the best of them and they run out of wishes.

Sending the genie back into his pit of despair, each time they had used him.

The friction from their hands burned almost as bright as the fire burning in **** that will be waiting for them.

3. 2. 1. None. But the genies work is never done.

Constantly passed between stranger to stranger, putting a real meaning to "stranger danger".

The genie has seen more faces than years, and not one thought to wish the genie to be free.

Too greedy to see the needs of a desperate being, maybe one day they will end up in a bottle too.
Niobe Dec 2018
It's a small bottle with a cap.
It smells like cinnamon
And it's made of glass.
I filled it with as many languages as I know
And sealed the cap with wax
And I filled the little bottle with all of the things
Middle school me needed to hear.

I hope she finds it.
I know she won't.
She looked at stars but could not
Reach them.
She watched the scalloped water, she would not
Touch it.
She always saw the empty in the ocean,
She never saw the future I put there.

I put a message in a bottle and sent it into space.
I filled it with hope for someone
I've never met,
The people I have always been.
As I watched it wash away,
I knew I needed it back.
I am not done needing it.

I told them all
eres suficiente,
you are enough,
I never got to know if I was.

I never got a bottle back.
Absorbing the pain
letting nothing spill.
I feel the alluring darkness
enwrapping me with its wings.
Overriding my words
by the whispers in my head;
making me push people away
to keep them at bay.
I guess this is how darkness wins
by telling you to keep it all
to yourself.
mera Dec 2018
To forget or not to forget.
I shall drink my last cup of my dreams of you.
As I stare morosely at these bottles around me.
Each broken bottle is a story, of me, of us.
I feel the sorness in my throat and its burning slowly.
I feel old. Shall I forget these years? I can’t believe these years has been mirage
juliet Nov 2018
nobody knew how much she’d broken her own heart.
it was cracked to *******
and so much pain she couldn’t bear
her smooth skin painted in tears
salty like the sea
and cold, and unforgiving like dismal melancholia
she walks across the room
tiptoeing like she’s treading on new snow
amanda reaches for the bottle
and drowns in
a saintship made of modern renaissance
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