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LC Apr 25
the lion tiptoes in circles around her.
her mind spins in opposite circles
while the voice in her head yells "run."
but her limbs freeze and lock into place.
she hides her breath deep in her lungs,
staring straight into the lion's eyes
hoping it won't feel the fear in the air.
each second crashes onto her shoulders,
until the lion slowly saunters away,
becoming a small shape in the distance.
#escapril day 22! Re-posting due to issues with the website.
I am.
I am a cold, crisp autumn field.
I am a plush scarf in the breeze,
I am omnipresent, and yet never near.
I am a crackling fire in a winter freeze.
I am crumbling, cold, and free.
I am encumbered by the slush and snow.
I am waiting toe-to-toe.
You have seen me,
slouched, burdened, fatigued by the stress of the day,
waiting in the back of the bus bay.
I am all, and I am more.
https://www.instagram.com/wutheringsbronte/
daily log Jan 14
cant breath
its happening again
the ocean goes hightide
my body refuses to move
I sink into oblivion
my tears become
one with the ocean cries

cant breath
the stars take me into the night
lost in the darkness
frozen in space
my tears refuse to leave my eyes
they freeze in the night

unwanted memories rush in

this feeling is suffocating
missed log #3 but im back at it again
Taylor St Onge Nov 2020
I’m thinking about the doctor's hands shaking as she
                                               struggles to intubate a cat.  
I’m thinking about the technician's hands squeezing the cat’s rib cage,
pulsing life with a delicate force; she is much more gentle than
                                                      practition­ers are with humans—
hard and quick down with the palms; the ribs snapping,
                                                                ­     the sternum sore.  

Some time ago an 80-year-old woman on my unit was
opened up bedside for a cardiac procedure during a code.  
After a week in ICU, she came back to us on the unit, was up and
walking and talking, and was discharged home within another week.

Meanwhile, the 60-year-old man was dead in the morgue
       after a 45-minute code failed to resuscitate him.  

The flip of the coin.  The thin line.  The blessing or the curse.  
The absolute darkness of a body bag.  The cold chill of absolute zero.  
The fresco painted on the catacomb walls could either depict the
light of the sun or the multicolored lights that the
brain shoots off minutes before death.  
                                                        ­               The eleventh hour,
                                                                ­  isn’t that what it’s called?  

We don’t want to talk about body care, death care.  
We have to, but it won’t register.  
                                                     ­       After a loss, after a trauma,
                                                                ­   we are on autopilot.  
I think of my mother,
                                        six feet beneath frozen soil in
                                      a pink padded casket and think:
                                                                ­                             I don’t want that.
I think of the prearranged plots my grandparents picked out
next to her in an above ground crypt and think:
                                                          ­                                   I don’t want that.
Bacteria still causes decay after the embalming process.  
Putrefied flesh.  Bones visible.  Muscles eaten.  Tissues disintegrated.  
We don’t talk about it.  

We try to think the opposite.  The positive vs the negative.  
(But that’s not always possible or healthy.)

I’m thinking about hands inserting IVs, hands taking
blood pressures, hands documenting the code notes
on a clipboard in the back of the room.  
I couldn’t do these things.
                                                 My hands tend to break what they touch.  
The glass bowl in the pet store.  
                               The clay project in art class.  
                                                        ­    The succulents, the basil, the orchid.
I’m good at things I don’t have to think about:
good at the autopilot, good at the autonomic,
                                                                                    good at trauma.
notice that the fawn response isn't titled here
Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2020
It's become obvious you are not coming back
The thought of you and her together hits me like a smack
The blood that runs rampant through my veins suddenly starts to freeze
My heart stops pumping as I drop straight to my knees
It shatters to pieces and the shrapnel fills my chest
Impaling my lungs
Making my breathing congest
Silence has no business settling inside my ears
But the fact that it does confirms my worst fears
There is not a word I could say to possibly change your mind
Without hesitation you effortlessly leave me behind
If you're not in love anymore why couldn't you let me know?
I gave you many opportunities to let me go
Yet you are such a coward you hid how you feel
Led me to believe your emotions were still real
Then you vanished without courtesy of a text or call
I guess the truth is I meant nothing to you at all
Not only did you not have the ***** to say it to my face, you couldn't say it to me period. After six years together you dont respect me enough to inform me of our break-up. I can't believe I have been dumped this hard and for some ****** who I can guarantee won't stick around once you have nothing more to offer. I would have been your ride or die until the very end but it's your loss I suppose. No one will ever love you the way I do.
Lara Sep 2020
My desires are
to **** my feelings
to freeze my emotions and
to numb my pain

Lying hides my desires
Lane O Aug 2020
Love's vine stems from the heart;
it is ivy creeping through iron gates.
Wanders free through stony soil,
rushing stream, and bank.
It can loiter in the garden,
and fall victim to the spring rain.
But do not despair, my dear,
for its passion is like a flame:
Forever burning in its tendrils,
its coiled roots and leaves;
survives environs menace,
summer's blaze, and winter's freeze.
morn's cold sheet of frost
shall cover our small township
in an icy freeze
Raven Woodfort Jun 2020
When I close my book,
do the characters get trapped
in time or pages?
Perhaps they're trapped inside our heads...

A haiku written during Inktober 2019.
Elaine Yu May 2020
Spring has gone
Summer has come
My heart is still in winter
The freezing wind made me chill,
and froze the memory
so i can search for

Time stopped in this winter
Everyone repeated same scene every day
Everything become static
like pictures in google image
so  i can search for

My steps are slower
but my heart is kept searching
starting from this freezing winter
will go on and on.
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