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Gabs T 4d
Lavender and Lysol
I hope you’re excited!
guidance in the form of secrets
Coming out of your shell (I see the old me in you)

Goblin Market
Tales of trysts with a silk tie
under an amnesiac glow (ggp)
A pre-roll keeps doing a disappearing act

Eucalyptus, sweat, steam
You sat there with me for what felt like hours
Two minutes
Sipped electrolytes

Mexican chocolate is back!
They’re zero waste now
Reminiscing (talking ****)
Helping me fill in the gaps

Part 2, 3, 4
Sour wax crunches when frozen
You don’t know how much I needed this laugh
You guys keep me honest

Now more than a day alone feels like solitary confinement
I’ve shed my introvert childhood
I crave companionship
I know how sweet it can be

People say we die alone - get used to it
But I think I’ll end up somewhere
A mango tree
Arms outstretched
Friends as far as the eye can see
As per my last poem, working on gratitude
Damocles Jun 9
Splayed halve
Spread wide,
Honey pooled within a pitless center
Pinkish flesh glistened in wet;
The perfuming scent of her glistening nectar.

I’m drawn in,
Like a magnetic force,
Adrenaline rushed through my blue-green ravines
As eyes affix to the soft fuzz,
As lips press to the hooded split
Giving it just a simple kiss,
Hot breath over cooling droplets
Mix with perspiring anticipation.

My tongue escapes, traces her shape,
Lines of lapped lashes lapping lavishly
Tasting the sweet fruity juice mixed with honey
Sweetly savory, delightfully sticky
I’m always famished, she feeds me when I’m hungry.

I circle the center,
Invade the pool like Normandy
Blitzing my ballerina tendril
Water polo sports, diving deep
To drown my maw in decadence.

I growl, as my stomach grumbles
Needing more, no longer humble
Succumb by glutinous greed
Imperative to life, as if without this sweet treat
I would be famished,
A third-world denizen in desperate need

She is everything to me,
As my tongue dances like an ice skater
Tripling twirls and gliding circles
Lines of perpendicular or
More in particular designing shapes and letters
*** emojis are written linguistically
Like braille for the unseeing eyes
In languages, only the deaf can prescribe
As nectar waterfalls sweat from her fleshy ripeness
And honey pools like placid lakes.
Face wasted, beard slaked
I looked at my plate and then I ate.
TW: This is an ****** piece meant for adults 18+

Honestly, I just had half a peach and honey...but I couldn't resist writing this...because...well because. lol.
The kitchen smells like a secret I forgot to bury.
A peach gone soft, skin splitting like a bad promise.
The fruit flies know something I don’t;
they’re the last priests of a dying faith,
and they’re waiting for me to leak.

I tell myself I’m healing,
but last night I dreamt I had to eat your heart to survive.
It tasted like burnt sugar and nail polish remover.
I woke up gasping,
your name soldered to the roof of my mouth
like a curse I didn’t mean to cast.

I call it the trick of wanting:
how I keep looking for your fingerprints in places you never touched,
how I flinch when someone says my name in the dark,
how I let the mirror watch me shatter
and pretend I’m a stained glass window.

Here’s the part I shouldn’t post:
I liked it when you lied to me.
I liked it when you said this isn’t about love
and I let you mean it’s about power.

The fruit flies keep coming.
I pretend they’re a sign from God.
I pretend they’re angels. Or demons.
Never both.
I pretend they’re a reminder that sweetness
is just another word for rot.
I pretend the buzzing is the sound of my name-
fermenting in your guts,
putrefying in your chest,
decomposing in your memory like abandoned fruit.

I know I shouldn’t write this.
But I do.
Because I want you to see it.
Because I want you to flinch.

Because I want you to know:
I am the girl who would eat your heart if I could.
I would peel it open with my teeth,
lick the blood off my lips,
smile like a god in a red dress,
and call it love.

And you’d believe me.
Emery Feine May 27
i was born and on fire. my skin, open flesh words that bled onto anyone in a close vicinity. my face, a cloud of black dust. i knew that i had love in my heart to share with the world, but no one could see past the mold on my skin that would spread to them if they got too close. i was born into two things: a fruit that appeared ripe on the outside but leaked out a decayed, rotten mess, and the hands that opened said fruit with blood that held on. i watch the destruction i've made, that i didn't mean to make, but i believed that it was justified. i wait for someone to understand these words, not to pity me, but to find a part of themselves in me. i have found nobody. i fear that as of now, i am a walking, moldy model of decaying flesh and raw meat. i did not want to be this way. i did not want to be the black sheep. i did not want to be bad. i am a sculpture of wet clay that they could mold with their pure hands, and despite all that creativity in their alive and well minds, they have carved the word "rotten" in my flesh.

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7 a to h
I S A A C May 12
causes to cry for
underwhelmed and unsure
kept option open but what for?
my ego is bruised and buried
the fruits of my labour vary
some are prey to predators
some merely didn’t deliver
i should’ve invested in my vigor
not invested in my triggers
causes to try for
Nastia May 9
I take an icy,
Velvety peach
With bruises
From the refrigerator.
It smells
Sweet and refreshing,
Like someone hugging
In the rain.
I carefully bite off.
Bite by piece.
Sour coolness
Remains in the mouth.
Now it is a release for him.
After all, he lay alone
Among five white apples.
Steve Page May 1
Banners of blossom
Hardy perennials
One big metaphor
Words that featured when praying with friends this morning
Heidi Franke Apr 24
All this life sought
Was in my feet forward,
Backing into stumble on rocks
With no path, life is an S curve

It hurts to fall hard
Worse yet
Is to not know why
I walked at all

A cool spring morning
In the rain with my canine on lead
Rushes into the glade
Where a doe may rest unaware

Still at old age I know, nothing
Every morning in the dark
My eyes open, for what?
I have lost all meaning of why

Are the next rising suns
Teachers on the green that
Remain after the snow melts
A reason for standing up?

I lost track of my dog in the meadow
As I listen to a poet who says
That tomatoes do not bleed
Is my life a fruit I can eat

Through the spring branches
I see a home below, pale yellow
A white door and a pane of glass
Asking, will I come forward more

An unknown, will I care to find out
Where is the deer and my dog
The door seductively beckons,
Walk this way with strong shoulders

Every day is an opening
For planting new things
Or letting the past burn to ash
Stunned in body and bones my trips to the ground

The knees and hands ******
And worn, as the apple skin
Holds a hole from the worm
I am the fruit as much as the scar that shines, happening now
After you meet your marks, relationships, children, profession all done, no longer needed, just waiting as age wears my body down. What now? When? Once you get here you will know.
Shaun Copple Apr 16
Springtime frost confronts apricot blossom—
Destroyed, damaged, and disappointed—
Leaves the garden to rely on cherry and plum.
Disappointed again this year.
#apricotjam
evangeline Apr 5
I want the pulp of you
Your stringy white insides
I want the lattice of your creation  
To get stuck in my teeth
I want to savor every sliver of you  
The parts of you that need a warning
The versions left on the shelf
The bits of you that blend in with the fruit
But pack a punch
I want to relish in the chewy remnants of a skin you shed long ago
I want to peel back your orange shell
And taste the tender threads that hold you together
I want to drink your syrupy nectar
To gnaw away the sweet parts
Right down to the rind of you
And swallow the secret pomace of your heart
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