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Matthew Rousseau Apr 2020
On my way I see
A pin-***** perimeter
For infinity
Anya Jan 2020
The ring of iron songs
Like hammer and tongs
Speaks words of each page
With knowledge of every age
chloe hooper Jan 2019
they’re passing you the **** for the first time, rubber yellows and greens and reds so bright that you can see them despite the flattened beer boxes covering the windows. keeping others out. letting you stay in. you are always trying to get in. you pretend to breathe in, pretend that your entire chest isn’t already full of something else. don’t worry, it’s not going to **** you, they promise, passing it around again. ‘yes’, you say, studying his profile in the sliver of streetlight coming through the cracks between the boxes, hazy with smoke that burns your ******* insides out, ‘it will’. you can feel his hand on your leg, inching between your thighs, willing him to crawl up inside of you until you are someone else. until the shell of you is finally filled. they notice you’re shivering, ask if you’re cold. ask about the art exhibit you attended earlier. ‘it was nothing,’ you say, looking at his smile, bright square teeth illuminated by the persistent streetlight. ‘just ******* nothing.’ he is smiling, laughing the laugh that makes your head spin, spilling **** water all over your four thighs until he is squirming in wet discomfort, something he makes you do, alone. anywhere but here. especially here. they ask if you’re high, you’re not. he tells you you’re high, looking you in the eye, and you are. ‘i’m high out of my ******* mind.’ and you want to stay there. stay in the claustrophobic car that doesn’t even start while your friends are quoting memes in the front seats, while your boyfriend sits on your other side, smoking a cigar, while you stare at his staring, hear his begging for fresh air, wanting to get out. you should’ve known it would come to this. you should’ve known. you’ve been told before. your friends are choking and laughing and moving, somewhere far away, and all you can think about is how when loving a wild spirit, you are always left watching the door.
chloe hooper Jan 2019
when he tells you he’s decided it’s over, you leave the hotel, leave him sitting on the sheet with only the moonlight to hold him, walk down the smoke-filled hallways that have seen so many broken people trying to get somewhere else. anywhere else. you should’ve known this would happen, coming to a hotel. they are pit stops, things that lie between the before and after. you would happily stay stuck in the middle, forever. if he let it. if he let you. you remember that line about homesickness while passing through the lobby, something that looks like a living room that has been abandoned. like inside of your chest, inside of your heart. you are always letting people come, and take what they want. but he always gave it back in the morning, and for the first time you don’t want it anymore. you will learn to live with the gaping wound in your centre because its like a sign on the side of the road, a banner stapled to a tree in the woods, carved graffiti underneath a park bench. matt was here. he was here and he left. people leave. outside, in the parking lot, you are focused on *****, on a mission you won’t dare back down from. a man is swearing at his car, nuts and bolts scattered across the frozen blacktop. you used to lie on the blacktop at recess to keep warm, to heat up the parts of you that were cold, the parts no one could see. he asks if you know how to change a tire, and you say no, but that you are familiar with the way things fall apart.
chloe hooper Jan 2019
he reminds you of the last time you were in florida, sunscreen-white skin, hiding the damage underneath. skin like the ivory you saw on the elephant on the safari, making you think, ****, they are going to **** you for that. making you understand why.

your sleepy hands dove into his sleepy hair in that sleepy hotel plenty of other people have ****** in, loved each other in. not like this. never, anything, like this. because it wasn’t *******, not like in the movies, not like your friends talk about while you’re looking at your hands under the table, trying not to cry. you are trying to tell them how he is different, how he can carve your heart right of your chest, how you’d hand him the knife.

you try to convey the type of special he is, the kind that lives in the staticky silence after you tell your estranged father over the phone that you still love him. your knowledge of your father consists of 10 numbers you couldn’t care less about.

you dug out the box in your closet, kept for times like this, and stowed away the pieces you have left of the boy, pieces you got away with. broken rays of sunlight you captured in your bag the moment after he first kissed you, the sun breaking through his curtain because it just needed a ******* glimpse of his jawline, the slopes of his back, roadmaps you wanted to explore with him, confetti that used to be pictures of him, of his hands, thuds and melodies you made on the unfamiliar bedspread, ones that crawled into your ears when he played you his music. you couldn’t help but think of his hands, long palm-tree fingers plucking something out on the piano like he knew just how to break you. you wish he could introduce you like that to his friends, all of his friends. this is chloe. i wrote her two weeks ago. i’ve erased some parts, edited them, changed them. added in better ones.

you keep having this dream, where he is in an unfamiliar body of water in front of your florida condo. washing your sunset painting off of his back, pinks and purples and reds, too many reds, saltwater curling his hair. he’s surrounded by swimming babies, babies that don’t look a thing like you. the ocean could sweep him away, if you let it. if he lets it.

he tells you you are beautiful, tries to make sure you know that hurting still hurts when you do it yourself. you want to tell him that he is beautiful, too, but that would be too easy. he wants to tell you to take him to the most wonderful place you know of, but you don’t know where he was born. countries away, and everything else. you want to tell him to take you to the top of the tallest mountain on earth and not show you the way home. you want to say, okay, you have been inside me, now it’s my turn. crawl into his ribcage, sit on his hipbones, and make a home there.

when it’s ending, you remember the hole you dug in the beach, too close to the waves. you are used to living in the negative space. just because the tide filled it in, doesn’t mean there was never a hole there, never something missing.

when you say you love him, not like that, it’s too late. when he says he is leaving, he’s already packed. when he says goodbye, he is already so far away.
this former guttersnipe doth harbor no ill will
while lain in the gutter of this conventional ville
where some insomniacs take nigh quill
your plea 4 money, but a confession
   that my life like a bitter pill
shape n size like n opal battling uphill

monetary resources nil
yet surges of imaginative days with hew fill
me jet throw toll aqua lung gill
lug gin islands n tandem with my mind till
death dew eye part, but social security disability
   just barely amp pull - this no pitiful poetic swill.

at this juncture
   my self confidence fuels me with greater skill
2 take risks, such as reach out n smooth over
   ruffled n ridged feathers emanating
   from sputter ring unthinkingly sans my virtual quill
i.e. emails n such prods awareness
   2 maximize opportunities that could fill

a void - specifically a marriage bereft of compatibility -
   n figuratively i jumped in2 this drama OUT of desperation
   years ago when hot n ***** pangs would not chill
plus my then living mother n now octogenarian
   widower father raged against me, their sole
   soul less son, who daily they did flip their grill.
Lorem Ipsum Nov 2017
How to stop time: kiss.
How to travel in time: read.
How to escape time: music.
How to feel time: write.
How to release time: breathe.

-Matt Haig
Yet, so relatable.
elijah Nov 2015
You stupid sonofabitch.
I hope you burn less than you did when you were here,
and that maybe you finally caught up with the monster you were chasing.
We still drink to you
on days like this,
Glasses raised to the day you showed up,
Broken bottle on the back porch to forget the day you left.
Oh, and pay your mother a visit sometime, she misses you so.
She's been saving lives in your name for years now,
but the kids are still dropping like flies.
Tell her it's okay,
that she's done her part.

I guess I just miss you.
That heart of gold is still the talk of the town, but I remember the black fingers wrapped around it much better,
And I want you to know that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I didn't save you.
So tonight I'll drink
Not to the ashes on the mantel or the flowers on the grave.
But to you.
Happy birthday, Matt.
Wherever you are.
Not much of a poem, but my old friend Matt would've turned 22 the other day.
Unfortunately a ****** overdose took him at 19.

Don't wait until it's too late to help the ones you love.
Molly Rickert May 2015
I'm jealous of the moon
because she knows all of your 5 am secrets
and your sheets who get to touch every part of you as you fall asleep,
I keep a close eye on this empty pillow
waiting for your weight to keep it warm,

but the sun he is most important of all.
When your half asleep, groggy and painfully unaware of how beautiful you look,
He kisses your lips with light

I have a distaste for star light,
how it gets to shine on the innocence of your smile
As I have to keep you locked away in the darkness of our not-so mutual love.
I may have been just another ******* your schedule but you were my first priority

  I hated that you were the only person who could make me feel beautiful
Whenever you caressed my skin it was as if none of my flaws existed
But as my flaws vanished so did you

The tears tumbled down my face, a grin came across yours
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