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Demi 6d
The shower curtains gets stuck to my
leg as if it knows I need to feel a
comforting touch.
The kettle steams my glasses
and gifts my eyes a rest.
At night the fan whirrs and rotates
as if scanning the rooms for threats.

Living alone isn’t as lonely
as you might think.
Amelia Oct 2
My front yard has an empty
space. But, its gate, I assumed was well                                                             ­     

built, surviving the unrelenting Minnesota
frost, nothing is wrong with my fence, my upbringing,

I thought. Mom and Dad put the posts
down. Dad sacrificed hours in its landscaping

green, lush foliage all around, his creative
touch, passionate, instilling taste and inspiration

and, even if the fence was a little crooked,
because of the wine glass constantly in his hand,

its ok. But there was that empty space,
and aching with a dreamlike gaze

there I saw you,  come here.
you were a sunflower so sublime, I quickly

planted you. Young girls with
innocent hearts, stop to admire you

in my yard. Your charm, beaming. How
fast you grew! The nourishment

from an insecure heart like a
miracle grow. I knew, my yard would simply

be seasonal. Two months
and your bright petals fade into

nonexistence. Even after you
felt my hands pressing, settling you

In the soil. I thought. That I was your September
blossoming Aster, Venus’s Flower ,

The purple petals are fragile
I don’t grow like I’m supposed to

creeping so that you won’t see
me, going to class. watching you from afar.

Now, I am shoveling in the Texas heat, turning over
the soil, wanting your roots to go away.

The sun beating freckles
On my face.  Working so desperately

so my yard can transform, grow
into what I have always dreamed, love complete.

Where a butterfly gently graces my fence,
because this is where my miracles can happen.
It’s been five months since you left
which means it’s been nearly half a year
of waiting for you to come back
which is to say that if my heartbreak
were a baby
it would be the size of a papaya
which means nothing
except now I want to cry
at the grocery store
which means I can’t escape you
even in the produce aisle
and I don’t know how to
stop wishing you were with me
all the time

On our first date you told me
you wanted a girl who you could have fun
grocery shopping with
except now I feel sad everywhere
and I’m no fun anywhere
which is probably why you left me
in the first place

Now I spend my nights wondering if
you found a girl with sunshine in her cheeks
and I wonder if she’s brave enough
to sing in the car with you
and maybe she dances in the
produce aisle in the same spot
I stand crying over fruits
and I’m thinking that’s probably
why you left me
not because I cry in public
but because in my mind there was always
someone better
someone more alive
more beautiful
and you got bored of reassuring me
that I was worthy of your time
Poetic T Sep 3
A poet is an insane asylum
     Of disfuctinal metaphors.

We're all a little crazy,
   How else could we

Write the things we do.
Iris Aug 27

A late night trip to the bathroom
shows a warped vision of myself
through a cracked mirror
it tells a story
through the dark circles
under my eyes.
It all tells me to sleep,
although that was already made clear
by my foggy mind and hazy vision.
I go back to bed
but when I close my eyes
I cannot see sleep in the future.
So instead I lay with my eyes open,
staring at the white ceiling.
It looks back at me,
harsh, unforgiving.
The storm outside
does nothing to help
quell the voices in my head.


The voices in my head argue
and tell me that
everything is either all very clear
or a muddled swamp of metaphors.
And they have decided
my life is all one horrible metaphor
for childish infatuations
that could never be
that turn into a stronger feeling.
I tell them to try and be quiet
because I’m trying to sleep,
but they do not quiet.


They do not quiet,
they never do.
Quiet is a warm hug
and space in my head.
Quiet is muted murmurs
creeping up stairs
and slipping through keyholes.
But they do silence.
Silence is deafening.
It lures and traps me in a cage
where I am unable to breathe.
It is a force that stops me
from being human,
it is all consuming.
That is why I let them stay,
because I prefer the chaotic cacophony
of voices
to silence.
They never stop.


Never stop dreaming
is what everyone says
but I think I did
when I stopped being able to sleep.
The clock blinks 4:32
and so maybe it’s more
early morning than late night,
but is there really a difference?
I’ve given up,
maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow night
And when they all ask
if I’m okay,
I’ll just tell them
it was a late night.


It was a late night,
I was kept awake by
the voices in my head.
They do not quiet,
They never stop.
It was a late night.
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